When the Doves Disappeared (28 page)

Parts squinted, cracked his knuckles, and now that the noise upstairs had quieted, built a story claiming that he remembered a certain anti-Soviet individual who had worked as an assistant to Karl Linnas and would no doubt be of interest to the Office—a woman whose husband he’d met when he was in the camp—and how he’d been surprised that her husband had been taken there and not she, since she was the one active in the resistance. He couldn’t quite remember the woman’s name, but he was sure he would recognize it if he went through a list. It was a weak story, he realized that. Linnas’s appeal shouldn’t be underestimated, however, or the fact that Comrade Porkov couldn’t resist an opportunity to shine, a chance to prove his effectiveness. Porkov’s vanity would be Parts’s weapon.

Parts had similar weaknesses; he knew that. He had approached the journal too arrogantly, thought Roland was simpler than he was. That was why the central clue had eluded him. It wouldn’t happen again. He picked up the journal, although he had it nearly memorized by now, knew every word of the two-page explanation of the Russians’ skill with bacteriological warfare and the Americans’ worry over it. There had to be more, he was certain of that. More than just the Master and the Heart. Someone in the Office would know how to interpret the codes better than Parts could, but he couldn’t give up the journal yet. He continued to 1950, where Roland deduced that both sides feared each other. “No one’s talking about Estonia. Estonia has dropped off the map like an unidentified body on the battlefield.” When it became clear that the men who joined
the destruction battalions were freed from the rules of engagement, there was a bitterness in his words. “The winner doesn’t have to negotiate. That’s why the communists have no need to negotiate with us.” Nothing about his family or friends. “The rats are abandoning ship, heading to Sweden. Our boat is leaking and I’m not sure I can keep it from sinking.” More reminiscences about the triumphant mood of those first years spent in the forest, descriptions of the forming of divisions, clearly referring to regional divisions of the Armed Resistance League. Those lines in the journal were sure, satisfied. He’d traveled around the country, met key people in each division. He’d had a broad network. Where were those men now? Who were they?

Parts wondered once again at how well Roland’s plain language sat in a written text. Things that had annoyed him in Roland’s speech had a certain beauty in them, almost a clumsy poetry, on the page. “Eight dead, ours. Seven yesterday. How many tomorrow? Lack of new blood is wearing us out, exhausting us.” And again the mention of the Heart. The word was smudged, right at the bottom of the page. Roland’s Heart had been able to calm the hot blood stirred up among the men by an Austrian radio commentary. The commentator had been certain that the war to free Estonia would never come. “When liberation finally arrives, everyone will suddenly be a patriot. How many new heroes will we have then? But when our fatherland is in danger, those same people grovel and go with the flow, dance for cheap baubles, lick the boots of the traitors, hunting down our brothers for nothing more than the right to buy in a restricted shop.”

Parts decided to refresh himself with a sprat sandwich and padded into the kitchen. In the hallway his foot struck a mousetrap his wife had set. There was a wad of handkerchiefs on the floor, including some stolen from his shelf. He kicked them farther down the hallway, then changed his mind and used a towel to pick them up and throw them in the trash. As he made his sandwich, his mind grew clearer. Parts didn’t believe Roland had any interest in poetry. At least not so much that he would write it by the page except for some specific reason. Parts remembered a passage in the journal about a poem on the meaning of art, something titled “Dog Ear.” Roland said Dog Ear was too individualistic, no use to the movement, disloyal. He questioned Dog Ear’s purpose, then started to
bad-mouth all the poets in the country. Parts remembered the passage clearly: “Creatures of little talent who call themselves poets. They use their melodious language to swim right in with the Soviet writers, join their circles, where the most minuscule merit can get you something to put on your bread, can buy you a good life. I have nothing but contempt for that. My Heart curbs my hand. Dog Ear isn’t worth it.” And there it was. Roland had misled him again. Dog Ear wasn’t a poem, it was a poet. Roland doubted Dog Ear’s loyalty because Dog Ear was a person, not some random line of poetry.

If Dog Ear had turned legal later, he might be easy to find, might know something about this Heart. Maybe he could add Dog Ear’s name to the list he’d requested from Porkov. His flimsy justifications for requesting them wouldn’t be made any weaker by adding one more name. But he couldn’t make it a habit.

Parts mixed himself a glass of sugar water and picked up his sprat sandwich. The milk was spoiled again.

PART FIVE
 

Known as one of Linnas’s henchmen, Mark earned a reputation for cruelty at the Tartu camp. But who exactly was Mark? None of the eyewitnesses or survivors of Mark’s horrible treatment knew his last name. Perhaps we ought to define Mark, to learn something about his background. He was an ordinary farmer until he got caught up in Fascist ideology and started attending Fascist meetings. He found a bride who shared his opinions. They felt a particularly strong hatred toward Communism.

—Edgar Parts,
At the Heart of the Hitlerist Occupation
, Eesti Raamat Publishing, 1966

Reval, Estland General Commissariat, Ostland National Commissariat

T
HERE WERE ONLY
a few hours left. The adults sat awake on bundles made with sheets and pillowcases, the children slept in the iron beds. Or pretended to sleep. There was no sleep in their breathing; one eye shone brightly open and clamped shut as soon as it met my gaze. I noticed Juudit watching the refugees. I was watching her. Juudit crouched down near an older woman and their whispers tickled my ear as if they were full of secrets, though Juudit would hardly be sharing her personal affairs here, among strangers. She went to help a man with sores on his back. He had taken off his shirt in front of the stove, and she was spreading sulphuric acid on his skin with a goose feather. The smell stung my nostrils. The crowded room was already charged with tension, sighs echoing through it like breaths in an empty bottle, but Juudit’s soothing hands reassured me. She seemed to have found the right words for these panicked souls, to know what to say so none of them would lose their heads when it came time to get into the trucks. I couldn’t have chosen a better person to receive them. The others had been doubtful when I announced that I’d found an apartment to use as a gathering point and a new person to be there to meet the refugees, telling them her name was Linda. I’d sworn that she was trustworthy, and hadn’t said anything
about her relationship with a German. I also hoped that the deeper she was involved in the operation, the more likely she was to keep her mouth shut about it. She had started to let crumbs of useful information slip out, and her opinion about everything connected to the Germans seemed to be starting to falter.

This was a particularly restless group of refugees. Hjalmar Mäe’s speech had aroused something like hope. According to Mäe, the mobilization would be the first step toward sovereignty. I could see uncertainty in the refugees’ eyes, a desire to believe his words. It never ceased to amaze me how gullible people could be. Or desperate. But the numbers of those who didn’t trust in a German victory or the Reich’s promises of Estonian independence and autonomy were growing day by day. No one wanted to stay and wait for another slaughter. They were sure the Bolsheviks were coming. The pastors were talking about the return of a godless state.

In the coming year we would provide transport to a lot of men seeking to avoid serving in the German army—there were already some in the group, recognizable by their posture. They were brave boys with burning eyes, ready for battle as soon as the boat reached Finnish waters. I secretly hoped that they would form our Estonian corps, the seeds of a new Estonian army, once Germany withdrew. Then we could use the situation to our advantage like we had in 1918, when the Germans left and we struck back at the Reds and won our independence. Captain Talpak was already in Finland organizing the unit. My faith in him was great, and I invoked his name when the boys asked about Estonia’s having its own army. The captain had refused to cooperate with the Jerries and many were following his example. Before he fled the country, Richard had written references for our boys, which allowed them to avoid the front and be sent instead to Riga for the Wehrmacht’s military intelligence radio training and then return to our forces. The first few had already done that and were just waiting for the moment to spring into action.

Just a few more hours and it would be time. Juudit tiptoed shyly over to me. I made ample room for her. She sat an arm’s length away, took the paperossi I offered, and lit it on my outstretched match. A curl was stuck to her cheek. The shadows of her trembling eyelashes showed her anxiety.
I noticed that the blue, black, and white enamel ring was back on her left hand.

“What should we do with the pigs?” she whispered in my ear. A drop of spit struck my earlobe. I wiped it away. I could feel the warmth of her body and it felt like a German’s warmth. I didn’t like it. “The pastor’s family refuses to leave them behind.”

“Tell them they’ve been stolen.”

She nodded. Arranging these transports was getting more expensive all the time; prices were rising and gougers were playing the market with people’s panic. Those without money ended up finding their own means of escape, or staying. But that wasn’t enough. Even among the refugees some ugly things went on. There was limited space in the boats, and there were plenty of people like this pastor. Most of them had the sense to slaughter their animals before leaving and pack the meat to bring along, but this pastor apparently thought he could get a better price for a live pig in Sweden.

“You keep watch here,” I said, getting to my feet. I could take the pigs to the cellar to wait for someone to come and get them.

“Watch over what? I’ll come with you.”

In the dark hallway, she put her hand on my shoulder.

I shook it off. Her voice tightened. “I know you have a problem with me, but don’t we have more important things to think about?”

“You’re just like the others.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Fixing up a nice little future for yourself,” I said with unnecessary gruffness.

“Roland, I still think in Estonian.”

We started down the stairs carefully, holding on to the railing. There was no moon; it was a perfect night for a transport.

“Germany isn’t going to disappear,” Juudit said.

There was mockery in my snorting breath—she could hear it.

“And I’m not even getting paid for this,” she said, “unlike that weasel Aleksander Kreek, charging a fortune to smuggle people out, and who knows who else. You, for instance.”

“I’m not doing this for the money,” I snapped.

She stopped, and started to laugh. The laugh spread up and down the stairs and burned up the oxygen until I couldn’t get a breath. Did she think I was collecting money for myself, so that I could escape across the sea? Was she just teasing me because I taunted her about her German?