‘What did you do, Oskar?’ It was the first time I had spoken.
Oskar turned his head slowly. Something soft and wordless passed between us. I wondered if Oskar had missed my voice, as I had missed his. A beat passed before he shook himself. ‘Some of us managed to escape. We hid in a cave, waiting for the screams to stop. Eventually, they did. But the anger; that was not gone. The defiance, too. It was stronger. It was a living, breathing force now. Those of us who were left behind took a vow that we would not forget. We would honour the memory of those who were slaughtered – by killing as many Soviet pigs as we could lay our hands on.’
‘Oskar.’ My father’s voice carried a thin note of warning.
Oskar’s shoulders drooped. He looked tired suddenly. There were dark bruises beneath his eyes. I wondered how he dared even to sleep, knowing the authorities could catch him at any moment. He was an outlaw now, a criminal. According to the Russian authorities, he had murdered his mother and sister in cold blood. The penalties for such transgressions were swift and fatal. No wonder he had not sent word to us that he was still alive. The things we took for granted – food, shelter, a mattress – were things Oskar and others like him had to fight for. The burden of it might be enough to crush an older man and yet here he sat, in our kitchen. Where were all those other boys and men now, people like Josef Tavert and his old father? If they had survived the journey to Siberia, would they have fought? Would they have had the strength to run if such an opportunity came? I could not imagine Jakob, sleeping comfortably in the student dorms and eating in the cafeteria, finding the resilience to go without food for days at a time, to lie down on a bed of pine needles with only an old blanket for warmth against the bitter cold.
At nineteen, Oskar had achieved what most had found impossible after the Soviet invasion: he had survived.
‘I’m not telling you this because I want to worry your family, Erich,’ Oskar said. His head tilted slightly towards me. I caught the flicker of memory in his eyes; the promise we had made to each other to always tell the truth, no matter how painful it might be. ‘I’m telling you because the time has come for you to make a choice.’ He paused. I watched his throat ripple as he swallowed, draining the mug.
‘We’ve had help from other farmers. They were scared, at first. Of course. But they have slowly come around. There are many here who are too scared to fight openly, but they’ve been supplying us with food, some with rifles. Sometimes they pass messages for us, or provide safe houses for people who know their names are on the list. Just a bed for the night, until they can find a way to let us know we have another soldier ready to join us, or a sister who can help prepare meals and keep the camps clean. Resistance is growing. It’s up to us to fight for them.’
‘This is your war?’ Papa finally said. His eyes were narrowed. ‘A war between the many millions of Soviets and a bunch of rag-tag forest boys? This is what you would risk our lives for?’
Oskar recoiled at his words, but recovered swiftly. ‘After that first slaughter, there were fifteen of us,’ he said. His eyes had lost their soft look. ‘Fifteen left out of a hundred. Do you know how many fighters we have now, Erich?’ He paused. ‘Five hundred. More spread out across the forests. It’s not just the forest soldiers the Soviets should be worried about, either. We have support from a power far greater than that, a nation that has helped Estonia in the past. Now she is coming to our aid again.’
My father’s face was mottled pink and white as he struggled to contain his shock. ‘The pact,’ he said. His voice was less certain now. ‘The treaty. Stalin and Hitler will not abandon it. They cannot.’
‘It’s worth less than the parchment they signed it on.’ Oskar shook his head. ‘The Germans are already here, Erich.’ I heard Mama’s indrawn breath. ‘We’ve been helping them and now they are helping us, training our soldiers. Giving us weapons. Germany will march on Russia. I swear it. You’re an Estonian,’ he said. ‘That should count for something. I’m not asking you to fight. Just to turn a blind eye. To lend us your barn as a safe place for German parachuters to land when war comes. A field or three. You have a choice, Erich. You didn’t last year; none of us did. But now you do. And, with the help of the Germans, we have a chance. Will you help us? Will you choose to free Estonia from Soviet bondage?’
I looked eagerly at Mama and Papa. Had they heard the passion in Oskar’s voice? Had they been stirred by Oskar’s words?
My parents were frozen like figures in a tableau. Mama’s head was bowed, hands clasped before her. Papa stood as immovable as an ancient apple tree, hands knotted by his sides. Only his face revealed any emotion, his eyebrows drawing together until a large crease formed in the centre of his forehead. For a moment, I caught a glimpse of the young man he had been. The boy who dreamed of nothing but blankets of warm fleece and apple trees as far as the eye could see. A man whose parents had fought to emancipate themselves from the grip of Russia and the Baltic Germans. My paternal grandmother had spoken with great pride of the liberation; of how she and my grandfather, like so many others, had adopted new names for themselves in the wake of Estonia’s independence. They’d chosen surnames that reflected the natural world, a world free of human violence and greed.
My grandparents had become Rebane; the fox, a creature of great beauty and stealth, who knew how to use both cunning and wits to survive. They had struggled to survive in a world which had ignored them. Nobody had come to their aid when they fought for their independence. No allies. Those days were over. I knew Papa had made up his mind before he even opened his mouth. ‘It’s time for you to leave now, Oskar.’
Oskar didn’t move.
‘Didn’t you hear me?’ Papa’s voice trembled. ‘Please, leave now. You shouldn’t have come back here, bringing trouble to my door. You’ve put us all in danger. Me and Marta. Kati. I am the head of this family. It’s my duty to protect them. Nobody can win against the Russian army. Everyone knows that. If you had any sense, you’d leave now. Run off to Finland, as you should have done before.’ He mopped his forehead with his sleeve. ‘Go on. Go now.’
I closed my eyes.
After a moment, I heard footsteps, creaking floorboards, the sheep bleating nervously below in their pens. When I opened my eyes, Papa was still standing there, hands by his sides. Mama had raised her face. She looked stricken.
Oskar was gone.
Winter Berries
‘I’m going to bed.’
The floorboards groaned beneath Papa’s feet. Moments later, the bedroom door in the hallway slammed closed. Almost at once, my mother began to move, throwing the remaining cutlery into the sink, snatching up Oskar’s empty mug from the table and scrubbing it so vigorously with the dishcloth I thought it would crack.
I watched her with a strange detachment.
Mama set the upended mug on the counter to dry and took up the wet rag, scrubbing at the faint ring it had left on the surface of the table until every trace of our visitor was wiped away. She was silent, too unsettled even to hum.
As I stood watching her rag slap against the table, I heard it; a sound so much like the wind it could hardly be distinguished. A lonely bay. An animal voice crying out in the dark.
Elina. Still out there, still waiting.
The chicken bones on the table were already cold; a little gristle clung to them. I threw them into a dishcloth and folded the corners to make a parcel. The wind had come up. I heard it whistling through the roof where the thatch was thinning. My grandmother’s shawl was draped on the hallstand. I wound it around my neck, tucking it into my blouse.