‘No bread today.’
Helga, the baker’s wife, threw her hands down on the counter to emphasise her point. Clouds of white flour flew into the air. Through the hazy obscurity, her scowl was visible, her thick lips moulded into a stubborn pout as if someone had pinched them out of the doughy folds of her face. Flour dusted her cheeks and collarbone, speckling her apron like a drift of snow.
A hush fell over the group of women clustered beside me at the counter, conversation emptying until the only sound was the creak of the door between the back workroom and shopfront still swinging in Helga’s wake.
In the queue beside me, Etti tapped her foot nervously against the tiled floor. I risked a swift glance at her. She was pale, her skin like chalk against the dull bronze of her hair. One of Juudit’s old grey coats was buckled around her thin waist. I wondered with a sinking heart if I should have left her with Leelo at home. Kati and I usually collected our rations together, one of us heading to the bakery while the other queued up for the meat. Of all the days for Etti to come out.
I squeezed the ration tickets that Kati had given me tightly in my hand.
A sudden explosion in the street behind us made the people in the queue cry out and glance around in fear. Etti clutched my arm, her eyes wide. But it was only a truck backfiring. Some people smiled hesitantly, perhaps feeling foolish. Etti and I did not smile. We stayed pressed together. Etti’s foot resumed its tapping and she cast me an uneasy sidelong glance.
I wondered if she was also thinking of the way the German presence seemed to have increased this past week. Their uniforms were everywhere. Trucks could be heard rumbling day and night along the streets, ferrying soldiers from the barracks to the Baltic borders where the fighting was worst. Tanks constantly rolled into Tartu, making the ground shudder. Posters had sprung up, too, seemingly overnight. They were different to the propaganda posters I had seen all over Moscow. Those posters with their bright, primary colours had seemed so innocent, with their fairy tale depiction of workers toiling in fields while farm overseers counted their profits with thick fingers.
The posters I had seen today plastered on the walls were openly hostile, dripping in vitriol. In small beady letters, they detailed an issue from the Sicherheitspolizei stating that Jews could not change their place of residence, or walk on the pavement or attend the theatre or school. All property owned by Jewish people was to be confiscated, and work to register any Jews remaining in Estonia would be carried out as soon as possible. Anybody who knew the addresses of Jewish people was encouraged to contact members of the Selbstschutz. Doctor Otto-Heinrich Drechsler, the High Commissioner of Ostland, had decreed that all Jewish residents must wear the yellow Star of David on the left side of their chest and back. Anyone of mixed race or who was suspected of having sexual relations with a Jewish person was considered ‘mischling’ and could be arrested for having Jewish sympathies.
Etti was safe for now, but things could change quickly. Her husband had been Jewish by birth, but non-practising. She could not be arrested while the laws remained. I would also be at risk if the laws changed. If my mixed parentage was exposed, even the fact that my mother had been Estonian would not be enough to save me. I kept as low a profile as I could, never speaking more than was necessary to the baker’s wife or the man who sold us our meat. I spoke only in Estonian or the German I had learned at school.
There were other changes, also. Those people who had dared to hide their radios when the Soviet government outlawed them were encouraged to bring them out now, so that they could listen to Goebbels or Rosenberg, the Reich Minister for the Occupied Eastern Territories, outlining Germany’s role in establishing a stable seat of government in the Baltics. Far from leaving, the Germans seemed bent on settling in and the longer they stayed, the greater the sense of dread which seemed to creep into everyday life.
The presence of their new propaganda was an unspoken weight. It stifled ordinary conversation and squeezed out any small pleasure that might be found in snatches of time spent bent over lacework. I wished I had Jakob to ask about it, but I had only seen him once over the past week and we’d been surrounded by others. I had suggested visiting the barracks, but Kati refused to go with me. I suspected that despite her calm, aloof manner, Kati was just as afraid as I was.
‘Are you deaf?’ Helga said. ‘I just told you there is no bread. You might as well go home.’ She raised her chin a little as if defying anyone to decry her claim. ‘All of you!’
The crowd around us murmured. One of the other women in the queue was brave enough to call out: ‘There was bread yesterday, Helga!’
Helga’s scowl deepened. She palmed back a wisp of hair with a dusty hand. ‘I know. But that was yesterday. Today, there is none.’ Her eyes roved over the crowd. Two small flames of colour danced in her pouchy cheeks. ‘There are soldiers here who are defending your lands. They require food, sustenance. Their needs are greater. If you’ve any complaints, you may take it up with Reichskommissar Lohse. He’s in charge now.’
The men and women muttered as empty baskets shifted from hand to hand. As if to torment us, a breath of yeasty air puffed out before the door to the workroom finally shuddered to a close.
Helga waved at us, making shooing gestures with her hands. ‘Out! Out!’
People began to move, shuffling reluctantly towards the entrance of the shop.
‘What are we supposed to feed our children?’ a young woman asked, standing her ground against the shifting tide.
Helga squinted. ‘That’s not my problem. There are plenty of other foodstuffs to be had. Try the butcher; I saw a lorry pull up this morning with fresh slaughter from the factories.’
Grasping my basket, I guided Etti towards the front doors.
‘I suppose we should be thankful Leelo has not started eating yet,’ Etti said as we made our way towards the butcher’s shop.
I flicked her a cautious smile, but she seemed unusually optimistic, swinging her basket so that it bumped against her knees as we passed a boarded-up pharmacy. An army truck rolled past, obscuring the window, flooding the road with petrol smoke.
Etti turned her head to look back. ‘That was Mama’s favourite shop,’ she said, her eyes suddenly sombre. ‘She always bought her soap there. Pine tar. It’s good for the skin.’
She stopped so suddenly I almost crashed into her.
‘What is it?’ Starting to panic, I searched the road for danger. The truck had moved on, its wheels grinding on the cobblestones. It came to a stop outside an open wrought iron gate where a group of German soldiers were gathered around a dozen people. Most of them were men dressed in black suits but the few women who stood with them wore simple dresses of grey with black heels. Yellow stars like sunbursts stood out against their dark clothes. They clustered together, looking confused and wary. The tall façade of the synagogue loomed behind them, its arched windows reflecting the sky. Kati and I had passed it before, but I’d not taken much notice. We had similar synagogues in Moscow, although attending them was frowned upon as the populace was not encouraged to pursue any faith which could disrupt the teachings of communism. As we stood watching, the back doors of the truck swung open. The soldiers raised their weapons and began to drive the people towards the truck. Some of the men hesitated, while others began to do as they were bid.
One woman refused to go.
‘Where are you taking us?’ she demanded, thrusting her purse in front of her like a weapon. ‘Who will tell our families?’
In answer, a ringing blow from a soldier’s hand sent her sprawling. One of her shoes came loose and rolled away into the gutter. The soldier who had struck her dragged her roughly to her feet and thrust her into the truck where her companions waited. He did not bother to retrieve her shoe. We watched the truck lurch off, leaving four soldiers behind to stand outside the gates of the synagogue, preventing anyone from going in or out.