I opened my bag and drew out Mamochka’s shawl. I spread it over my lap. My fingers found the edges and I began to unpick the lace. The yarn was thin as a cobweb. It came apart in my hands. I gathered the threads up and put them in the bag as I unravelled it and the longest length of yarn came loose. When enough of it was unpicked, I dug out the needles.
Kati had made it look easy. I’d watched her, trying to be invisible at the back of the group of women, trying my best to conceal my Russian accent although I knew they were curious. Make a loop stitch. Thread the yarn.
I tried it myself. The yarn slipped from the needle. It would not catch.
I tried again. When the yarn hooked, I almost cried out with triumph. But now what? I put the needles together, crossing them as I used to do with the shining cutlery we used in the apartment. No cutlery here. Fingers and mouths. I had seen Kati earlier helping Etti, reminding her how to slide one stitch onto the other needle, while holding the yarn tight with her little finger to ensure the tension didn’t slacken.
I slipped the stitch carefully onto the other needle. My heart filled with pride. I could do this myself. I could remake Mama’s shawl. I did not need anyone to help me. If I could do this, I could survive alone. The next stitch slid perfectly onto the needle, a smooth little circle. I smiled. The leaves swayed overhead. Insects hummed in the bushes. I levered the needles together, keeping the yarn wrapped around my pinkie finger, making the small movement needed to create the next stitch. But the yarn soon slipped loose from my finger. I tried to catch it and as I did, the needles pulled too far apart. The stitches slipped off, returning to their original shape. The yarn grew flimsy. All my work was undone.
Frustration clawed at me. I gripped the needles until my fingers ached. My second and third attempts failed, although I got further. My fourth unspooled before I had even made the second stitch.
A sob was building in my chest. Afternoon shadows were slipping through the trees. Soon it would be night time. I wound the yarn around the needles, trying not to look at the damage I had made to my mother’s shawl, unpicking the edge of it to try my hand. I shoved it with the needles back into the bag and sat back against the stone. The day’s heat still lingered in it. After a little while, I dozed, dreaming of Mamochka with her hands full of wool, dreaming I was not utterly alone in the world.
Angel Pattern
Kati
I moved mechanically through my tasks that evening, throwing myself into the preparation of dinner for the civilians and Hilja, stirring together a batter of flour and chicken’s eggs, spreading it over the griddle to make thin wheat cakes. With a little honey spread over them, they were palatable enough, but tonight of all nights I could not stomach them. After chewing the same piece for what seemed like forever, I managed to choke down a mouthful, then passed the remainder of my portion to little Hanna, a quiet five-year-old who often sat near me during meal times, her big eyes fixed on me.
Her eyes widened now as I forked the extra cake onto her plate. The look she gave me, joy mingled with adoration, chipped away a little of my guilt and gave me the strength to endure Hilja’s resentful stares.
It returned though when I went to visit Etti after cleaning the plates, and found her dozing with Leelo beside her, tucked into a nest of pillows. Lydia was nowhere to be seen. The pallet she usually occupied was empty.
I remembered with a sudden pang that I had promised to show her how to knit once my cooking duties were completed.
The curtain of the hutch flapped in the breeze, ushering in the scent of fried wheat cakes. The sky was visible in the narrow gap between curtain and wall, the blue deepening to a cool purple hue. Stars were already flickering to life and birds cawed and wheeled towards their forest homes.
Uneasily, I lay down beside Etti, who whimpered softly in her sleep. I laid my hand on her chest and her brow cleared.
I will ask her, I thought drowsily, as my own breathing settled into a rhythm with Etti’s, the warmth of the hut stealing over me. I’ll ask her when she returns. We can start with pasqueflower; Viktoria mastered that quickly.
I touched Oskar’s glove beneath my pillow made from pine-needles, aware of the comfort of the wool beneath my thumb. As my muscles relaxed I saw lace patterns drift before my eyes; peacock tails, lilies of the valley. A delicate wolf paw, repeated over and over, like a story retold a hundred times.
The sound of distant screams woke me.
Heart thumping, I sat up. My arm slipped off Etti’s chest.
Gunfire rattled. Something boomed in the distance. The ground shook. The thin boards of the shelter creaked around us.
‘Kati!’ Etti’s hand found mine in the dark.
Another boom. Light glowed orange beyond the curtain.
‘Get Leelo.’ Etti obeyed, scooping the infant up and thrusting a blanket hastily around her small body.
‘Come on.’ Seizing Etti’s arm, I elbowed the curtain apart and dragged her roughly outside.
The night was on fire.
Trees burned, their limbs dancing with ruby flames. Smoke billowed in the air and drifted across the ground in big coils, the stench scorching my nostrils and blocking my throat.
The screams started again, louder now, followed by a volley of piercing gunshots.
Through the coils of smoke, I saw Hilja running from shelter to shelter, yelling. People emerged, some in nightclothes. Many of them seemed bewildered, looking around as if they had woken up in some nightmare landscape.
Somebody stumbled past us, a dark shadow silhouetted against the burning glow.
Gunshots peppered the ground.
Etti cried out.
The figure pitched forward, face first into the earth, and did not move.
Holding Etti’s hand tightly, I dragged her towards the back of the camp, past the grove where we had sat only hours before. I tried to see it clearly in my mind; to visualise the rocks that provided an exit to the camp. All we had to do was slip between them.
I imagined the feel of the rock sliding past my body, even as I heard voices shouting behind me, raised in terror. The rock formation loomed up ahead, between the thickly wooded trees. The trees here were not yet burning, but their leaves trembled, as if they feared the oncoming storm.
Suddenly a great whoosh of air reverberated behind us. I looked back to see that the shelters had caught. Some were already blazing, the thin frames as spindly as matchsticks. Figures ran past them, alight, their desperate cries for help making my stomach heave.
A spray of bullets cut across the clearing.
People fell, limbs flung wide. One small body was tossed upwards like a doll, imprisoned against the light. Then it thudded down, peppered by gunfire.
The trees that were alight creaked and groaned beneath the weight of their heavy boughs.
Leelo’s wailing snapped me back.
I turned away from the chaos. My hands found the rock ledge. I pushed Etti through it, protecting Leelo’s head with my hand before slipping through myself.
Beyond the camp, the air was clearer. We gulped it in, sinking to our knees.
An explosion shook the ground, and the roar reached us seconds later. Knocked flat, I tasted bitterness. Blood. I spat on the ground.
Leelo’s squalling cries reached me and Etti’s scream of terror. Coughing and gagging, I dragged myself to my knees, squinting against the darkness.
‘Etti?’ My cousin was curled in the leaf litter, holding Leelo to her chest. She was breathing, but in shallow gasps. I could see the whites of her eyes.