Sofi Oksanen - Purge

Hans didn’t tell Aliide about his visions anymore. Maybe her behavior had annoyed him, or maybe he was afraid that Aliide would be a threat to them if she knew about them. Aliide tried to think of a way to ask him about it, but she didn’t know how. How’s Ingel? Have you seen Ingel lately? No, nothing worked. And she had no way of knowing how he would react if she brought up the question in the wrong way.

Hans had to be out of here before winter came. In the winter, she wouldn’t be able to escape through the attic window-it would leave tracks in the snow. She could steal a blank passport from the militia, but would he know how to fill it out so that it would look authentic? Should she find someone who would know how? Where could she find such a person? What kind of news would it be if a party organizer’s wife was arrested in a dugout in the woods, looking for a counterfeiter? Or if a story got out that she was running around the village asking where to find the best man to make a passport? No, they should get a real passport from someone living. Or get someone to lose one.

“Hans, if I get you a passport…”

“If? You promised you would.”

“Will you do what I tell you to do and go where I tell you to go?”

“Yes!”

“They need all kinds of workers in Tallinn. And the factories have their own dormitories. I doubt I could arrange an apartment for you, there’s such a shortage, but I could get you a place in the dormitory. The railway, the shipyards, there are all sorts of possibilities. And if you bring the dormitory housekeeper and manager a pig from the kolkhoz, they won’t even ask what kind of man you are. And I can come visit you in Tallinn. Just think of it, we could go for walks, to the park, along the shore, anywhere at all! We could go to the movies! Imagine that, you could walk around there, just like any other free man! Be outside, see people…”

“Someone would recognize me.”

“No one would recognize you under that beard.” “It’s surprising what people will recognize-the tilt of the neck, the way you walk.”

“Hans, it’s been years since anyone’s seen you. No one will remember. Admit it, Hans, it sounds wonderful.” “It sounds wonderful.”

He looked at Ingel’s chair.

It was as if he were winking at it.

Aliide grabbed her work coat from the hook and went to the barn. She kept her eye on the nearby pitchfork when Hans came after her and climbed up to the attic. Salty sweat trickled through her eyelashes, and she could taste manure in her mouth. She used the fork to fill the wheelbarrow and then climbed up to push the bales of hay back in front of the attic-room door. Her back popped again as she pushed them in place. What was it that Leida Haamer did when her son started coming to her in her dreams? He had been surrounded in his dugout and tried to escape, tried to run away without any boots. He was buried without his boots, too. Every night Leida had the same dream, that her son was complaining that his feet were cold. Maria Kreel had advised her to get some boots that were her son’s size, and the next time there was a funeral in the village, Leida should put the boots in the coffin and include a tag with his name on it. The nightmares had stopped when she got the boots and the name tag into the grave. But Ingel was alive. How did it work with a living person? Or did the visitations from Ingel’s spirit mean that she was no longer alive?

That evening Aliide took the piece of Ingel’s wedding blanket she had saved and shoved it up the stovepipe so that it would be thoroughly smoked.

Evening dimmed the kitchen, and Aliide sat in her place, in her own chair. Had Ingel told the girl? Of course not. Or Linda? No. Of course not. That would be even more insane. But the girl had lied. What kind of help did she expect from a relative who didn’t even know she was family? Or had she intended to tell Aliide but then changed her mind? Did Ingel know she was here? And what about the photo-had the girl lied about that, too? Had she brought the photo with her, had she got it from Ingel?

The rooster crowed. The clock ticked. The tea mushroom in its jar seemed to be staring at her, although it looked more like a shelf fungus thrown in a jar than it did an animal. She could hear a scratching on the floor in the secret room; it sounded just like her old dog Hiisu’s claws. The Mafia men might come back again. If she didn’t open the door they would break it down. They would burn the house down. For all she knew they were right there on the other side of her woods. Maybe the girl had realized that her relative in Estonia would soon own some woods and thought she could sell it in Finland. Maybe she was using the Mafia men to take care of it and the whole business had gone awry. Had Ingel sent her to make the land deal? Maybe the girl had been gullible and thought she was going to get money from the Mafia men that belonged to her but then realized they were going to take it all. Anything was possible. Everything was up for sale in this country now.

She had to remain calm. She would get up from her chair now, turn on the lights in the kitchen, close the curtains over the windows, lock the door, go to the secret room and open it, and let the girl out. It wouldn’t be so difficult. Aliide was much more tranquil than she might have been in this situation. Her heart hadn’t stopped, her thought process was bumpy, but she wasn’t absolutely unhinged. She was in her right mind, even though she’d just learned that Ingel was alive-assuming that the Mafia men were telling the truth.

What had Ingel told the girl about her?

Russian or not, the girl had Hans’s chin.

And she was quick to slice tomatoes and quick to clean berries.

The next time the movie men came to town, Aliide told Martin she’d like to go with him. Martin was delighted- the last time they came she had stayed home with an asthma attack.

“Will you take me dancing afterward?”

“You bet I’ll take my little mushroom dancing!” The auditorium was hot, and Aliide chose a place for them near an open window. They could hear the chug of the generator outside. Aliide tried to ascertain how many of the vineyard men were there and which of them would be the most apt to lose their passport today, with Aliide’s help. Happy people marched across the screen in a May Day parade, the leaders of the Kremlin were assembled on the rooftop to wave at the people, and the people waved back. Maybe Koka Heino? A simple man who’d got his papers from the Seevaldi office long ago, and a small invalid’s pension. The documentary ended, and the feature film, Generation of Victors, began. What about Kalle Rumvolt? No, Kalle lived in the kolkhoz, and his place of residence would be on the passport. Aliide didn’t know who to choose, couldn’t make up her mind-after all, she wasn’t sure who had files kept on them or what kind of checkpoints a person would have to go through in Tallinn. Maybe they would call her, in spite of the honey and ham, and check to see just what man this man was. And Hans couldn’t go to the militia here to get it stamped, not under any circumstances. The whole idea was crazy. Why are you leaving the area? Where are you going? Lord knows what would happen if Hans came in there and proceeded to fill out the forms on behalf of Kalle Rumvolt or, worse yet, met someone at the office who recognized him. The whole plan was a dud from the start, and Aliide was as foolish as the movie man, licking that milkmaid sow all over with his eyes as she stood in the back of the room adjusting her hairdo flirtatiously with her strong arms, the flesh that clung to them fluttering in time with her heart, so quick to tremble.