The house was a shadow against the dark trees. Hilja clicked on her torch, its beam disturbing a fox. I caught a glimpse of its bushy tail and red fur against the foliage before it streaked away. She directed the light towards the house, running it across the porch, making silver moons in the windows, past the empty rocking chair where Oskar’s mother used to sit peeling plums for her pickle jars. Everything was still.
As we waited until Hilja was satisfied enough to switch off the torch, a smell drifted towards us on the wind, filling my nostrils with the ripe scent of rotten fruit laid over an undercurrent of sour decay.
I lifted my hand to cover my nose, but the stench lingered in the back of my throat as if I’d swallowed it. I gagged, trying to suppress my heaving stomach.
Hilja grunted and flicked off the torch. The light died – and the day of the murders came back to me in vivid colour.
Imbi. Aime.
In the sudden darkness, I had a terrifying delusion that their bodies had never left. Perhaps they were still trapped in there, waiting for me to find them again, their poor corpses buzzing with bloated flies.
‘Hilja… What is that smell?’
Hilja sniffed and began to move again, sticking to the darkest shadows, edging closer to the farmhouse.
‘Dead animal,’ she said shortly. ‘We leave them around the house to deter patrols from getting too near.’
‘It doesn’t deter refugees from seeking help?’
Hilja didn’t bother to reply. The long grass shivered as she picked her way through it, heading towards the back of the house, passing the half-filled woodpile still stacked against one wall. After gulping in a breath, I moved after her, trying not to be sick, moving as quietly as possible. Despite my best efforts, a family of rats began to squeak noisily as my boots stirred up the pebbles near the woodpile. Hilja flung me a look over her shoulder, but the shadows of the eaves above us hid her face. I could only sense her disapproval, reaching out to me, curling around my legs like tendrils of smoke.
The back door opened silently when she pushed it, revealing the dark interior of Oskar’s cottage. After a moment’s pause, Hilja reached out and pulled me inside after her, closing the door behind us, sealing us in.
The blackness inside was all-encompassing. The scent of decaying flesh was less strong with the door closed, but my stomach still gurgled.
‘You’ll get used to the smell.’
Hilja struck a match. From its light, I could see that the windows had been blacked out. The kitchen was as I remembered it, but cobwebs were stranded on the shelves. Sadness pricked at my heart. Imbi Mägi would be so ashamed for people to see her cottage this way, undusted and in such a state. Although it was a small place, she had made it a home for Oskar and Aime. Oskar’s father had made the furniture himself before the illness claimed him. The curtains I had helped Imbi to sew now lay abandoned on the floor, the lace edges yellowed. The benches she had been so proud of were speckled with rodent droppings and dust.
Hilja set the match to a small stub of candle, then sat down heavily, crossing her legs and leaning her back against the wall. Her face was creased with frown lines. She was older than I had thought, nearing forty I guessed.
I hovered near the door, unsure whether to stand or sit. I was afraid to look around the cottage. I could feel the presence of Imbi and Aime close by, as if they were ingrained in the walls, the floor. Beneath the smell of rot and decay, I fancied I could still detect the sweet burnt sugar caramelising in a pan.
‘You might as well sit down and rest,’ Hilja said, closing her eyes. ‘It’s going to be a long night.’
The ground was spongy beneath my feet, the floor sticking to my shoes. Water must have worked its way in and swollen the boards. I should have come back, I thought. I should have come back after Imbi and Aime’s bodies were taken away but I had been too afraid. The house had stayed empty. Even the Russian settlers did not want it. It was haunted, they said, and nobody had disagreed. I remembered the NKVD agent’s face as he explained how Oskar must have murdered them and taken off. His skin had not even flushed. He had not stammered. Every word had been delivered perfectly smoothly, every lie told with not a trace of guilt or shame. I’d found myself wondering if he was the one who had shot them, or if he had merely been covering for his colleagues. I was thankful for Papa’s hand on my arm. If they had seen my rage and my hatred, they would have killed me, too.
I found a spot on the wall opposite Hilja that felt dry and settled myself, pulling my knapsack into my lap.
The house creaked and groaned around us. Mice moved in the walls, rustling against the sawdust and timber.
‘How do you know him?’
Hilja’s voice startled me.
‘Oskar.’ She opened her eyes, pinning me against the wall with her gaze.
‘We’re old friends.’
‘Lovers, you mean. I saw you together.’
I felt myself prickling. ‘That’s not your business.’
Hilja lifted a shoulder. ‘Maybe not. But Oskar doesn’t need distractions right now.’
Her words sent a trickle of unease down my spine. ‘I’m sure Oskar can decide what he needs for himself.’
Hilja pushed herself further up the wall, arching her back. ‘He’s important. Perhaps you didn’t realise. He has a special role to play in the Forest Brothers. Without him, the Germans wouldn’t take us seriously. He’s brought everyone together. When I first met him, he was scared. A boy. Then he killed his first Soviet soldier in a raid on a collective farm up near Rapla. This soldier had been raping workers on the farm, taking whatever, whoever he wanted.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘You should have seen Oskar. He was terrifying. Crept up on him when he was eating supper and shot him point blank. Blood and brains all over the walls, along with the mashed potatoes.’
She paused and her dark eyes bore into mine, unblinking. I glanced away, trying to banish the sudden image of Oskar holding a pistol, blood spattered over his face and hands. Those same hands which had stroked my cheek and held me close not an hour ago. Those same hands I had dreamed about holding this last year. They were the hands of a killer now. How could Oskar not be changed by what he had done? What he had been forced to do?
The room seemed colder, sour damp rising through the floorboards. I caught the quick flash of triumph in Hilja’s fleeting smile. ‘They tell stories about him,’ she said. ‘The others. Sometimes they call him Kalev.’
I shivered, remembering the stories my grandmother had told me about Kalevipoeg, the guardian of the underworld. In Estonian mythology, he was a great fighter, renowned for his resourceful use of weapons to defeat his enemies. In the most ancient versions he was a giant, a titan with the ability to slay men and beasts. With a sharp jolt, I remembered, too, how he had met his fate: bleeding to death at the hilt of his own sword after giving the wrong directives to his followers. Even demi-gods could make mistakes.
Hilja’s face sobered. ‘So you see, he is needed to keep everything turning. Oskar’s mind needs to be sharp. I simply think it would be unwise for you to expect—’
I cut across her, my temper flaring. ‘I expect nothing.’
The light from the candle shuddered. A puddle of wax was already slipping down the side of it, bleeding onto the floor.
I took a deep breath. ‘We are friends, Hilja. That’s all. I told you. Nothing more. There was never any time… and…’ I shook my head, unable to find the words. A moth sailed suddenly past my face. Its wings whirred in my ears. I watched it soar on a current of air towards the flame of the candle, attracted to the glow. ‘When we knew each other before, things were different. We were different. Children, I suppose. The past year has changed everyone. It would be foolish to pretend that things could go back to the way they were. It would be like asking the moon to shine during the day. Impossible.’