It was not the charge of murder that overwhelmed her; of this she knew she was guilty — she had seen no other way— and would pay the ultimate price. What had struck her with the most force was the indifference of her jailers. She had feared they would beat her, and they had not. At first she thought this was because she had no information to give, that they assumed she knew no saboteurs in Tallinn — which was true — but it quickly became evident to her that she did not matter to them because she was a mere thing, one of the countless thousands of Balts they had processed through these cells over the years. They had photographed her, given her a number, checked her file for previous crimes against the state — there were none; indeed, she had an honorable discharge from the Baltic Fleet’s signal school — then locked her up and left her to herself. She had found this bad enough, but what was worse was the mundane but dreadful formality of having to surrender her stockings, her bra, the belt of her coat, the laces from her low-heeled shoes, and her glasses. Having not said a word so far, she now asked them why this petty humiliation was necessary.
“To stop you,” answered one of the guards, his voice one of tired boredom, “from trying to kill yourself.”
Do you care? she had wanted to ask, but the cell gave her the answer. It was merely a rule they were enforcing, like that of having to use the bucket in one corner of the cell. To move it was punishable by solitary confinement. They issued her prison garb: a coarse black-and-gray-striped woolen dress, supposed to fit all sizes and which, without a belt, made everyone look pregnant. How, she wondered, did the men’s prison “pajamas” stay up? surely they were not fitted with a belt. She remembered seeing trials on TV of those charged with crimes against the state, the prisoners required to stand before the prosecutor, allowed only one hand with which to clutch the waist. Sometimes one of the more frail prisoners, who could not keep his balance, would falter, and the pajamas would drop — the packed courtroom erupting in laughter — the three judges warning the gallery they would not tolerate such outbursts.
After she had been so suddenly taken from the world above to the world of the cells, the effect of her first few hours, an old man, a “psychiatric criminal” in the next cell, telling her what he would do with her, was devastating. She was terrified, not of what she had done but of how quickly her self-confidence had been shattered by the most banal loss of dignity.
Malle had always believed she was made of sterner stuff, but now, with the suddenness of revelation, she understood how so many confessions had been obtained by the secret police. Most of the public, she thought, felt as she did: that apart from admissions of guilt extracted under duress, most other confessions, especially those given in the first twelve hours, when the ink was barely dry on the charge sheet, were true. Now she understood how, in those first hours, the psychological collapse could be total. You were ready to confess to anything — just to get your shoelaces back.
During the night she had been unable to sleep, the terror of her impending death mounting in her, the madman in the cell quiet. Asleep or dead, she did not know. She called to him and there was no answer. She listened vainly for the sound of breathing, but there was none, or if there was, it was muffled by the hollow clanking of the pipes. In that moment the certainty of the firing squad made her so weak that she longed only for its finality — the end of her suffering— and, sobbing, she clung to the bars.
“You!” She thought it was a new guard she hadn’t seen before, but without her glasses, she was unsure. She could hear the crunching of boots on the cobbled courtyard above her and the click of the rifles’ bolts.
“Come on!” the guard hurried her. Instinctively she looked about for her glasses, then remembered they had been taken. Walking in front of him, she heard the crash of the volley, the clicking of rifles, and the crunch of the boots again. Barely able to stand, clinging to the banister as she was ordered to the second floor, her mind numb with fear and unable to see the edge of the steps clearly because of her shortsightedness, she was nevertheless vaguely aware of the guard changing his deportment, and brushing what appeared to be dandruff off the shoulder boards of his baggy uniform.
Inside the room, she squinted in the brightness of the northern sun that was streaming in, its beams of light giving the room’s sparse but elegant furniture a surreal look. But there was nothing surreal or imaginary about the Russian officer, his back to her — an admiral, from his splendid uniform. He turned as the guard slid the chair behind her, told her to sit down, clicked his heels, and left the room, the echoes of his footsteps hollow and hard. She sat down.
“Why?” asked the admiral, looking out the window, standing behind his wide, baize-covered desk, a ray of sunlight slicing the air between them, dust particles dancing crazily within. “Why did you kill the corporal?”
“He did unspeakable things to me.”
“He raped you?”
“Yes.”
“How many times did this occur?”
“Does it matter?” She marveled at her defiant tone.
“Why did you not come to the authorities?”
“He was the authorities,” she said. It was as if her inner voice, against all odds, demanded to be heard. “He came to my city. Like you all come and do what you want.”
“You knew no saboteurs? He was investigating—”
“None.”
“Your son, daughter-in-law. Were they saboteurs?”
She wanted to say no, but instead she said, “Perhaps. I don’t know. They went to work one morning and never came back. Shot along with all your other hostages, I expect.”
It was several seconds before the admiral spoke again. “You have a grandson?”
She said nothing — sensing danger.
“He was caught last night,” said the admiral. “Trying to storm the jail. It was very silly.”
She started forward in her seat. “What have you—”
“We have taken him to school, where he belongs.” He turned and glanced down at a file. “Mustamäe complex. Is this where you live?”
She nodded, afraid to say another word.
The admiral sat down, took out a pen, signed a paper, and tapped the small bell by the blotter. The admiral’s aide entered, the admiral handing him the file. “Return the prisoner’s personal effects.”
“Yes, Admiral.” The aide, a major, his features indistinct until he came closer, smiled down at Malle. “Follow me, please.”
As he led her down the curving stone stairwell, he glanced back at Malle. “You’re a lucky woman.”
She dared not think of it. She dared hardly breathe, but her heart was beating so hard at the prospect of freedom, she thought it would burst through her chest.
At the front desk, the major handed her a pen. “Go on,” he said. “Don’t be afraid. It’s a release form. Confirming that you have received all your personal effects.”
The clerk pushed a Hessian bag with a cardboard label, her name scribbled on it, across the counter. Inside were her “travel in Tallinn only” permit card, shoelaces, clothes, and glasses. She looked up at the aide, still not daring to hope.