I paused to wait until Etti’s next screams had subsided and she lay back, sobbing.
It was a song Mamochka had sung to me, taught to her by her aunt.
My voice lifted and died until I could not go on. The pain of memory was too raw. I imagined my birth, my mother’s voice hoarse with labour. I imagined her holding me, a shiny newborn child in her arms. She had not cared that my father did not want me. Everything that I was, it was due to her and to Olga. I wanted to thank her, for the things she had given me, and to thank Olga for being my mother when I had nobody left to care for me. But it was not possible. They were both so far now from where I was. I could only hope that what Mama saw in me and what Olga remembered did not disappoint them and that perhaps, wherever they were, they could hear my singing and it might soothe them.
Kati’s face was streaked with tears. She opened her mouth to speak but Etti’s cries blotted out everything. This time all the screams rolled together until they transformed into one long sound, stretched taut. I heard Kati cry out hoarsely, as if she was the one who was ripped apart. She stifled her cry quickly with her fist. Sunshine flickered in through gaps in the lean-to’s walls, striking Etti’s squirming body with tiny fragments of rainbow light.
‘Push, now,’ Johanna called, over the endless roar.
A gush of blood and fluid soaked the blanket on Johanna’s knees. ‘Push,’ she commanded. Etti’s legs were shaking so hard the pallet began to rip beneath the pressure, the loose stitches coming apart so the pine needles stuffed inside spilled out onto the ground. Adrenalin surged through my body. I gripped the skirt of my dress, twisting it in my fingers. Etti’s cries were so piercing, I feared she was dying. I called on Olga and my mother, praying for them to help her and heard, very faintly, my mother’s voice.
She was singing.
Moments passed as, inch by slow inch, Etti’s baby emerged until at last it slid out into Johanna’s waiting hands. Deftly, Johanna cut the cord with Hilja’s knife, then bundled the infant into the blanket, wiping the baby’s eyes and face with the corners of a rag. Johanna’s face was calm, but her shoulders had lost their stiff look. I guessed she had been worried, but had not wanted to alarm us. My own body felt weak and insubstantial. I knew I had witnessed what so many other women had seen before me and yet the experience was unique. Sacred. Etti’s baby would never be born again. This was her moment of triumph; hers and Etti’s. Even Johanna, who must have seen many births as a midwife, was smiling now and her eyes were warm with excitement.
‘She is a beauty,’ she said admiringly, touching the baby’s cheek with her thumb. ‘A girl. Is there a name?’
‘Leelo,’ Etti said in a weary voice. ‘It’s what my mother would have wanted.’ I saw Kati clasp Etti’s hands, their fingers meshing.
‘Leelo.’ Johanna hefted the baby, testing her weight. ‘Means song. A fine name.’
As if she agreed, Leelo began to grizzle, making soft yelping noises. ‘Here,’ Johanna said, holding out the bundle for Etti to take. Etti tried to reach up her arms but they flopped beside her. She shook her head. ‘Kati, you hold her. I’m too tired.’
Kati glanced at me, as if seeking reassurance. I shrugged slightly. I knew as much as her about what happened after babies were born. Etti had sunk back against the bed, her eyes closed.
‘She will need milk,’ Johanna advised. ‘Best put her to the breast now.’
Kati hesitated, then carefully laid the child upon Etti’s chest, unbuttoning her blouse with one hand. ‘Etti,’ she said. ‘You must feed her.’
‘But I’m so tired.’ Etti shook her head. ‘I can’t.’
‘Like this.’ Johanna lifted the baby easily from Kati’s arms, positioning her so that her tiny mouth could close over Etti’s nipple. Etti sighed but did not open her eyes. The baby’s hair was the colour of wet sand, streaked through with blood. When she had suckled for a while, she pulled away. Kati lifted her off Etti’s chest, holding her carefully. Still Etti said nothing.
‘Let her rest,’ Kati said quietly as she lifted the baby in her arms. Together, we peeked at her face. She was tiny but perfectly formed. While Johanna delivered the afterbirth and then bundled it away, Liisa handed Kati a damp cloth. Together, we wiped the remaining crusts of blood and mucus from the baby’s face.
‘She is an angel,’ Kati said, kissing the baby’s soft cheek. ‘A miracle.’ I heard the wonder in her voice and felt it shift beneath my own skin. Yes, it was a miracle to be born after a night of such heartache. How could anyone want to hurt her? I thought, touching her tiny ear with my thumb. How could anyone who had witnessed the act we had just seen be so twisted by fate that they could think of harming something so pure? And Johanna, Liisa, Kati… all those women who had helped bring her into the world. What had they done to deserve deportation? To have their lives cut short or be banished to a far-flung place as Joachim had been, as Olga had been? My father had caused this misery; my real father.
I had a vision of him shouting down the telephone wire at Captain Volkov. What would he do when he realised I was missing? Would Captain Volkov send Lieutenant Lubov after me? Lubov would tell them I had been at the station. Perhaps he’d even seen me with Helle and the others. If he sent his soldiers and agents after me, they would eventually track me here. I knew suddenly that I could not stay any longer, surrounded by the thick stench of blood, haunted by the terrible truths that had blinded me until now. Stumbling past Kati, I staggered out of the hut towards a knot of people sitting side-by-side near the remains of the fire, catching the last of its warmth. They looked at me curiously. I edged past them towards a small copse of trees near a bucket of water on a tree stump, their muttering following in my wake.
I leaned against the scratchy bark of a tree trunk and closed my eyes.
I would have to leave. I would have to go on alone, with only my memories for company. I’d not even been able to return to the townhouse to retrieve Mama’s volume of poems or her photograph. Joachim’s book. All the mementos of my past were gone. Everything except the shawl and –
My hand flew to fumble in the pocket of my dress. The letter.
I pulled it out, fingers trembling. The envelope crackled in my hands.
I stared down at the unfamiliar handwriting. My mother’s name was printed first, followed by our address at the House on the Embankment. Flipping the envelope over, I withdrew the contents; a crinkled piece of writing paper, tissue thin.
I unfolded it carefully, aware of how my heartbeat had slowed, how the sounds of the camp seemed to have faded.
The words were all in Estonian, black symbols like scattered twigs. One of the hardest languages to learn, Etti had remarked. But I could read every word. It was as if my mother had prepared me for this moment.