He paused to fork another mouthful in.
Kristiina, slicing the bread at the bench while the stew intended for us bubbled on the stove, threw a scrap of offal to the cat, who jumped to his feet to retrieve it.
‘Aren’t you afraid?’ I said. ‘To keep us here?’
‘Afraid of what? The Germans?’ Heldur shook his head. ‘I’m not afraid for myself. I can’t be, or I would never leave the house. I’m afraid for Kristiina, a little. For the people the Germans have targeted: certainly. We do not get many Jews coming now. Most of them tried to escape when the Germans came in. The ones who come now are escapees from the Klooga camp or people who have been in hiding until they could get a message out. They say bad things about that Klooga camp.’ He paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. ‘Bad things.’
‘What kind of things?’ Etti’s face had blanched. She was not looking at Heldur, but at Leelo, now wriggling on the floor, inching on her stomach to where the cat sat cleaning its face and switching its tail.
Heldur chewed softly. He drummed his fingers against the tabletop. ‘Klooga is a work camp. Prisoners have to work in the forest or in the quarry. Felling trees, breaking rocks, you know. Men and women. And children. When they get too sick or if they are too old to work they are… selected. Selektion.’
‘Killed.’ Lydia’s eyes were shining.
‘Just so.’ Heldur picked up his plate and set it down upon the floor. The cat fell on it. Pushing back his chair, he replaced the cap on his head. ‘There is illness, too. Typhoid. It can wipe out whole families.’
‘But you have had people come here. Escapees,’ Etti said, her voice thin. ‘People have escaped from Klooga.’
Heldur’s mouth pinched. ‘Just one,’ he said, cupping his chin with his hand. ‘The other we had to bury. You should ask the moon not to shine tomorrow. That would be best.’
Red Shawl
Lydia
‘Air raid! Hurry! Hurry!’
A sliver of moonlight picked out Kristiina’s pale hair. She half-turned, beckoning us out into the small garden as the air-raid siren continued to wail. I took a breath then plunged outside. The cold was immense, a great angry cloud pressing down around me, squeezing the warmth from my bones. My exhausted mind struggled to order it alclass="underline" the wail of the air-raid siren; footsteps thudding up the attic stairs; the house vibrating as planes roared overhead.
Now this: the flight across the garden to where Kristiina hovered beneath the shadow of an oak tree. I heard Kati behind me, helping Etti with Leelo, the three of them struggling to see in the near-darkness. The wailing had begun a few minutes ago; we’d only just had time to throw on our coats before Kristiina was in the room, shouting at us to gather our things and meet her downstairs.
‘This way.’ Kristiina grasped my arm. ‘Everyone who does not have a basement must gather at the Town Hall. It’s less likely the bombers will target a large building with civilians inside.’ Together, we hurried along the deserted streets, keeping to the shadows. Somewhere not far away an explosion rocked the earth, but Kristiina didn’t pause. Scurrying around the square, she led us towards a tall building of whitewashed stone. People gathered at the entrance as German soldiers shouted orders.
‘Just do what they tell you,’ Kristiina said as she felt me hesitating. ‘They will be too busy trying to protect the supply depots to worry about papers.’
She did not wait for me to reply, but pushed me into the throng along with Kati and Etti. The hall was packed. Lamps had been placed along the floor to light the way. Bodies lined the timber panelled walls; children with eyes aglow, tired-looking women slumped together. The lights threw up strange shadows in the concert hall, illuminating the faces of the gilded statues and the ornate Baroque scrollwork on the ceiling high above.
A German soldier directed us to an unfilled space between a few women who wriggled closer together to allow us to sit down.
I lowered myself carefully, thinking already of how I would look in six months’ time, my belly swollen to the point where getting up and down would be difficult. Would Jakob be pleased when I told him, or afraid? Pleased, I decided.
I could not imagine him being afraid of anything.
Another shell shattered distantly. The women nearby whimpered.
Leelo began to cry, her breathless sobs echoing. This broken sleep was already too much for her. She would be cross tomorrow, refusing to take her bottle just as she always did when over-tired. Etti sang to her and patted her back but Leelo refused to be calmed. Kati sat beside her, watching helplessly, the bruised crescents that shadowed her eyes showing the toll the long days and nights at Kreenholm had taken on her. Something prodded my elbow, and I looked down to see a pair of knitting needles in Kati’s hand.
‘Take them,’ she said. She handed me a ball of yarn. It looked dark in the dim glow from the lanterns. I realised it was not white but the crimson red of the light breaking over the Kremlin’s walls in high summer.
‘Kristiina gave it to me,’ she said. ‘She dyed it with blackcurrants. You can use it to start your own shawl. Here,’ Kati said, teasing out the thread. ‘I’ll make the first stitch for you.’ She made a small loop and slipped the needle through. Then she handed them to me. ‘Try the pasqueflower,’ she said. ‘Just like we practised.’
As the sky continued to rumble, she drew out her own needles and a ragged length of yarn from an old shawl she had unpicked before we left Tartu. I saw some of the women stop sobbing and look up as her needles clicked steadily.
Kristiina had taken her hands away from her ears. Now she reached into her own bag. Her needles were short and chestnut-coloured. She shot me a smile as she hooked the loop stitch. She was making a fragile lace glove; I could see the shape of it already, half-formed, wavering like a silvery cobweb. Following Kristiina’s example, other women, those who had brought their satchels with them, drew out their knitting. The children grew quieter as they listened to the familiar sound of the needles, the low murmurs of women exchanging stories about where they came from. Tales their mothers had taught them. Even the men in the hall were silent. One woman began to hum, and then the humming became words. Soon, others had taken up the song. I tried to tease out the melody but it was like trying to pin down the wind. The rhythm shifted and changed as the women sang, their voices lifting and falling, their words overlapping. I gave up and instead, let the melody wash over me.
When I looked over at Kati, I realised she was crying. ‘It’s runo song,’ she said, swiping at the tears with the back of her hand. ‘I never thought I’d hear it again.’ Her fingers were shaking, and for the first time I saw her drop a few stitches. Wriggling closer, I leaned my shoulder against hers. We listened together. It seemed fitting, almost, that we were sheltering in a concert hall that must once have contained the harmonic strains of an orchestra or a string quartet that sent their notes heavenward. Now, it was the strength of those women’s voices that filled up the space, soft and defiant, tender and comforting. I felt the ghosts of many women crowding close, listening too; my mother beside me, and Kati’s. An old woman; the grandmother she and Jakob always talked about. I laid my hand over the place on my belly where I knew my child was sleeping and wondered if it too could hear this miracle and if it stirred, awakened by the echo of voices from so long ago.
I woke in the grey dawn to find my face damp, as if I had been crying. In the hall around me, people were moving, raising their heads from the makeshift pillows they had fashioned from knapsacks, and staggering to their feet. Leelo grumbled as Etti lifted her from the small nest of blankets we had found to cover her. Kati stretched her arms over her head, arching her back like a cat.