When the Doves Disappeared (44 page)

“Perhaps you should make your purchases first, then we can go.”

Marta seemed afraid to move. Parts led her to the waiting line. She obeyed like a sheep. The abacus on the counter clacked briskly—still four pigs’ feet left, the rustle of wrapping paper, Marta tugging at her scarf, settling it better against her forehead, tucking a wisp of hair underneath, damp, a bead of sweat flowing down her temple like a tear. Parts, smiling politely at the people pushing their way toward the counter, didn’t budge from her side. Someone came to tell Marta that her husband had been first in line that morning. Marta nodded. Parts gave her a questioning look.

“Grocery shopping is always left to the women,” she said.

He guessed what she meant. Her husband had come to buy liquor and forgotten everything else. The same problem everywhere, in every kolkhoz, no one interested in working on paydays or when the shops had something to sell, even the cows left unmilked. Comrade Parts felt refreshed. The situation was progressing very smoothly.

He helped her put the jars of sour cream in her bag and led her out, her steps wavering as she pushed her leaning bicycle, the bag of bottles clinking, the silicate bricks of the village center breathing cold. The air smelled like snow and frost. The mood was oppressive, Parts cheery. Marta turned her bike into a driveway. Smoke curled from the chimney, there was mooing from the barn. Whitewashed trunks of apple trees lined the garden.

“It’s such a mess inside,” Marta said. “Maybe …”

“That’s completely all right, Marta dear.”

She glanced in the direction of the sauna. Parts stopped in midstep. He turned and ran toward the sauna. Marta ran after him, clutched at his hand, his coat. He kicked her away, left her shouting behind him, and pushed the sauna door open. Roland was asleep on the bench, his suspenders hanging from the top of his pants, his mouth open. Snoring.

Tallinn, Estonian SSR, Soviet Union

Roland Simson, previously known as Mark, had become Roland Kask, and was living modestly, attracting no one’s attention, in the village of Tooru. His daughter Evelin Kask was studying in Tallinn. Who would have believed that a man pretending to be an exemplary father had just a short time before mercilessly shot infants before their mothers’ eyes? Who would have believed that people capable of such despicable acts were spreading their insidious disease to the next generation? Evelin Kask followed in her father’s footsteps. She had become an enthusiastic anticommunist and supporter of nationalist imperialism
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C
OMRADE PARTS LAID
his wrists on his knees. The last chapters were starting to come together. Work was like child’s play now that he had his days to himself. The photographs for the book had already been chosen. He’d picked one of them to be a portrait of the author in the days of fascism. To their credit, the Red Army had photographed the Klooga camp as soon as they arrived, and among the photos of prisoners shot in the back Parts had found one to call his own. Luckily for him, emaciated people on the verge of death and those already dead bear a strong resemblance to one another.

Comrade Parts survived Klooga by pretending to be dead. He was one of the group of brave Soviet prisoners brought from Patarei to Klooga to be murdered. He witnessed the horrors. They tried to force him to burn the other Soviet citizens on pyres and he attempted to escape. He was shot in the back and seriously wounded. If the Red Army had liberated Klooga even one day later, he would have perished. Thanks to his resourcefulness he is a living witness opposing the Fascist cancer and telling the truth about it today
.

Was that a good caption, or was the shooting a bit much? What if someone wanted him to prove it? He would think about it some more. There weren’t likely to be any more editorial comments from the Office, but he still had to flesh out the details, give them a dash of truth; then the book would be ready for its flight into the world. He had found the finishing touches for the story when he went to acquaint himself with life in Tooru Village, tasted the local color, estimated distances, researched landmarks, trudged to a cairn in the middle of a field where there was an unobstructed view of the Kasks’ house. He’d come equipped with galoshes and two pairs of wool socks in case of snakes. And binoculars, good for detailed observations of the life of the house, for watching the two scarf-headed women going about their work.

He wasn’t tired at all, even though the previous night had been raucous. The Office meeting had continued late over a meal, followed by one or two bars. It wasn’t the sort of thing he was used to, but why not, just once? He had managed to work in hints about the subject of his new project and indirect reminders of the Finnish experiences of his youth, had mentioned that blending in would be easy for him in Finland. As a respected author and research historian he would have a ready-made, entirely believable background, and the academic world wouldn’t pose a problem. It was time he started planning his future. Why not the Soviet embassy in Helsinki? The work of a cultural attaché might be pleasant. The reopened ship traffic between Finland and Estonia meant that the Office’s resources were stretched to their limits. The authorities had to hurry to acquire new working operatives, people who could be trusted, and there was a danger that they would see him as a suitable candidate for surveillance of Western tourists in Tallinn, for broadening correspondence with Finland, but not for a posting to Finland. He hoped his book
would alleviate this problem when it was published. He didn’t intend to just watch as the boats left the harbor. He was going to be on one of them.

Or perhaps he could work for the DDR section of the committee for Estonian cultural relations abroad. His German was excellent. Maybe he could get into the German archives to do some research. He might even find something there about a man named Fürst. Up until now the name had never come up, but it might before long, either here or in another country. That might even be fun. Parts decided to look for someone at the head of the Office who had the committee in his purview, someone to whom he could suggest the idea. It would be better if his appointment to Finland or Berlin were someone else’s idea. Too much initiative could be dangerous. They would suspect him of wanting to defect.

Just a few pages more, then the climax. The impatient keys of the Optima danced merrily.

The Fascist officers had to hurry because the Red Army was approaching in full force in 1944. In the morning all the prisoners at Klooga were ordered to line up for roll call. To keep the situation under control, SS-Untersturmführer Werle lied and told the prisoners they were going to be evacuated to Germany. Two hours later the Commandant’s assistant, SS-Unterscharführer Schwarze, was leading the selection: the three hundred most physically sturdy men were pulled out of the lines. They were told they had been ordered to help with the evacuation. That was also a lie. In truth, the men carried logs to a clearing about a kilometer outside the camp. That afternoon, six more healthy Soviet citizens were chosen from among the prisoners. They were ordered to load a truck with two barrels of either petroleum or oil. The barrels were for the pyres. Mark supervised the building of the pyres
.

At the camp, Mark behaved brazenly, as befitted his nature. Mark was the Germans’ henchman at Klooga just before the Red Army freed Estonia from Fascist slavery. The Fascists didn’t know what to do with the prisoners. There was no time to transfer the camp because the victorious Soviet Army was on its way and most of the prisoners had been so severely mistreated that they didn’t have the strength to travel. Boats were waiting at the harbor for the soldiers and officers, but what should they do with the prisoners?

Mark thought of a solution. He suggested the pyres
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The logs were laid on the ground with planks placed on top of them. The
logs were of pine and spruce, the planks seventy-five centimeters long. In the middle of each pyre were four planks facing in four different directions. They were supported by a few pieces of wood, and were apparently meant to serve as a kind of chimney. The pyres covered an area of about six by six and a half meters
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At five o’clock in the evening, the sadistic murder of the brave Soviet citizens began. The victims were ordered to lie on the logs with their faces down. Then they were killed with bullets to the backs of their heads. The bodies were in long, tight rows. When a row of bodies was complete, a new row of logs was placed on top of them. The pyres were three or perhaps even four layers high. The place was twenty-seven meters from the forest road, the pyres about three or four meters apart. Eighteen more shattered bodies were found in a radius of five to two hundred meters from the logs. Fragments of bullets were found in the bodies. The dead were later identified by their prisoner numbers
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When the Soviet special commission investigated these atrocities, they also found a burned house nearby, of which nothing remained but the chimneys. In the foundation of the house were found 133 charred bodies, some burned completely to ashes, making identification impossible. Everyone who was there at Klooga on September 19, 1944, is guilty of the mass murder of Soviet citizens and will be given the severest of sentences
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EPILOGUE