Olga and I sprang to our feet.
‘Etti?’ I said.
She gave no sign she’d heard me, but moaned softly. Her knuckles were white, her body tensed like a cat’s, the muscles of her back straining against the fabric of her dress.
After a long moment, she relaxed and drew in a breath. Her shoulders slumped. ‘I’m sorry.’ Pulling out a crumpled handkerchief, she dabbed at her face.
‘You should be resting,’ I said.
She shook her head but her skin was white.
Olga took Etti gently by the arm and I took the other, and together we guided her to a chair. She grunted as we eased her into it. ‘Where is the broom?’ Olga said.
‘In that cupboard.’ Beads of sweat rimmed Etti’s hairline. I heard the door of the cupboard open and Olga rummaging inside. The shards of porcelain chimed as she swept them together.
‘Does that happen often?’ Although nobody close to me had ever had a baby, I could recall Mama talking to Olga about women in their social circle who had recently given birth. It had fascinated me at the time: the blood, the ritual, the prayers for mother and child; always whispered, since religion was frowned upon by the Communist state. Now that I was older, though, I also understood how dangerous a time it might be. How a woman could lose her mind with worry or allow fear to paralyse her body at the critical moment.
Etti’s colour was beginning to return. She dropped her eyes, embarrassed now. ‘More often this past week.’
‘It’s your body preparing for the rigours of childbirth,’ Olga said, tipping the contents of the broken plate into the bin. ‘I remember Lida’s mother describing it to me as if it were yesterday.’
Etti grimaced. ‘I can only hope it will be over quickly. If this is the warm-up, I imagine the real thing will be quite something.’
Olga nodded. ‘You will need every bit of strength,’ she warned, the dustpan still clutched in her hand. ‘I remember Ana saying it was like a gigantic mountain she had to climb and each step felt as if she was not moving forward. It seemed she would never reach the other side. Then all of a sudden, at twilight, just when she said she could no longer go on, Lida was born. Sometimes you can’t see your progress until you look back.’
‘Did you never have children?’ Etti said.
‘No.’ Olga’s eyes shifted to me. ‘It was not my fate. But I have my Lida. She is my daughter now.’ Replacing the dustpan and broom in the cupboard, she fetched a dishcloth and ran it beneath the tap, then wrung it out and handed it to Etti, who wiped it across her face.
‘I will take my bath now,’ Olga said. ‘And leave you two to talk. I imagine Lida will have questions to ask you, Etti. Ana was Estonian, you know.’
Etti cocked her head. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. You should ask her about the lace, Lida,’ Olga prompted. ‘She might be able to tell you about the pattern.’ We watched her disappear out into the hallway. A moment later the floorboards overhead creaked.
When I looked back at Etti, it was to find her studying the lace shawl around my throat.
‘Did your mother knit this?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘It’s lovely.’ Etti’s fingers wound through the lace. ‘It’s an unusual pattern, but not altogether uncommon. Different to mine.’ She touched her own shawl. ‘As you see, mine is a lilac leaf pattern. It’s a very old pattern. Estonia is full of lilac bushes and we use the wood to make knitting needles. Who taught your mama? Where did she learn?’
‘Somebody showed her how. A woman – a friend – from Haapsalu. Mother lived there for a short time with family.’
Etti’s face brightened. ‘Haapsalu? You know Haapsalu?’
‘Only the little my mother told me about it.’
‘Perhaps your mother’s family are still there,’ Etti suggested.
I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t know anyone here; I haven’t met any other Estonians anyway. Except for you and a young man called Jakob Rebane.’
Etti froze, her hand still wrapped around the lace. ‘Jakob? You know my cousin?’
I stared at her. I felt my mother’s shadow pass behind me. ‘I wouldn’t say I know him, exactly,’ I said, my mind wondering at this unexpected connection. ‘I met him today, very briefly. He gave us a lift from the station when we were stranded.’
Etti sighed. ‘That sounds like our Jakob. He can never resist a pretty face. Oh—’ She frowned suddenly. ‘I didn’t mean that to sound as if he’s impulsive, or that he has a lot of girlfriends. He doesn’t – I would know; Tartu is not such a big place.’ After studying the shawl a moment longer, she let the lace fall. ‘Are you a knitter yourself?’
I shook my head. ‘No. But I would love to learn. Mama taught me to speak Estonian. I think she always hoped we would come back together.’
Etti’s gaze was thoughtful. ‘That is impressive. It’s a difficult language. One of the hardest to master. You should learn to knit, if you can. It will give you something to do here in the evenings. A few years ago, everybody knitted or carded the wool. In the winter, there’s little else to do. Now everybody is busy working, scraping to get by. Even children are expected to work in the mines or pull turnips at the kolkhoz – the collective farms, you know. People don’t have time for knitting. And there’s a shortage of wool to contend with, too, which is a shame. But there are more important things than knitting to think about. Who even knows if I’ll have a job to come back to once this little one is born?’ Her expression clouded. ‘While they’re replacing Tiina they may replace me as well. There’s plenty of others who’d love to have a job like this; one that doesn’t carry the risk of the mines or breaking your back in a soggy field. All we can do is make the best of our time, I suppose.’
‘But doesn’t it bother you?’ The question burst out before I could hold it back.
‘Does what bother me?’
I thought of all the things I had learned about the Estonians today; the desperation of those men to do what they did at the train station this morning, the anxiety Etti must feel at the uncertainty of a future dependent on the Partorg’s favour.
‘It’s not your fault,’ I said, eventually. ‘And yet you are punished. You and your family, your fellow Estonians. How do you stand it? Don’t you want to – to fight back?’
Etti’s gaze flicked towards the kitchen doorway, but it was empty.
‘No,’ she said, loud enough to make it obvious she was speaking not just for my benefit. ‘I do not want to fight back.’ She lowered her voice. ‘But since you are interested in our shawls, let me explain it this way.’ She unknotted the shawl around her shoulders and held it up. ‘I think of life here as being like this shawl, Lydia. A triangle. Before, it was us on top. We were the tip of the triangle. Now…’ She flipped the shawl upside down and draped it across my lap. ‘We are on the bottom. But one day, perhaps we will be on top again. For now, we must make do.’
I bit my lip and looked down at the shawl Etti had spread across my skirt. The pattern was different to my mother’s; it was a series of small triangles, with lace bobbles attached at each of the points.
Etti pushed back her chair. ‘Don’t trouble yourself, worrying about us,’ she said, quietly this time so that even if Olga did happen to be treading down the stairs, she would not be able to discern the words. ‘If you’d like me to, I can take your shawl with me to knitting circle the next time I go. My cousin Kati would be excited to see how far this shawl has travelled. She’s about your age. It’s so rare for any young people to be interested in these things now. Especially half-Russians.’