Purge (33 page)

Sometimes I feel like aiming this Walther at Liide.

My mind has been perfectly clear for a long time. I just want to see Linda again.

Ingel would have put more salt in the gravy.

Hans Pekk, son of Eerik, Estonian peasant

Aliide realized she was yelling, but she didn’t care anymore. She threw the water pail on the floor, smashed a jar of Red Moscow perfume, and scattered a pile of Soviet Woman sewing patterns. She would never sew any of those Tallinn dresses, never walk hand in hand with Hans along the Viru Gate, carefree because she would never encounter those men, beautiful because the people she passed didn’t recognize her. She would never do those things with Hans that she’d dreamed of these last few months as she lay next to Martin while he snored. Hans had promised! Aliide yelled until her voice ran out. What did it matter if Martin woke up? What did it ever matter to anyone? What did anything matter anymore? Everything was shattered. All the trouble she’d been through! All the striving! Collecting fines from people for not having children! All the enormous work she’d done, all the sleepless nights, every day of her life wasted by fear, the stink of Martin’s flesh, her endless humiliation, endless lies, endless writhing around in Martin’s bed, constantly trembling, the underarm shields in her rayon dress squishing with the sweat of fear, the dentist’s hairy hands, the viscous glaze over Linda’s eyes after that night, the lights, the soldiers’ boots—she would have forgiven all of it, forgotten all of it, for just one day in a park in Tallinn with Hans. That’s why she had taken care of her skin, cleansed her face with Red Poppy soap, remembered to rub goose fat on her hands several times a day. So she wouldn’t look like a country girl. They wouldn’t have been interrogated even once; they would have been left in peace, but that didn’t matter to Hans. All she had asked for was one little moment together in the park. She had fed him and clothed him and warmed his bathwater, got a new dog to protect him, brought him his newspapers, carried up bread and butter and buttermilk, knit him socks, arranged his medicines and liquor, written the letters, done everything to make him happy. Had Hans asked even once how she was doing? Had he ever been worried about her? She had been ready to wipe the slate clean, let everything go, forgive all the shame she had endured for his sake. And what did he do? He lied!

Hans had never had any intention of walking with Aliide in the parks of Tallinn.

And then there were those letters... Hans had lost consciousness. Aliide pressed her foot against his shoulder, but he didn’t move.

She went to check on Martin. He was in exactly the same position as before. He couldn’t have woken up in the meantime. Aliide had left an empty bucket next to his boots in case he woke up. The clatter would have warned her. The bucket was in exactly the same spot where she’d left it, a hand’s width from the washstand.

Aliide went back into the kitchen and checked Hans’s condition, took his cigarette case out of his pocket—the three lions had faded—and lit one of his hand-rolled
paperossis
. Air rushed into her lungs, and the smoke made her cough, but the situation seemed clearer.

She washed her hands.

She poured the red water into the slop bucket. She took some valerian and sat down and smoked another cigarette. She went over to Hans.

She took a medicine that she’d made for bad dreams out of the cupboard and opened Hans’s mouth.

He woke up coughing and sputtering. Some of the bottle’s contents trickled onto the floor.

“This will make you feel better,” Aliide whispered.

He opened his eyes, looked past Aliide, and swallowed.

She lifted his head in her arms and waited.

Then she got a rope, tied his hands and legs, and dragged him into the little room hidden behind the kitchen. She threw his diary in after him and took Ingel’s cup off the shelf and put it in her apron pocket.

She put a blanket over him.

She kissed him on the mouth.

She closed the door.

She sealed up the door with paste.

She blocked the air holes.

She pulled the cupboard in front of the door and went to clean the blood from the kitchen floor.

But what if what Martin’s brother said is true? How will Liide manage here with Martin when Ingel and I are gone? Things could go badly for her, and I certainly wouldn’t want that. Does she know that if Martin’s brother’s stories are true, Martin could suffer a fate as terrible as his brother’s? And so could she. I tried to ask her if Martin had said anything about his brother. She probably thought I was crazy asking questions like that. She believes everything Martin says. Supposedly he’s so in love with her that he would never lie to her.

I asked Ingel for advice when she was here, but she just shook her head, she couldn’t say anything, or maybe she didn’t want to. I told her that I do know there are other reasons that Liide doesn’t want to let me into her room, besides the fact that it’s a long way to the attic if anyone were to come. I glanced in there one time. Pelmi had started barking, and Liide told me to go straight to the attic, and she went out in the yard—the rag seller was arriving on his horse. But I peaked into her room, and there was a cake dish on the washstand. It was just like the one Theodor Kruus had—I remembered it well, because he was so proud of it. I walked over to it to make sure, and I saw a pair of earrings lying on the cake dish—precious stones in gold fittings. And a mirror had appeared, too—a mirror as big as a window.

My head hurts all the time—sometimes it feels like it’s going to split in two. Ingel brought me some headache medicine. There’s half a tub of salted meat left and a little water in the can. Ingel always brings me some more, but Aliide won’t.

Hans Pekk, son of Eerik, Estonian peasant

Zara had just grabbed the percolator when she heard a car drive up. She ran to the window and closed the curtains. The doors of the black car opened. Pasha’s bald head appeared. Lavrenti’s head appeared on the other side, more slowly. Almost reluctantly. Aliide stood in the middle of the yard leaning on her cane. She adjusted the knot of her scarf under her chin and pulled her shoulders back.

There was no time to think. Zara ran to the back room and turned the iron latches on the window. They were stiff as she moved them up and down. She wrenched at the sash handle, and the window slid down suddenly. A spider ran away among the patchy, blistered wallpaper. Zara opened the outer window as well. The spiderweb broke, and dead flies jiggled between the window frames. Nightfall and the chirping of crickets greeted her. Grandmother’s photo. She had forgotten it. She rushed back into the kitchen. The picture wasn’t on the table. Where could Aliide have put it? No—there was no way she was going to guess where it was. She ran back into the other room, jumped out the window into the peony bed. A few stems broke—luckily not too many. Maybe Lavrenti wouldn’t notice. Zara shoved the lace curtains back inside the house, pulled the window shut, and ran to the garden, past the early golden apple tree, the onion apple tree, the bee’s nest, and the damson and plum tree. Her legs were feeling the run already. One bare foot sank into a mole’s burrow. Should she go the same way she’d come, past the silver willow trees, or would it be better to go straight across the fields?

She went around the back corner of the garden to where she could see the front yard. Pasha’s BMW was sitting right in front of the gate. She couldn’t hear or see anyone. Where had they gone? Lavrenti was sure to come and look at the garden at any moment. She grabbed the chainlink fence and hauled herself over it. The metal screeched. She froze where she stood, but she didn’t hear anything. She could make out Pasha’s tire tracks on the overgrown road on the other side of the fence. She crept toward the house, ready to run at any moment, and when she’d got close enough she looked through the birch trees and the chain links into the yellow light of the kitchen window and saw Aliide slicing bread. Then Aliide picked up some plates from the dish rack and brought them to the table, turned toward the dish cupboard, puttered with something there, came back to the table with the milk can—from the Estonian days, that’s what Aliide had said. Pasha sat chatting and popping something into his mouth—apple preserves, judging by the color of the jar. Lavrenti looked at the ceiling and blew smoke playfully, directing it up and down as it came out of his mouth. The look on Aliide’s face was so ordinary that Zara couldn’t interpret it—as if her grandchildren had come to visit and she was just offering them a sandwich like a grandma should. Aliide laughed. So did Pasha—he was in on the joke. Then he asked her something and she went to fetch a basket from the pantry. It had tools in it. It didn’t seem possible, but Pasha started to fix the refrigerator!

Zara held on to the birch tree to keep herself upright— her head seemed to churn. Did Aliide plan to expose her? Was that what this strange little play was about? Did she plan to sell Zara to them? Had Pasha given her money? What were they talking about? Was Aliide just playing for time? Should she take the time to figure it out? She should be leaving, but she couldn’t. The crickets chirped and the night grew, little animals ran in the grass, and lights went on in faraway houses. There was a rustling from a corner of the barn, a rustling that moved to her skin. Her skin was rustling, and a broken gate creaked wearily in her head. What was Aliide going to do?

After the interminable meal and the repair of the refrigerator, Pasha got up and Lavrenti followed him. They seemed to be saying good-bye to Aliide. The yard light came on and the front door opened. All three of them came outside. Aliide remained standing on the steps. The men lit cigarettes, and Pasha looked at the woods as Lavrenti strode toward the flower beds. Zara backed up into the shadows.

“You have some fine woods, ma’am.”

“Isn’t it nice? The Estonian forest. My forest.” Bang.

Pasha’s body collapsed at the foot of the steps. Another bang.

Lavrenti was lying on the ground.

Aliide had shot them both in the head.

Zara closed her eyes, then opened them. Aliide was

examining the men’s pockets, taking out their guns and their wallets and a little bundle.

Zara could tell that it was a roll of dollar bills.

Lavrenti’s boots still shone. A soldier’s boots.

It was only when Zara heard the crash of glass and wood that she remembered she’d brought an object with her from the little room. She’d been squeezing the trunk of the birch too hard—shards of glass and pieces of black-painted wood fell out of her pocket. It wasn’t a mirror, although she had thought it was when she saw it in the little room. It was a picture frame. She couldn’t see it clearly in the moonlight, but among the cracks in the glass was a photo of a young man in an army uniform. She could just barely make out the writing on the back: Hans Pekk, August 6, 1929.

She had slipped the frame into the notebook that she’d found. She carefully brushed away the bits of glass—on the corner of the notebook was the same name: Hans Pekk.

I wonder if that’s what Martin is still doing here in the countryside. Why is he here, if he’s on such good terms with the party? Shouldn’t he be some kind of honcho in Tallinn by now? That’s the impression I got from Liide, anyway—that all of those people are in powerful positions now. Doesn’t Liide wonder about it at all? Or are they going to Tallinn and she doesn’t want to tell me? I’ll try asking her again about Martin’s brother—but she always acts strange when I start talking about Martin. She gets all aggravated, acts as if I were accusing her of some evil deed.

Salt herring makes me thirsty. I wish I had some of Ingel’s beer. I can’t tell day from night in here. I miss the sunrise over the fields. I listen to the birds hopping around on the roof and I miss my girls. I don’t know if I have a single friend left alive.

Hans Pekk, son of Eerik, Estonian peasant

The taillights receded into the distance. The girl had been in such a hurry that it had been easy to get her into the taxi, although she kept muttering something. Aliide had reminded her that someone might come looking for Pasha and Lavrenti at any moment—the need to hurry was as urgent as ever. It would be best if she made it to the harbor before anyone started wondering where the men had disappeared to.

If the girl made it home, she would tell Ingel that the land she lost long ago was waiting for her. Ingel and Linda could get Estonian citizenship. They could even get a pension and, once they had a passport, the land. Ingel was coming back, and Aliide couldn’t do anything to stop her anymore. And why wouldn’t the girl survive? They’d found her passport in Pasha’s pocket, and the roll of dollars would pay for a lot more than a taxi to Tallinn—like an expedited visa so she wouldn’t have to find a truck to hide in when she got to the harbor. The girl’s eyes had been wide, like a skittish horse, but she would be all right. The taxi driver had got such a thick wad of bills that he wouldn’t ask her any questions about her trip.

Since she was a descendent of Ingel and Linda, she could get an Estonian passport, too. She wouldn’t ever have to go back to Russia. Should Aliide have told her that? Maybe. Maybe she would figure it out for herself.

Aliide went into the back room and got a paper and pen. She was going to write Ingel a letter. Tell her she could get all the papers she needed to come back at the notary, that she and Linda could move in at any time. She told her the cellar was full of jam and preserves, made according to their old recipes. It turned out she had become quite good at it, even if Ingel had never believed in her cooking skills. She’d even become a braggart about it.