‘Of course.’
He looked so worried that I reached down and grasped his fingers, bringing them slowly to my mouth to kiss the callused tips, the small whorls that creased his skin.
‘I promise,’ I said. Very gently, I drew his finger into my mouth. I half-expected him to laugh but instead, he groaned. A sense of power such as I had never known rippled through me, setting my limbs aflame.
‘Kati.’ He said my name with reverence.
A tiny network of scars shone in the hollow of his collarbone. I could not draw my eyes away from them; a tiny web that marked his skin. I would be the spider now. I would spin the lacy web that concealed us both and led him away from death and into the light.
Egg Stitch
Lydia
Joachim.
I heard his name in every step I took up the staircase to our apartment. Each excited thud of my heart felt like treachery. The squeak of my hand sliding up the peeling banister was the sound of Joachim’s shoes slipping on the pavement as the agent dragged him into the Packard. Help me. I shook my head, trying to dislodge his voice, but I could still hear it, a wordless cry.
I had left him, abandoning him to death or deportation. It didn’t matter much which one. I did not deserve the happiness I felt whenever Jakob was around. I certainly did not deserve the tingle of pleasure that ran up and down my spine as Jakob reached for my hand and led me out onto the landing. I fumbled in my pocket for the key and then took my time fitting it to the lock, twisting it this way and that, delaying the moment when I would have to choose whether to make the betrayal of my former lover complete.
‘Here. Let me.’ Jakob’s fingers moved over mine. One twist. The door swung open.
Jakob extended his arm, waiting for me to enter.
‘It’s safe,’ he said, when I didn’t move. I almost smiled at his presumption. He thought I was uncomfortable when in truth, I had experienced so many firsts in this apartment in the past two months that it seemed to me almost as familiar as my childhood home. I’d grown used to the bare furnishings and the chipped mugs and the kettle which did not whistle when it reached the boil but shrieked loudly. I’d cooked my first broth here, with Kati’s help, and sewn a button onto one of the blouses Etti had lent me. I’d started my own lace shawl, copying a pattern Kati had shown me in one of her samplers.
I knew all of the apartment’s rooms; the sad one where Juudit had slept and which neither Kati nor Etti wanted, choosing instead to share a bed in Etti’s bedroom while I took the small guest room. The tiny kitchenette with its peeling varnished cupboards and mismatched teacups. The courtyard with its view over Tartu and the geranium plants, the flowers now shrivelled and fading as autumn took hold.
The parlour was my favourite. When we’d returned after the Germans took over, it was to find that Helle and the others had swept up all the broken things and organised for the ripped armchairs to be thrown away. With so little furniture left, the room seemed a decent size and the big windows let in the warm sunshine, driving away the darkness of the deportations and the sad memories Juudit had left behind.
‘So. We are alone,’ Jakob said. He had taken off his cap and placed it with his gun on the hallstand. I was glad; I did not like the feel of his gun against my hip when we walked side by side through the marketplace, as evening fell or along the banks of the Emajõgi River.
My heart gave a sharp twist. ‘Did you want to talk?’ I said. ‘Or I could make tea.’ I tried to undo the shawl around my shoulders, ready to hang on the hallstand. A habit I’d picked up from the others. I could feel the lace tangling around my fingers. I tugged at it, not wanting to rip the stitches but unable to untie the knot I had fastened to stop it slipping and being crushed beneath the boot heels of the Germans as they marched up the street.
Jakob’s hands appeared suddenly, snaking over my shoulders. He undid the knot with ease, and then slipped the shawl into my hands. I realised I was trembling. I glanced up at him, afraid he would laugh at me, but he had taken a respectful step away, his expression patient.
‘Whatever you like,’ he said. I caught the glimmer of amusement in his eyes. He was waiting for me to set the rhythm, as he always did. We had been talking for five months now. Talking and talking, endless stories. We would meet whenever he had leave, at the apartment or outside the barracks where the Home Guard were now stationed. As troops of German soldiers marched past and tanks rumbled over the cobblestones, we would talk about the events that had shaped our childhood, the places we dreamed one day of visiting. I retold Olga’s stories and sang Mama’s songs. As we became comfortable, I had found the courage to confide in him that Olga had been lost to me the night of the deportations. Jakob had promised to look for her name among the official documents left behind, but the outcome was not optimistic. There had been so many people deported that night it was impossible for all their names to be listed. Other lists had been destroyed in the bomb blasts that damaged the records office at the Town Hall.
The knowledge that I might have to live with the guilt of never knowing whether Olga survived was a crushing blow. Only Jakob’s kindness and sympathy seemed to comfort me.
Sometimes we conversed in Estonian, and other times, out of earshot, in Russian. My Estonian was improving. I could remember my mother telling me that Estonian was one of the most beautiful languages in the world. Each time Jakob and I met, it never seemed long enough. There was always more to say. It seemed as if my mouth could never catch up with my brain. As I walked back to the apartment, I would recall some little observation I thought would amuse that I had forgotten to tell him and as the week passed, I would hold it inside me like a small candle flame, determined not to forget. But when I saw him leaning against the stone wall of the barracks, a half-crunched apple in his hand, his lips shiny with juice, it was as if the words I had tried so hard to recall were no more than embers blowing away on the breeze.
And yet in all our conversations, two things had weighed upon my mind; the secret burden of my parentage and the truth about Joachim. A few times I had started to tell him about Stalin and then forced myself to stop, unsure if I could trust my own judgement. What if I was wrong? Jakob seemed caring. He seemed to want to know everything about me. But what kind of person could accept as his friend the daughter of one of the world’s most dangerous men? In my worst moments, I imagined him running to tell the authorities. I imagined the looks of horror which would cross the women’s faces as my secret was revealed. I feared Kati and Etti’s rejection most keenly. Our connections were already so fragile, shaped by what we had witnessed the night of the deportations and then the decimation of the camp. We had built our own small world in the apartment with Leelo. Amidst the uncertainty of the changeover from Russian to German hands, we had grown close and created our own routines and habits to keep each other safe. I did not want to lose that now, when for the first time I had friends I could rely on and people who cared enough to involve me in their lives. I only wished Olga was with me, to share in my newfound freedom. I grieved her loss bitterly.
I stayed silent when Jakob talked with sadness of his parents, unable to share with him the immensely complex feelings my true parentage brought up. It was my secret, now that Olga was gone. I alone would be its keeper.
Jakob thought I was the Partorg’s daughter and that was surely bad enough.
‘Thank you.’ I hung the shawl up now with the others. They looked like ribbons tied on the branches of a tree, the patterns all mingled. One day, I thought, I will know what each of those patterns is. One day I will get Kati to teach them all to me.