Lauren Chater - Lace Weaver

‘Uncle.’ He turned slowly towards me, his eyebrows lifted in surprise, as if he did not expect to see me standing in my own apartment. Perhaps he had thought I would run, leaving Joachim to his fate. Well, he was wrong. Still, I hesitated, my sandals touching the edge of the intricately patterned Turkish rug in the middle of the room.

I knew I should lower my eyes – everybody did so in his presence – but some part of me, some reckless part, made me hold his gaze. His eyebrows drew together, his bottom lip pushing out like a child’s. Then he began to laugh. The sound bounced off the walls, filling the room all the way to the high ceiling.

His body shook with laughter, his stomach wobbling beneath the grey fabric strained across it. I stood straight-spined, waiting for him to finish, uncertain what to do. Wiping tears from his eyes, he strode across the rug and embraced me. He had to raise up slightly on his heels to plant a kiss on my cheek. Although I had not inherited my mother’s creamy skin and pale hair, I had been blessed, or cursed, with her height.

‘Little Lyolka,’ he said, using the pet name he had invented for me as a child. His eyes shone. They were crinkled at the edges, his face more lined than I remembered from six months ago. ‘You are almost the image of your mother, do you know? Except for her hair. Your freckles, your nose… Everything. Even down to that look , the one she used to give me when I had kept your Papa working too late. I would bring him back here the next day – perhaps carried is a better word – and she would be standing here, just as you are, glaring at me, that same rebelliousness, those eyes…’

He leaned forward, his breath in my face, smelling of wine and meat. His fingernails dug into my arms, sharp pincers in my skin. I whimpered. I wanted to pull away, but I was caught, ensnared.

Without warning, he released me. I stumbled back, my heel catching on the edge of the rug. My ankle twisted one way, my foot another. The room spun as I crashed backwards, landing heavily on my backside, the wind knocked from my lungs.

My uncle looked away, his mouth a moue of distaste. He didn’t offer to help me to my feet. I had to roll onto my knees and push myself up.

‘You have been busy, I understand,’ he said, his tone sharp. ‘You have a boyfriend.’

I shook my head. My mouth tasted of iron; I had bitten my cheek when I fell. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Just a friend.’

My uncle snorted. ‘A friend,’ he mimicked. Sweat had broken out across his skin. Reaching into his pocket, he drew out a handkerchief, dabbing at his hairline. ‘Your mother had lots of friends. Did you know? She was most popular. One of my favourites. If she had not married your father, I might have asked her myself.’

‘Joachim,’ I said, pushing away the revulsion I felt at the possibility of my mother entertaining my uncle’s advances. ‘Please, Uncle. Is there nothing you can do for him? He has done nothing wrong. It was me. I was lonely. You know how I have tried to lead a quiet life, always observing your teachings, listening to those wiser than myself. I’m an adult now but I still make mistakes. I should have written to you first, asked permission. I…’ I swallowed. ‘I am begging you. Please, help him.’

His hand shot up so quickly I failed to see it, but I felt heat blossom in my cheek. He raised his hand again. This time I heard the smack of his palm against my skin as if it came from far away.

‘Help him? Help him?’ he screamed as my vision swam. ‘Your boyfriend is a Western spy! The Germans are threatening war and all you care about is fucking ?’

The apartment was silent except for my breath, ragged and shallow. Tears forced themselves from my eyes and dropped onto the rug below, dotting the floral patterns.

My uncle watched me, his lip curled in disgust. His breathing had returned to normal. The only evidence that the exchange had cost him anything was the colour of his face, the skin mottled red.

‘Your boyfriend will be tried today,’ he said. ‘If he is found guilty of his crimes, Colonel Rumyanstev will have him sent to a labour camp up north.’ He smiled. Goading me. Waiting for me to beg again.

I turned away. I should argue, protest. Inside, I was screaming. But I knew it was too late to save Joachim. Nothing I said would make any difference now.

I felt the air stir against my scorched cheek as he huffed through his nose and strode past me. The guards moved away from the walls, their boots squeaking against the polished wood floors.

My knees trembled. Any moment, they would give way.

Beyond the window, the river moved slowly, the currents eddying past, leaves dancing on the surface. Sunlight sparkled on the Bolshoy Bridge, a dazzling steel construction erected only three years ago by one of Uncle’s favourite engineers. Although everyone had marvelled at its modern elements, I privately preferred the old stone bridge it had replaced. What have those stones witnessed , Olga would say to me as we strode along beside the horses with their carts that were always backed up across the embankments, their wheels interlocked when they tried to pass each other. What stories of old Russia would those mossy stones tell?

‘Lydia.’ I turned my head. My uncle had paused in the entrance to the hallway, flanked by his guards. ‘Your mother. You should know: she killed herself.’ His voice soared, an arrow shooting across the room. I felt the shaft of it burrow under my skin. He shook his head. ‘I am very sorry to be the one to tell you. She poisoned herself.’ He drew in a breath. He did not sound sorry. ‘But… you are an adult now, as you say. It’s time you knew.’

I stared at him.

It could not be true.

Whispers flew around in my head. Snatches of servants’ gossip. The world around me grew light and then dark, the furniture shrinking then swelling as if seen through a telescope. I remembered my mother’s corpse, her face surrounded by white roses. Her skin was unblemished, creamy and waxen beneath the light from the candles. I bent forward to kiss her farewell, her cheek soft beneath my lips, my nose filling with bitter almonds. Later, I had supposed I imagined it.

A sob escaped my mouth.

Satisfied at last, he left, his footsteps dying away, until I heard the door of the apartment close with a bang.

‘Don’t cry now, dear one. Think of Brave Vasilisa, the little cloth-maker’s girl who defeated the witch and defied the odds to marry the Tsar.’

Olga’s words floated down to me like feathers skating on the wind. I was lying on my stomach on the bed, my head in her lap, her fingers raking my hair. It was night time – I knew because the lamp on the table was lit – but I did not know the hour. It did not matter.

Night or day, Joachim was imprisoned. Tomorrow, he might be thrown onto a train, bound for a labour camp in the North. I would never see him again.

My mother was dead and those who knew the truth of her final moments had lied to me. My uncle was a tyrant. My face burned where he had struck me.

Olga’s fingers paused. I felt gentle tugging as she pulled apart a knot, untangling my hair with practiced ease. A dozen toys watched us from the shelves lining my room, reminders of the childhood I seemed unable to leave behind. Stuffed bears whose arms had once held chocolate boxes from the Lenin Chocolate Factory. A yellow puppy, watching me with mournful eyes, its fabric skin threadbare, stitches loosened from repeated embrace. My red Pioneers scarf was looped about its neck, along with my badge on which the cheerful words ‘always ready!’ were emblazoned. Beside the toys sat trophies from my school days: awards for gymnastics, for singing, for writing letters to ‘our Father, our leader, the great Chieftain’ who would unite the Soviet countries to the same cause. On the wall near my picture of Lenin was a childish sketch I had done of Papa, what I could remember of him, and a large framed photograph of my Uncle Stalin, his face wreathed in a gentle, beatific smile. It was the same one issued to each student of Model School No. 25 at the graduation ceremony. The glass sparkled brightly in its wooden frame. Our maid cleaned it every day, polishing it to keep off the dust and coming in each afternoon to draw the shades so the sun would not fade the colour print.