Sofi Oksanen - Purge

I’m reading through Ingel’s letters again. I miss my girls. I feel a bit of relief knowing that things are going so well for them way out there. They’ve sent tons of letters. The last time people were sent to Siberia, they only sent one or two letters a year, and the news wasn’t good.

I should be cutting some wood for barrels. Now would be the right time to do it-the moon will start waxing soon and then it’ll be too late. When am I going to get the barrels made for the new house? When can I sing again? My throat will forget how to do it before long.

I can feel the full moon, and I can’t sleep. I should tell Liide it’s a good time to cut firewood. Wood cut on the full moon dries well. But that husband she’s got doesn’t understand these things-he doesn’t know any more about farmwork than Liide does about handwork. There was a hole in one of the socks Ingel made for me, and Liide stitched it up. Now it’s completely unwearable.

If only I had some of Ingel’s dewberry juice. Truman should have come by now. I feel like kicking the wall, but I can’t.

Hans Pekk, son of Eerik, Estonian peasant

The onions in the pot had softened enough-Aliide added sugar, salt, and vinegar. The horseradish made both Aliide’s and Zara’s eyes water, and Aliide opened the window to let the breeze in. Zara decided to ask a direct question. Maybe it would be best to start with Martin, not ask about Grandmother yet. Before she had time to think about it, the sound of a car approaching made both women jump.

“Are you expecting guests?”

“No. It’s a black car.”

“Oh my God, they’re here.”

Aliide slammed the front door closed and locked it. Then she hurried to latch the pantry and pull the curtains closed. “They’ll leave when they see that no one’s here.” “No, they won’t.”

“Of course they will. Why would they sit around in the yard if they can see that no one’s home? No one saw you come here. Or did they?”

“No.”

“Well, then. You just stay inside until tomorrow. In case they hang around the village. There’s no place to hang around anyway, in a half-deserted village.”

Zara shook her head vehemently. The men would know for sure that she was here if they saw that the house was empty. They would imagine she was hiding out here, they would break in and go through the whole house, and find…

“They’ll hurt you!”

“Calm down, Zara. Calm down. Now do as I tell you.” Considering her frailty, Aliide looked resolute, younger and older at the same time. Her gait as she walked to the cupboard was ordinary, her hand grasped the corner of the cabinet with practiced familiarity. “Come and help me.”

They dragged the cupboard away from the wall and Aliide tugged open a door.

Aliide thrust the hesitating girl into the little room and then put her hand to her chest. It was thumping. She couldn’t manage to make herself drink a whole mug of water, but she drank a little, wiped her face with a tissue, and tied a scarf over her head. Her hair had got so wet with sweat that it might have been suspicious if she left it uncovered-the men might think she was sweating from fear-if those were the men that were after Zara, that is. What if it was the boys who threw stones and sang songs outside her window in the car out there? What if they had decided to make one last trip to Aliide’s house and finish her off? She could hear the car approaching cautiously-the driver must have noticed the holes in the road.

In the little room, Zara stretched her arms out straight- her fingers touched the wall on either side. A smell of earth. Damp earth. Damp walls. Musty, low-oxygen air, mixed with mold and rust. Here she was. If they did something to Aliide, she might never get out. Would she shout then, here I am? No, she wouldn’t shout. She would remain here, and she’d never be able to tell Grandmother what it was like here now. Why did the time have to be cut so short? She should have been harder, a little more like Pasha. Pasha would get Aliide to say whatever he wanted. He would hit her, and she’d sing. Maybe Zara should have used those kinds of tricks, maybe then she would have found out why Aliide was so angry at Grandmother and why Zara’s mother claimed she didn’t have an aunt. If Aliide had been a little less kind, if she hadn’t poured her a cup of coffee from the percolator or made a bath for her, Zara could have been more aggressive. It had been such a long time since anyone had treated her that way. It had made her soft when she should have been hard; she should have remembered how little time there was and acted accordingly.

Zara pressed her ear to the crack of the door. Soon they would knock on the front door. Was Aliide planning to let them in?

Aliide opened the curtains, spread a magazine on the table, and poured herself some coffee, just as if she had been sitting there reading Nelli Teataja and eating breakfast, perfectly calm. Had the girl left any sign that she’d been in the kitchen? No, nothing. Aliide hadn’t even had time to pour coffee for both of them. If they’re coming, they might as well all come-Mafia thugs, soldiers-Reds and Whites -Russians, Germans, Estonians-let them come. Aliide would survive. She always had.

Her hands weren’t shaking. The shaking that had started that night in the town hall had ended when her body got old enough. Old enough that no one would ever bother her the way they did in the town hall. And since Talvi moved away she didn’t have anyone to feel afraid for. Aliide’s wrist shook. Fine, now she had someone in the little room again, someone to worry about. Firm-fleshed and silkycomplexioned, smelling like a young girl. And skittish like one, too. Had she looked like that back then? Had she held an arm in front of her breasts, been frightened by trivial things, looked wildly about at every sudden noise? Her stomach turned with disgust at the girl again.

The car seemed to be stopping at the edge of the field. Two unfamiliar men got out. They weren’t village boys. They weren’t boys at all. What were they up to out there? Admiring the landscape? Maybe they were sizing up the woods. They lit their cigarettes, unperturbed. Just like before. The men in the chrome-tanned boots were always calm at first. Aliide’s shoulder twitched. She put her hand on it. Her scarf was wet at the temples.

There was a knock at the door. Commanding blows. The blow of a man used to giving commands. Tomato and onion relish on the stove. A grater on a plate. Half a tomato unchopped. Aliide shoved the tomato and the knife among the shredded herbs and grabbed the grater. Everything in the kitchen looked like she was in the middle of canning, and she had panicked and spread the table to look like coffee hour. There was another blow to the door. Aliide pushed the horseradish plate to the side of the table where the drawer was-and in the drawer, Hans’s Walther-then she breathed in a lungful of horseradish fumes, and the burning spread, making her eyes water, and she wiped them dry and opened the door. The hinges squeaked, the curtains fluttered, the wind pushed through Aliide’s housedress, and she felt the metal door handle in her fingers. The sun shone sharply in the yard. A man greeted her. Behind him stood another man, older, who also greeted her, and Aliide smelled the scent of a KGB officer through the horseradish. It wafted toward her like a musty cellar and made the wind that blew in the door bitter. Aliide started to breathe through her mouth. She knew men like these. Men with that kind of posture, men who know how to punish a woman, and they were here to get a woman, and punish her. People with an insolent bearing, who smile broadly with gold teeth, stuffed into their uniforms, with their cap visors level, knowing that no one can deny them what they want. The kind of people who wear boots to trample anyone who gets in their way.