Burning Cities

By Kai Aareleid

Part of the Peter Owen World Series: Baltics

'This story glows somewhere on the fringes of my consciousness, so close I can almost touch it.'

Opening up about her family history, Tiina revisits the first two decades of her life following the Second World War, in Tartu, Estonia. The city, destroyed by Nazi invasion then rebuilt and re-mapped by the Soviets, is home to many secrets, and little Tiina knows them all, even if she does not know their import. The adult world that makes up Communist society, is one of cryptic conversations, undiagnosed dread and heavy drinking. From the death of Stalin to the gradual separation of her parents, Tiina, as a young girl, experiences both domestic and great events from the periphery, and is, therefore, powerless to prevent the defining tragedy in her life - a suicide in the family.

Translated for the first time into English, Burning Cities is an intimate portrayal of life under Soviet Communism and an absorbing family drama told with poetic precision.

Translated from the Estonian by Adam Cullen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Owen Publishers
• Release date: May 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9780720620306

Book preview

ANTE SCRIPTUM

PARADOX

‘There lies a paradox in considering ante scriptum as the opposite of post scriptum. For something to precede what is written, to write something before it is written, the text that is preceded must have been written; ergo it must exist. If, however, it has already been written, then is the ante scriptum not by its very nature no longer the ante but rather the post scriptum … ? Are you following me? Have you even been taught basic Latin?’

Silence.

‘Paradox! Paradox!’

– Professor of Literature E.V. to his students, Tartu, Autumn 1962

THIS STORY

2013

This story glows somewhere on the fringes of my consciousness, so close I can almost touch it. It glimmers in the dark, chilly corners of memory, a dim echo of more cheerful days, of smiles, of certain voices. It is like the fading black-and-white pictures of my photograph album, glue cracked at the corners; photographs that flutter out like startled butterflies when I open it. Their flight is short-lived, and I have trouble putting them back in order because their significance has often flickered out, scattered like dust.

I promised I would tell you everything eventually; now, as if by chance, you found the box labelled with your grandfather’s name and came to me with questions. I know you opened it by accident. There’s no need to apologize. It was simple human curiosity.

All things considered, I myself handed you the key when I asked you to bring me a few books from the bookshelf at home this summer. So, perhaps some part of me wanted things to take this course without my even knowing it; wanted you to find, to discover, to ask. Wanted this heart to find peace and bygone cities to burn at last.

You were wrong about one thing. I haven’t hidden anything from you; I’ve simply been unable to articulate it.

Today I finally opened the black-leather notebook you once gave me. Now, it’s come in handy. You knew just the right kind to choose. You knew it must have ruled pages to guide me, along which I might slowly creep like a vine. It has a violet ribbon as a bookmark, and its pages are held together by a thick piece of elastic – so securely and so falsely.

I should begin from the beginning. But where is that?

The beginnings are many.

MORNING

1998

The day I walked into the cabin’s garden – which had been dusted with a pristine layer of snow – unlocked the front door, the inner door and finally the kitchen door, everything was how it always is: the lock was a little tricky, as always; the smell of chipboard panelling and old farmhouse, of mice and earth-covered onions left to dry on the stove swept over me, as always; I groped for the light switch in the dusky room, thick winter curtains covering the windows, the snowlight still shimmering in my eyes. Knowing that over the next hour I would need to get a fire going quickly, lay out the sheets and blankets close to the wood-burning kitchen stove, find something to eat, as always. But when the gnat-spattered bulb finally came on, nothing was as it always was.

When the local detective sergeant had left and the forensics expert didn’t appear (because she was attending a training seminar in the capital); when the lists had been drawn up and everything had been remembered and all suspicions had been considered; when the shards of glass had been swept up, the clothes and dishes that had been flung from the ransacked cupboards, chest and sideboard all heaped into bags and boxes in a corner; the couple of unbroken stools utilized as a table and chair in the kitchen; the fire lit and the night somehow slept through – the morning after that.

My irises recall an empty space where there should be …

My irises recall something that I myself didn’t register right away.

Guilt. That whole night I’d cried over the musty cupboards and the old table to which my husband had laid claim after his parents’ deaths – I’d cried over things to which I had no other connection than that I was accustomed to them, and hadn’t noticed that the sole thing that belonged to me and to me alone was missing; something for which I’d carefully chosen a place on the bedroom wall.

Now, there was a darker patch on the faded, patterned wallpaper where the painting had hung, and the empty space looked down forlornly at the bed. Gone was the gaze of the man with a rosette on his lapel: a gaze, emanating from the painting, that had protected me for so long and had witnessed everything, all kinds of days.

Gone.

It wasn’t just any portrait. It was Dad.

I close my eyes.

Through the dark patch on the wallpaper a tunnel opens on to a damp, tin-toned November thirty-six years earlier.

FLOOR-SCRUBBING DAY

1962

Tiina has lit a fire in the living-room stove. The logs crackle, but the feeling doesn’t subside. Something entirely alien has enveloped her and is now controlling her decisions. She has to clean the floors. She can’t help it, she simply must.

Tiina fetches a bucket from the pantry and fills it in the kitchen. She plunges a rag to the bottom and watches the little bubbles wiggle their way to the surface as the cloth absorbs the water. Her fingers appear bloated and bluish under the water in the grey bucket. Tiina lugs it to the living-room and wrings out the rag. Getting down on all fours, she starts scrubbing the floor. She does so slowly and carefully, trying her best not to think. Outside it is a cold, dank, darkening November evening.

The room is chilly. Tiina scrubs and wrings, scrubs, wrings. Her hands are red from the cold water, but she starts to perspire as she works.

Dad has been gone for two days already. The social delegate came knocking again yesterday. Mum has been anxious. That morning before she left, Mum combed her hair roughly, for a long time, then applied an excessively thick layer of lipstick. She hasn’t returned from work yet either.

Tiina pauses to wipe sweat from her brow. Someone knocks at the window. Mr Osvald from upstairs is standing outside like a ghost. Mr Osvald is just standing, waiting.

Tiina rises, walks across the freshly scrubbed floor to the window and pushes it open.

Osvald’s face is moist but not from rain, because it isn’t raining.

‘Darling child …’ he sobs.

‘What is it, Mr Osvald? What’s happened?’

‘Oh God, God …’

‘What’s wrong? Why are you crying?’

‘Oh, you poor child, you don’t … you don’t even know yet…’

‘Know what, Mr Osvald?’

‘You don’t even know …’

‘What don’t I know?’

But instead of answering he clamps his hand over his mouth, turns and walks away. No explanation.

Poor child. You don’t even know.

The house is quiet. The fire crackles in the stove.

Tiina returns to the bucket, drops to her hands and knees, wrings out the rag and continues scrubbing. She scrubs and scrubs. Slowly. She channels all her sickening dread into the mechanical motion. All her unknowing, all her knowing. She doesn’t know, and yet she knows, as if everything had already finished long before it reached the end.

I

ONE HEART

1941–52

BEFORE THE SCORCHED EARTH

1941

Mum and Dad first met five years before Tiina’s birth. You could say they were brought together by Valdek Stern, whom Liisi – Tiina’s mother – had married a week earlier in a modest secular ceremony. Nevertheless, Valdek Stern didn’t introduce the two to each other; he had enlisted that same morning. Liisi was alone on the road, looking like a drowned cat. She was twenty years old. Peeter was thirty-eight and driving a shiny black Opel. They had nothing in common. Their encounter meant nothing. Yet, it happened all the same, and for Tiina it was the first link in a chain of which she would later become part.

Pretty nasty out there, Deacon Kustas muses. Good heavens – why’re these young people in such a hurry to get hitched – and on a Monday morning? Still, there was no getting out of it – he had made Pastor Villem a promise.

Kustas sits up in his bed. Not a good day for a wedding, not at all. Kustas’s right knee, which he had injured falling from a hayloft ladder when he was a boy, throbs painfully. He limps to the front steps and stares out at the pouring rain. Goodness gracious.

A short while later Kustas hobbles through the brisk summer-morning air in the direction of the chapel. If there’s anything in the world Kustas can’t stand, it’s waste.

Ah, waste. What’s the point of clipping fresh blossoms for such a short service? He reflects. Especially when nobody except the bride and groom’ll be attending! It’ll make no difference if I just borrow a bouquet of yesterday’s flowers from a grave and stick it in a vase on the altar. And maybe a smaller garland, too – could hang it on the hook over the doorway. The chapel’ll be a pretty sight if it’s all done up from outside as well. I’ll put ’em back later this afternoon or tonight, and I’ll even give them fresh water. No one’ll be any the wiser, and that way the fresh blossoms’ll be left uncut and looking their best in the flower bed for several more days.

Kustas isn’t religious – at least, he doesn’t believe in that bearded fellow Pastor Villem goes on about in his sermons. He knows the Bible inside and out, but if he were up there in Villem’s place then he’d have a whole heap of witty tales to tell about that Jesus chap.

This is the way it is, though, and I’m not one to argue – the best thing is to keep my mouth shut when it comes to religion and let every man believe what he wants and tell the tales he pleases; it makes for less trouble all around.

Kustas snatches a nice bouquet of summer flowers from the grave of Emilia Laane, picks a couple of fallen pine needles off the freshly raked plot, selects a garland from August’s headstone (buried just last week) and carries the armful to the side door of the chapel. The key is stashed under a rock there, as always.

He lugs a pew out in front of the chapel and clambers on to it, breathing heavily. The doorframe is tall, and Kustas expends a good deal of effort reaching the hook above. The garland hangs slightly crookedly – but who will notice? Kustas goes back into the chapel and takes a long swig of altar wine in the ambulatory, sinking down with his back against the wall.

‘Ah, prost,’ he murmurs, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. ‘Mmm. That’s the business.’

Kustas pricks up his ears. There’s a sudden growling or rumbling. But it can’t be thunder – not with low cloud like today. Maybe I just nodded off.

But the low noise grows louder. It comes from the road, off towards the copse. Kustas listens, his jaw slowly dropping.

A vehicle. And a big one, too. A lorry, I’m guessing. The noise ceases abruptly as the truck stops, very close by. A chill washes over him. Not a moment to think, no indeed.

Kustas is on his feet in a flash. He climbs up into the pulpit and crouches low. Moments later he hears footsteps coming up the path to the chapel – boots slapping heavily against the stone slabs. The stranger appears to be alone, to Kustas’s great relief. He enters the chapel, stops and listens. Kustas peeps through a narrow crack in the boards.

An army uniform. A Russki, the devil. Guess that means they’re here.

Then, Kustas recognizes the young man.

Ah, the groom. That’s today’s groom.

Kustas pulls himself up.

‘Hello there! Where might the bride be, d’you think?’ he calls out, clomping down the pulpit steps.

THE SOAKED BRIDE

1941

Peeter has borrowed his friend Anton’s car to visit his mother in the little village of Abja. His heart aches, although he had known full well how the visit would go and how he would feel afterwards.

How can you help someone through trauma when there is nothing you can do, nothing will console them and you can’t turn back the clock? You bring them sweets, do what is needed, let them talk and, ultimately, cry – How were those kids to blame? That’s what she repeated every time, bringing up the neighbours once again. It was horrific, naturally. But what can you say? There’s nothing to say. You lend your ear, stroke her head and return just as wise as you were before. Used. Simply used, your heart still aching.

Peeter’s mood improves slightly on the drive back, the lump in his throat easing. It’s raining, and the raindrops’ rhythm is soothing.

If it’s raining, then I won’t have to go climbing around the castle ruins with Luule. We can just drive around, chat and I suppose see what happens next …

Every few minutes his thoughts revert to the previous night’s gathering with friends in the guest apartment above Juhan’s shop – life was just how it had always been. Viljandi still felt like home; he had never found such close companions in Tartu. One, maybe. Just one friend in two years. I guess it’s true that you form the strongest bonds when you’re young. Anton, Jaan, Karl, Juhan – our unbreakable friendship. ‘The Club’, always looking out for one another.

He hadn’t met a single woman like Luule in Tartu either.

Truth be told, Peeter had won the car last night while playing cards. When it came time to settle up with IOUs, he told Anton Maripuu to write that he’d loan Peeter his car for a few days, as he had more use for it. And Maripuu agreed – he knew Peeter was worried about his mother but was equally aware who Peeter wanted to take for a drive after his filial duties were performed: Luule – who else?

The rain gets heavier; Peeter turns on the windscreen wipers. Ahead, something white seems to flash by the roadside. The closer he gets, the more it comes into focus: someone is standing by the road. A woman, dressed all in white. Not standing. Walking.

‘Well, I’ll be damned – what’s going on here?’

Peeter slows the car and sees it is a young woman in a white dress, soaking wet. He stops, and the girl freezes in place likewise. Peeter leans over the passenger seat and opens the door. The girl merely stands there, staring at the ground. Her hair is dripping. Peeter notices several details simultaneously: the girl is wearing a wedding dress; it is yellowed with age; it is obviously too big for her. The girl is squeezing something tightly against her chest — something wrapped in her veil. Her teeth are chattering.

‘Get in, I’ll give you a lift!’ Peeter shouts. The girl doesn’t move. Rain splatters on the seat. Did I really need to play the hero? Peeter curses himself. Who knows? Maybe the girl’s deaf or just got a screw loose.

The girl lifts her eyes, bloodshot from crying, and stares at Peeter but still doesn’t say a word.

‘Get in!’

It’s as if the girl is nailed to the floor. Peeter sighs.

She’s nuts … Peeter climbs out of the driver’s door and walks around the car. He carefully takes the girl by the shoulders and guides her to the door.

‘Just get in, and I’ll take you wherever you want. All right?’

The girl nods and finally gets into the vehicle. Peeter shuts the door, gets behind the wheel and shakes the droplets off his shoulders. Coat got wet, but no need to worry. I chose the fabric carefully – fast-drying and wrinkle-free. He rubs his hands together to dry them.

‘Where to?’ he asks, putting the car in gear.

The girl doesn’t respond.

‘Where am I taking you? Did something happen?’

The girl simply sits with the bundle held against her chest, staring straight ahead at the road.

‘Strange clothes you’re wearing.’

Nothing.

‘Almost looks like a wedding dress.’

‘He went to war,’ the girl suddenly blurts out.

‘Who did?’

‘Valdek.’

Valdek. Got it. ‘And who is Valdek?’ Peeter asks patiently.

‘Valdek.’ The girl is silent for a moment, then the whole story gushes out in a single breath. ‘We were supposed to get married today, but just the two of us, in secret, although I’m already his wife, we registered it last week, but I wanted a wedding, and he finally said yes, just the two of us, somewhere in a tiny chapel, out in the country, he didn’t want his comrades to find out, wouldn’t have been proper, but he couldn’t wait for me, he wanted to so very much, but he couldn’t, he had to go, they all left, he and his comrades, volunteers. He left this at the chapel for me.’

The girl unwraps the bundle, revealing a black notebook.

Peeter glances at his watch.

‘Where am I taking you?’ he asks.

‘His poems. His own poems.’

‘Where do you need to go?’

‘I don’t know,’ the girl answers.

Peeter feels his patience start to wear thin. ‘Where were you walking when I picked you up?’

‘Where does this road go?’

Good grief, Peeter thinks. She’s really lost it. ‘This? To Viljandi.’

‘To Viljandi then,’ the girl murmurs.

Peeter sighs. They drive.

Suddenly he brakes, and the car comes to a halt.

‘Listen, miss. It’s still a long way. You’re soaked. Take off your dress.’

The girl looks over at him in terror. Peeter reaches into the backseat and produces a long overcoat.

‘Take off your wet dress and put this on. I won’t look,’ he says, handing it to the girl. She accepts the coat, turns, glances back at Peeter and hesitantly starts unbuttoning her dress. Peeter watches the rivulets running down the window and the girl’s reflection in the glass. He fishes a palm-sized flask out of his jacket pocket and takes a deep swig.

When the girl has finished dressing Peeter offers her the flask without looking.

‘Ugh,’ the girl gasps after taking a sip, and has a coughing fit.

‘That’s it. Vodka. Herb-infused. Good for anything that ails you,’ he chuckles.

‘Ugh.’

‘You’ll feel warm once the burning passes.’

They drive the rest of the way in silence. By the time Peeter stops the car at the main square, the rain has let up somewhat.

‘I’ll leave you here if that’s all right.’

‘Yes, yes, of course. Only, I don’t know how I can …’ The girl brushes the coat nervously.

‘Keep it,’ Peeter replies.

‘No, no … it’s such fine fabric … I could write down