Sofi Oksanen - Purge

“Is there anyone here?”

“Liide…”

The voice came from the back of the kitchen, from a corner of the cupboard, behind a basket of potatoes. Aliide pushed the things out of the way and pulled Hans out from behind them. His shoulder was bloody. Aliide opened his coat.

“You went to the woods, didn’t you?”

“Liide…”

“Not to Tallinn.”

“I had to.”

“You promised.”

Aliide got some alcohol and gauze and started cleaning the wound.

“Were you caught?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Liide, don’t be angry.”

Hans grimaced. They had been surrounded. It was the perfect ambush. He had been shot, but he got away. “Did they catch everyone else?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you tell anyone in the forest about me?” “No.”

“There are a lot of NKVD agents in the woods. I know, because Martin told me. One of them even came here on his way to look for someone whose group had been infiltrated. They have poisoned liquor. You could have told them what you know.”

“I didn’t drink any liquor with anyone.”

Aliide examined his shoulder. Her hands came away red. They couldn’t consult a doctor.

“Hans, I’m going to get Maria Kreel.”

Hans stared back at her and smiled.

“Ingel is here. Ingel will take care of it.”

The bottle of alcohol fell from Aliide’s hand. Shards and liquor spread across the floor to the baseboards. She wiped her brow, smelled the blood and liquor. A rage rushed inside her, and her knees sagged. She opened her mouth but didn’t know how to form sentences; just a muffled sputter and a squeak came out, her ears shut tight. She fumbled for the back of a chair, held on to it until her breath started to flow, and when it did Hans had fainted. She just had to keep her mind focused, handle the situation. She knew how to handle situations. First she had to drag Hans into the little room; then she had to go to the Kreels. She grabbed Hans under the arms. Something peeped out of his coat pocket.

A notebook. She let go of him and picked it up.

I don’t know what to think. I’m reading Ingel’s most recent letter. I got it today, and I got the last one two days ago. Ingel writes about remembering the willow trees at home, particularly one of them. At first it really made me smile. It would be a good thing to think about until the next letter, that willow. Maybe I would be reminiscing about it at the same time that Ingel was. Then I realized that there was something wrong. Ingel’s letter had a worn, well-read look about it. Why was the envelope so clean? The last time people were taken away and letters started coming, they didn’t even have envelopes. I hope it’s just that one of the messengers put the letter in an envelope, but my heart won’t let me believe it.

I’m comparing the signature to the one in the family Bible. Ingel wrote Linda’s name and birthdate there. The handwriting’s not the same. It looks the same, but it’s not the same.

Liide brought me a bottle of liquor. I don’t want to look at her. I don’t dare tear up the letters, although I’d like to. Liide might ask where they were, and then what would I tell her? How can I ask her about it? I just feel like hitting her.

Hans Pekk, son of Eerik, Estonian peasant

Liide’s arranged everything. She got me a passport. I’m sitting here leafing through it wondering if it can really be true. But it is true. I went ahead and promised Aliide that I wouldn’t go into the forest, that I would go to Tallinn to live in a dorm. Liide wrote down the address for me and gave me a lot of instructions.

I’m not going to Tallinn. There are no fields there, no forests. What kind of a man would I be in the city?

Sometimes I feel like aiming this Walther at Liide.

My mind has been perfectly clear for a long time. I just want to see Linda again.

Ingel would have put more salt in the gravy.

Hans Pekk, son of Eerik, Estonian peasant

Aliide realized she was yelling, but she didn’t care anymore. She threw the water pail on the floor, smashed a jar of Red Moscow perfume, and scattered a pile of Soviet Woman sewing patterns. She would never sew any of those Tallinn dresses, never walk hand in hand with Hans along the Viru Gate, carefree because she would never encounter those men, beautiful because the people she passed didn’t recognize her. She would never do those things with Hans that she’d dreamed of these last few months as she lay next to Martin while he snored. Hans had promised! Aliide yelled until her voice ran out. What did it matter if Martin woke up? What did it ever matter to anyone? What did anything matter anymore? Everything was shattered. All the trouble she’d been through! All the striving! Collecting fines from people for not having children! All the enormous work she’d done, all the sleepless nights, every day of her life wasted by fear, the stink of Martin’s flesh, her endless humiliation, endless lies, endless writhing around in Martin’s bed, constantly trembling, the underarm shields in her rayon dress squishing with the sweat of fear, the dentist’s hairy hands, the viscous glaze over Linda’s eyes after that night, the lights, the soldiers’ boots-she would have forgiven all of it, forgotten all of it, for just one day in a park in Tallinn with Hans. That’s why she had taken care of her skin, cleansed her face with Red Poppy soap, remembered to rub goose fat on her hands several times a day. So she wouldn’t look like a country girl. They wouldn’t have been interrogated even once; they would have been left in peace, but that didn’t matter to Hans. All she had asked for was one little moment together in the park. She had fed him and clothed him and warmed his bathwater, got a new dog to protect him, brought him his newspapers, carried up bread and butter and buttermilk, knit him socks, arranged his medicines and liquor, written the letters, done everything to make him happy. Had Hans asked even once how she was doing? Had he ever been worried about her? She had been ready to wipe the slate clean, let everything go, forgive all the shame she had endured for his sake. And what did he do? He lied!

Hans had never had any intention of walking with Aliide in the parks of Tallinn.

And then there were those letters… Hans had lost consciousness. Aliide pressed her foot against his shoulder, but he didn’t move.

She went to check on Martin. He was in exactly the same position as before. He couldn’t have woken up in the meantime. Aliide had left an empty bucket next to his boots in case he woke up. The clatter would have warned her. The bucket was in exactly the same spot where she’d left it, a hand’s width from the washstand.

Aliide went back into the kitchen and checked Hans’s condition, took his cigarette case out of his pocket-the three lions had faded-and lit one of his hand-rolled paperossis . Air rushed into her lungs, and the smoke made her cough, but the situation seemed clearer.

She washed her hands.

She poured the red water into the slop bucket. She took some valerian and sat down and smoked another cigarette. She went over to Hans.

She took a medicine that she’d made for bad dreams out of the cupboard and opened Hans’s mouth.

He woke up coughing and sputtering. Some of the bottle’s contents trickled onto the floor.

“This will make you feel better,” Aliide whispered.