Sofi Oksanen - Purge

One evening Martin came home smelling of alcohol and started to wash the walls, stopping now and then to smoke a Priima and then going back to cleaning. On the radio they were ranting about the outlay of Socialist labor, who had exceeded the norms and where. Aliide was making juice from Kosmo currant jelly-squeezing the jelly into the pot from a tube and adding boiling water and citric acid. The water turned red, and Aliide gave the half-empty tube to the little girl, who sucked the jelly straight out of it.

“They’re coming back.”

Aliide knew immediately who he was talking about. “You’re not serious.”

But he was.

“They’ve started rehabilitating them.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means Moscow’s going to let them come back. They’re talking about it in Tallinn.”

Aliide was about to blurt out that Nikita was crazy in his head, but she kept quiet, because she didn’t know yet what Martin thought of him, except that he looked like a workingman. Aliide thought he looked like a pig and his wife looked like a pig herder. Many people shared Aliide’s opinion, although she never expressed it out loud. But letting them come back? Just when life was beginning to settle into a routine, Nikita thought up the craziest possible idea. What was he thinking? Where did he imagine they would put them all?

“They can’t come back here. Do something.” “What?”

“I don’t know! Make it so they don’t come back here! So they don’t come back to Estonia at all. They can’t come back here!”

“Calm down! They’ve all signed article two-zero-six of the vow of silence.”

“What does that mean?”

“That they can’t talk about anything connected to their case. And I imagine they’ll have to sign another one to be let go. About their time in the camps.”

“So they can’t talk about these things at all?”

“Not unless they want to go straight back where they came from.”

The tense voice made Talvi cry. Martin picked her up in his arms and started to shush her. Aliide fumbled in the cupboard for the bottle of valerian. The floor felt soft.

“I’ll take care of it,” Martin said.

Aliide believed her husband, because he had always kept his word. And he kept his word this time, too.

They didn’t come back.

They stayed where they were.

Not that they would have been let back in this house. Nowhere near it. But no matter where they were in Estonia, Aliide wouldn’t have been able to…

She wanted to sleep through the night in peace. She wanted to go out after dark and ride her bicycle in the moonlight, walk across the fields after sunset, and get up in the morning without worrying about her and Talvi being burned alive in the house. She wanted to get water from the well and see the kolkhoz bus bringing Talvi home from school, and she wanted Talvi to be safe even when she wasn’t watching over her. She wanted to live her life without ever encountering them. Was that too much to ask? Surely she could have that, if only for her daughter’s sake?

When those who had been at the camps came back and settled into their new lives, she could pick them out from among the other people. She recognized their dark gaze, every one the same, young and old alike. She made way for them on the street, from a long way off, and she felt fear before she made way. Fear before she turned her head. Fear before she even had time to realize her recognition of the smell of the camps, the thought of the camps in their eyes. That thought of the camps was always there in their look.

Any one of them could have been Ingel. Or Linda. The thought made her chest tighten. Linda would be so big now that Aliide wouldn’t necessarily recognize her. And any one of them could have been someone who had been in the same camp with Ingel, someone from the same barracks, someone Ingel may have talked to, someone she could have told about her sister. Maybe Ingel had photos with her-Aliide couldn’t be sure. Maybe Ingel had shown photos of her sister to someone, and now that person was coming toward Aliide on the street, and maybe they would recognize her. Maybe they would know something about Aliide Truu’s evil deeds, because the story went around the camp. Maybe they would follow her and burn down her house that night. Or maybe they would just throw a rock at the back of her head on her way home. Maybe they would make it so she fell down on the road as she went across the fields. These things happen. Strange accidents, people run over without warning. Martin had said that they hadn’t been able to look at the newspapers in the camps-they didn’t know anything about anything-but every barracks had walls. And where there are walls, there are ears.

The ones who came back from the camps never complained; they never disagreed and never grumbled. It was unbearable. Aliide had a powerful urge to tear the furrows from their brows, the creases from their cheeks, to wad them up and throw them back. Back onto the train that crossed the border at Narva.

Martin got angry with Talvi only once during her childhood. She had come running home a couple of weeks before the new year. Aliide was home alone, so Talvi had to make do with her answer to a question-she didn’t have the patience to wait until her father came home.

“Mother! Mother, what’s Christmas?”

Aliide calmly continued stirring the gravy. “You’ll have to ask your father, sweetheart.” Talvi went into the foyer to wait for him, sat and leaned against the timber wall, kicking at the threshold.

When Martin came home, he flew into a rage. Not because of Christmas-no doubt he would have had a ready explanation for that. But he managed to get angry before the subject of Christmas came up, because the first thing Talvi wanted to know was what was the Liberation War that she read about in a book.

“What book?”

“This one.”

She handed it to him.

“Where did you get this?”

“Auntie gave it to me.”

“What auntie? Aliide!”

“I don’t know anything about it,” Aliide yelled from the kitchen.

“Well, Talvi?”

“Milvi’s mother. I was playing at their house.” Martin went out immediately. He didn’t even take his coat. He took Talvi with him to show him where Milvi lived.

Talvi ran home first, crying. Later that evening she came clumping up to her father’s side to make amends. Cigarette smoke wafted into the kitchen, and soon Talvi’s giggle could be heard. Aliide sat down beside the cooling potatoes. The chicken casserole was ready, and the gravy for dinner sat on the table turning to gel, a film forming on its surface, losing its shine. Martin’s socks waited on the chair to be darned; under the chair was a basket of wool waiting to be carded. Tomorrow at school, Talvi would tease the children whose families celebrated Christmas, that was certain. Tomorrow evening she would tell her father how she had thrown a snowball at the Priks boy and asked another boy something her father may at that very moment have been telling her to ask a child of such a family: “Has Jesus shown himself yet? Does your mom have the hots for him?” And her father would praise her, and she would chortle with pride and sulk at Aliide, because she would sense that Aliide’s praise lacked something, as it always did. It always lacked sincerity. Her daughter would be raised on Martin’s praise, on the stories Martin told, stories that never had anything Estonian in them. She would be raised on stories with nothing true in them. Aliide could never tell Talvi her own family’s stories, the stories she had learned from her granny, the ones she heard as she fell asleep on Christmas Eve. She couldn’t tell her any of the stories that she was raised on, she and her mother and grandmother and great-grandmother. She didn’t care to tell her own story, but the other stories, the ones she grew up with. What kind of person would a child become if she had no stories in common with her mother, no yarns, no jokes? How could you be a mother if there was no one to ask advice from, to ask what to do in a situation like this?