Finally, we reached the edge of the crowd. Soldiers paced up and down, brandishing their guns, shoving people into the railway cars without consulting the lists in their hands. There was an urgency to their movements now. Some of them looked frightened, alarmed by the gunfire and the crush of the crowd. One soldier I passed could not have been older than fifteen. An old lady in a headscarf tried to speak to him as he herded her towards a carriage. I saw him glance away, pretending not to hear, his mouth trembling. Perhaps he was thinking of his own babushka. He had no choice but to obey orders. I waited until the guard closest to us turned his head, then I pulled Etti behind me, ducking as low to the ground as possible, praying that she and Olga would do the same.
The women cried out as we reached them, huddling around Etti.
‘We thought you were gone!’ Helle sobbed. ‘The soldiers told us if we went to find you we’d be taken, too. Oh, Etti! Where is Juudit?’
Etti did not answer. Helle turned to me, seeking answers, eyes wide.
‘She’s dead,’ I said.
There was a moment of silence before Helle released a sharp cry of unbridled grief.
I wiped my hand across my sweltering forehead, daring to glance back. The train was already full; they were taking no chances now, but shoving everyone into the carriages, packing them in without regard for lists or names. Poor Juudit’s body was there somewhere, crushed beneath the crowd.
I turned to ask Olga whether she was hurt, but the space beside me was empty.
A terrible panic rose through me. ‘Where is Olga?’
Etti stared at me. Her mouth was slack, her eyes dull.
I shook her, ignoring the gasps of Helle and the other women. ‘Where is she?’ I could hear the panic deepening my voice.
Desperately, I scanned the seething mass of people crowding the station. Where was she? Doors slammed. The guards had filled their quota.
‘Olga?’ My voice cracked. I could not hope to be heard over the crowd.
As a guard approached the last van, I spotted her. The fur coat glistening. Her creased face, so familiar, like the lines of my own palm. I tried to call again, but the words were strangled in my throat.
I imagined she saw me. That one arm lifted. That her lips moved. A prayer, a proverb.
Then the guard slammed the door closed, and a moment later, the train moved off, snaking into the dark.
Somebody grasped me. Words swirled and swooped, and I tried to catch them, to comprehend what was being said.
‘We are sending you to a safe place.’ Helle. No, Etti. The girl with the ringlets. Their voices, faces, mingled together, a blur of colour, a cloud of sound. A man’s face loomed in the darkness. A stranger. ‘This man has a truck that will take you to the edge of the forest. Go with him.’
A hand gripped mine, the palm sticky. I held on. I let myself be anchored, although I wanted nothing more than to drift away.
Snowdrift Pattern
Kati
‘Tell me the story of the woodcutter.’
Oskar’s elbow touched mine. Meadow grass prickled my neck. Clouds unspooled above us, fringed by the overhanging canopy of spruce trees. The leaves were just beginning their transformation from bright green to the russet red of autumn. The faint scent of woodsmoke drifted across the fields to where we lay, our schoolbooks abandoned beside a small timber acorn Oskar had whittled from a lump of oak. A cow huffed nearby, releasing a scent of sweet hay.
‘I thought you didn’t like my fairy tales.’ I propped myself up on one elbow.
‘I was lying.’ Oskar’s blue eyes flicked from the sky to me. His hair was long and in need of cutting, bleached by the sun from its usual gold to the colour of pale straw. His lips twitched. ‘I like them. I only lied about it for Jakob’s benefit. I don’t need any more trouble from the other boys.’ Without looking down, he located a strawberry with his fingers from the pile we had gathered and brought it to his mouth. I watched him bite into it. A trickle of juice dribbled down his chin.
‘Are you certain?’ I said, folding my arms and attempting to sound stern. ‘I wouldn’t want to waste my breath.’
Oskar grinned. Strawberry seeds glinted in his teeth. ‘I promise.’
‘Well then.’ I settled back, still watching him, and pinched a blade of grass between my fingers. ‘There was a woodcutter who went into the forest. He went to cut down a birch but in a human voice it shouted, “Do not kill me! I am young! I have many children!” So he took pity on it. He chose an oak-tree instead. But the oak-tree called out, “Do not kill me! I’m not fully grown! If you kill me now, no oaks will ever grow here again!” Next he tried an ash-tree. “No, no!” cried the tree. “I was married but yesterday! What will become of my bride?” It’s no use, thought the woodcutter. I can’t do it. My heart is not made of stone. But what shall I do? If I don’t cut down trees, I shall starve. Just then a little forest spirit appeared and, in reward for saving the trees, gave the man a golden staff not several inches long and no thicker than a knitting needle. The staff had magic powers – it could summon food and beat his enemies and make barns spring up from nothing. And so the woodcutter never wanted for anything ever again.’ I scrunched the grass blade up in my hand.
‘And he lived happily until the end of his days,’ Oskar said softly.
‘So he did.’ I tossed the grass away and watched a flock of spotted skylarks swoop over the trees. From the distant farmhouse came the sound of someone calling.
‘Your mother wants you,’ I said.
Oskar’s smile faded. ‘Probably needs me to cut more firewood and bring the cows in.’ He sat up, shaking his hair out of his eyes. ‘It’s not her fault.’
I picked up our schoolbooks and climbed to my feet. When I looked back, I was surprised to find that Oskar had not moved.
‘I wish I had a golden staff,’ he muttered. He reached out and plucked the whittled acorn from the grass. Rolling it in his palm, he said, ‘I would use its magic to summon up a feast every night. And to give Aime a new dress each month. And to buy new tools so I could make furniture to sell and mend the holes in our roof. I’d use the money to buy you the finest gold necklace and you’d be happy.’
He sounded so low it made my heart ache. Kneeling down, I placed my hand on his shoulder. ‘I don’t need a gold necklace.’ I plucked the acorn from his hand. The timber was warm, the top ridged and the bottom smooth. ‘I’m happy here now, with you. I’d rather have this acorn than a gold necklace. Where would I wear it? And the trees might object to your felling them just to buy me things. They might cry out in protest. Listen.’ I inclined my head. ‘I think I can hear them now saying “Please Oskar, have mercy! Think of our poor wives!’’’
Oskar wrinkled his nose but his lips were pinched together, as if he were trying not to laugh. I stood and held out my hand to help him up. Our palms met.
An owl screeched loudly. An owl? Owls did not fly in the day.
My eyes snapped open. Everything rushed back with horrible clarity. Mama and Papa were gone. The Russians had shot them. Grief flooded my body like bitter poison. My chest ached with loss as I replayed their final moments, watching them die over and over again. Not only were they gone, but Jakob and Oskar were gone too. And I was in the farmhouse with Hilja.
My neck was stiff on one side. The candle near my feet guttered. Beyond its puddle of light, I could see Hilja’s outline. She shifted, drawing up her legs and then stretching them out.
‘You were dreaming,’ she said. ‘I could tell.’
She hadn’t slept, then. I tried to brush off the vague discomfort I felt as I imagined her watching me while I dozed. ‘What time is it? How long did I sleep?’