When they got back to their lodgings, Hietanen realized that he actually had very little bread left, so he decided to go ask Mäkilä for the next day’s rations in advance. A spat between Rahikainen and Mäkilä was underway in the storeroom when he got there, as Mäkilä had accused Rahikainen of snitching sugar from his supply.
‘Aw, please, Pops. I couldn’t care less about your storeroom. I got bigger bags to dip into round here if I want.’
‘Chuh… well, that’s no secret.’
‘Hey, listen,’ Hietanen broke in. ‘Gimme my rations for tomorrow, wouldja? I need ’em.’
‘It is not distribution time right now. And besides, there’s too much bread floating around this city.’
‘Look, I’m just asking for my own rations.’
Mäkilä forked them over, mumbling about bread and women so pointedly that Rahikainen thought it a splendid opportunity to take matters into his own hands. ‘’Fit’s makin’ ya jealous, Pops, I can help you out. I’ve got just the girl. Only speaks Russian, but you don’t need much language for that. And knockers like you’ve never seen.’
Mäkilä didn’t respond. He just cleared his throat and retreated into his storage cupboard looking mortally offended. But Rahikainen hurried after Hietanen, asking ‘What kind ya got?’
Hietanen smiled mysteriously and whispered, ‘By God, there’s not another girl like her! Used to be some kind of big cheese in these parts. Part of the Young Communists’ League, or something like that.’
‘Naw… I got one just like that too. But it’s true, what I was telling Mäkilä. If you’re ever in need, or you know somebody who is, I’m happy to take care of it. Not askin’ much in return, either. She’s a little roly-poly maybe, but whew! those knockers. Like two little piggies with their backsides in the air.’
‘Holy… well, look, I’m good. See ya!’ Hietanen shot off and Rahikainen started dreaming up other schemes.
As Rokka, Vanhala and Hietanen were approaching the girls’ building, Tanya and Alexei ran out to meet them, shouting, ‘Heroo!! Heroo!!’
That was their convoluted rendition of Hietanen’s first name, ‘Urho’, and it never failed to crack him up. Alexei was eight and Tanya was six. Their father had been killed right at the start of the war, making them war orphans. They never asked for anything, they just watched Hietanen closely, waiting for him to reach into his bread bag. Hietanen would purposely dawdle awhile, keeping the children dangling in suspense. Not until they reached the courtyard did he pull out the bread and give it to them. They both thanked him in Finnish, though neither of them actually understood a word of the language. They clasped the bread to their chests, as their mother had instructed them to bring home anything anybody gave them. Hietanen glanced at them and yelled, ‘Alexei! Down with the Russkis!’
‘Down viz da Russkii!’ Alexei shouted, laughing, without a clue what he was saying.
There was a third child in the courtyard as well. He was a boy of maybe six or so, wearing a grown man’s shirt and trousers, the legs of which had been rolled up so they wouldn’t drag on the ground. On his head he had one of those pointed, so-called ‘Budenovka’ caps of the Red Army. The boy watched the men closely and silently retreated further away the closer they came.
‘Alexei and Tanya!’ Hietanen called to the children, who were on their way up the stairs. They stopped and Hietanen gestured them to come back. ‘Give him some of the bread. I’ll be sure to bring more next time.’
The children didn’t really understand what he was saying, but they gathered he was talking about the boy and said, ‘Grisha’.
‘C’mere, Chris-ka!’ Hietanen called, but the boy just looked at him, hesitating. Only when Hietanen pulled out the bread did the boy cautiously start toward him. As soon as Hietanen placed the piece of bread in his hand, the boy spun around and bolted off as if he were running for dear life. Hietanen gave a hearty laugh. ‘Wouldja look at that little one go!’
Then they headed toward the girls’ quarters. Hietanen had happened upon them right away that first morning they were in the city. He had stepped in to check the building, his gun poised under his arm, and had suddenly gone red with embarrassment on realizing that he was staring into a pair of beautiful eyes belonging to a girl staring down the barrel of his gun.
The girl was Vera, an Eastern Karelian schoolteacher. After the city had fallen, she’d taken in two of her friends to live with her. Right from the start Hietanen felt some sort of bashful subservience in Vera’s company. He didn’t dare visit her alone, but always brought Rokka and Vanhala along for moral support. And no wonder. Vera was the kind of girl who would have made just about any man a bit uncertain of himself. First of all, she was exceptionally beautiful, and on top of that she had a calm, proud way about her. Her sharp features were expressive, but strong and stately at the same time. She looked upon the occupiers kindly, but from a decidedly elevated vantage point – perhaps because she was a committed communist, but above all because she was aware of her spiritual superiority over the three of them. But she frequently chatted animatedly with them, and she loved to dance. Little by little, Hietanen had become her favorite, as well as that of her housemates. They knew Hietanen brought bread for the children in the building, and they demonstrated their appreciation for this in their own spontaneous way.
The girls were making tea. Vanhala had a few dirty sugar cubes that had been rolling around in his pockets for quite some time, which he now fished out and offered to the girls. The humble offering was accepted – seeing as when the Russians pulled out, the girls had been left with next to nothing. It hadn’t occurred to them to stock up on anything in advance, so they were out of just about everything within a day or two.
Vera was practically silent. She sat staring into a corner of the room, and Hietanen gazed at her profile, whose even regularity was so beautiful it downright frightened him. He had never seen girls like her before, save a passing glance as some fancy car sped by his milk route back home.
‘What’ssa matter, Veerukka?’ asked Rokka, who was not fond of reflective types. ‘C’mon, why don’t you start dancin’? That’ll send your worries whirlin’ away.’
‘Be quiet! She misses her fiancé,’ Hietanen said, blushing.
‘Verotshka doesn’t have a fiancé,’ Nina, the other Karelian girl, said.
Vera smiled, but her face fell quickly and she said, ‘Why did you come? Why couldn’t you just leave us alone?’
‘Now lissen, Vera, don’t you start in on’nat,’ said Rokka. ‘You’re the ones started the damn thing. Took m’farm! You think we’ve wrecked things here, you oughdda go see what kinda state Kannas is in! We wouldn’t be here if you all’d just left us alone.’
‘Ah, listen… who came… Hitler came… But he will be made to pay.’ Vera spoke boldly, particularly once she realized that it didn’t set off these men’s tempers. She never fawned over them, nor did she soften any of her positions, or demonstrate the least deference toward them.
Hietanen was somehow ill at ease. It seemed rather awkward to oppose Vera, even if he knew that she was a communist, and thus the victim of propaganda. He tried to steer a middle road, granting that Hitler was an aggressor, but pointing out that in the Finnish situation, things had been different.
‘Then why did you point your riffle at me?’ Vera asked, smiling.
Vera’s ‘riffle’ made them all laugh, because although she spoke near perfect Finnish, being a schoolteacher, she didn’t quite know how to pronounce all the Finnish terms properly.