Juudit lifted her hand, into which Gerda had shoved a small blue, black, and white Estonian flag, the shouting grew more intense, and soon the reason for the cheers was passing by the spot where they stood: Petty Officer Eerik Hurme, with an iron cross on his chest alongside his medals from the Finnish Winter War. Juudit already knew what it would say in tomorrow’s paper. The march of the legionnaires would be described as resolute, the parents proud; they would remember to mention the Estonian flag many times, always together with the German flag, and there might be a picture of Litzmann, with his hooked nose trembling fervently, shaking the hand of Petty Officer Hurme. Juudit knew that Hellmuth was receiving reports of low morale and annoyance caused by the requirement that mobilized soldiers sign a paper stating that they were providing their service voluntarily. The reports expressed concern that this mood was spreading, as were rumors that boys were fleeing conscription. Juudit watched as these genuine volunteers marched past, then suddenly saw a familiar profile a short distance away. It was a man, watching the crowd. She covered her mouth with her hand. The dark head appeared again, a little farther away. He turned—she’d been wrong, her mind was playing tricks on her—but then the head flashed into view again, just a meter away from the man who had turned, the one she’d mistaken for him. She combed the crowd with her eyes, but it was no use, and crossing the square was impossible. Maybe she was just seeing things. Maybe she had seen a dead man. The dead have three months to stay and say goodbye to the living. The crowd was so thick that she was pressed against Gerda’s side. The speeches had to be heard to the end, although she was feeling faint, and she had to sing the German national anthem, and follow Gerda across Harju Street and Toompuiestee to the train station. Hellmuth was there somewhere, on the trail of Bolshevik saboteurs. The indifferently equipped legionnaires had already formed rows on the station platform. Juudit searched in vain for Roland or someone who looked like Roland.
“They’ve written ‘Victory or Death’ on the railcars,” Gerda shouted.
Then the singing began—“Saa vabaks Eesti meri, saa vabaks Eesti pind”—and the train lurched into motion, the anthem unwavering. Tears rolled down Juudit’s cheeks and she felt as if she were suffocating.
ONLY A FEW MONTHS EARLIER, in Hellmuth’s office, they had been going through telegrams from Litzmann and the Reichsführer. The maid was serving coffee to the group when Juudit came back from shopping with a box of pastries from Kagge’s in her hand, heard the clink of spoons, and hurried in to offer the men a treat to go with their hot drinks. She’d just had time to hear the bleat of Hjalmar Mäe’s trembling voice:
“We have to promise that the training will take place here. And that they will only be used to fight the Soviets, not the West, under any circumstances.”
Then Hellmuth’s secretary at headquarters got sick and Juudit was called in. She had taken shorthand the whole day, followed Hellmuth from one meeting to the next, filled notebook after notebook with discussions of how the Estonians thought they were being given shoddy treatment in the German army. A separate legion joined to the elite forces, the Waffen-SS, could change the situation completely, stop the continuous drain of fighting-age men escaping to Finland. Juudit wrote, her pen flying, and she understood that Germany must be desperate, so desperate that the Germans were even trying to trick Estonians into joining up—when only fifty to seventy percent of Estonians possessed the racial characteristics and general health to qualify for the Waffen-SS. When she left to write up her notes in longhand, a German came in with a letter and stayed to talk with Hellmuth in a lowered voice: The Führer had felt faint when someone had suggested arming the Ukrainians. He would never put weapons in the hands of such untrustworthy people, such wildmen!
When she got home, Juudit immediately made a cocktail, and then she cried. She was only fifty to seventy percent good enough for a German. Her racial characteristics and health were clearly good enough from the waist down, but not from the waist up. That’s what Roland would say if he knew. He would say that she’d never be as good as a one-hundred-percent Fräulein. Didn’t she realize what kind of career Hellmuth’s friends back home had in store for him, his relatives’ plans for him, regardless of who or what he wanted? How did she know they didn’t already have a suitable wife lined up, someone thoroughly German, a woman who wasn’t divorced, wasn’t from the conquered eastern territories, someone whose hair fell in soft waves and didn’t turn wild and kinky when it rained? With her second sidecar Juudit cried some more, for the desperate fate of Germany, and with her third she pressed a cool spoon against her eyes to ease the swelling and tried to calm herself before Hellmuth came home.
She wasn’t called to headquarters again. It didn’t bother her at all, though she’d hoped at one time to become Hellmuth’s real secretary, someone with real status at headquarters. She would have liked to join the throng of secretaries, interpreters, and typists hurrying to Tõnismägi in the mornings; she would have been happy even to be in the last row of teletype operators if only it brought her closer to Hellmuth’s everyday life.
Now she was content to stay home and translate tedious reports on distillery safety, on the activities of the Kawe and Brandtmann chocolate factories, and articles from Estonian-language newspapers. She was content because she didn’t want to know any more than she had to. Gerda was lucky. Gerda didn’t know shorthand.
Reval, Estland General Commissariat, Ostland National Commissariat
EDGAR’S LEGS FELT WEAK as he gave his hat and overcoat to the coatcheck girl. Why were they meeting here? Why not on a park bench, at a coffee shop, or at Tõnismägi? Was it to underline his position, to taunt him with the forbidden delicacies carried out from the kitchen, to place him in unfamiliar territory? The intoxicating aromas of restaurants and shops that were exclusively for Germans carried out into the streets. He had often yearned for them, and this restaurant was no exception. Officers flocked up the stairs and into the dining room, bustling waiters wove among the uniforms over the creaking floor, the smell of roasted meat sizzled from the kitchen, and the gleam of utensils punctuated the tang of polished brass. Glasses rang like bells, bottles were slipped into ice buckets, sherry cobblers were handed round to the cocottes, and everyone was happy.
He didn’t see SS-Untersturmführer Mentzel, but Edgar must have been recognized, because someone beckoned from a table in the center of the room before the maitre d’ had time to lead him across the parquet. SS-Haupsturmführer Hertz. Edgar recognized the stripes, and raised his arm in greeting. The SS-Haupsturmführer stood and answered the salute lazily. SS-Haupsturmführer Hertz was a handsome man. Too handsome.
“A pleasure to meet you, Herr Fürst.”
“Likewise, Herr SS-Haupsturmführer!”
“Untersturmführer Mentzel recommends you highly. Unfortunately, he had to leave Reval unexpectedly. He asked me to send his greetings. I understand you studied in Dorpat?”
Edgar nodded. He could feel the blush spreading all the way to his fingertips.
“I’ve heard a great deal of praise for the theater there. Do you recommend it?”
“I recommend it warmly, and the opera as well, Herr SS-Haupsturmführer! They know Puccini so well at the Vanemuine that it would meet even your standards, sir. I understand that musicians come from as far away as Stuttgart to perform there.”
Edgar’s voice was firm. He commended himself on his cultural knowledge, although it seemed an odd start to the conversation. The determined hack of a meat cleaver from the kitchen was distracting. Yet another waiter hurried past with dishes under silver cloches; the mouths of the Germans at the next table bled red wine. Edgar was thirsty. His tongue felt swollen, as if he hadn’t had water in days. Beneath his growling stomach he felt a tingle he hadn’t felt in ages. He didn’t know if he wanted it to stay or if he wanted to be rid of it.
“Many thanks, Herr Fürst. I haven’t yet had a chance to get to know Dorpat’s cultural offerings, but I shall attempt to correct the situation at the fir
st opportunity. But to our business. What is your opinion about changing the street names to German? The Internal Directorate is against it, thinks the Estonians won’t like Adolf Hitler Street. And how was Reichsmarschall Göring’s speech received among the public?”
The Haupsturmführer slipped in the change of subject carelessly, his sentence ending with a sort of smile that wrinkled the skin around his eyes. He reminded Edgar of Ernst Udet, the flying ace’s flying ace—the likeness was especially apparent in the shape of the nose, and there was something in the lips that reminded Edgar of Udet’s portrait on his favorite postcard. But Ernst was very young in that picture; this man had seen more of life. Edgar turned his right cheek toward the Haupsturmführer—this showed his nose at the best angle.
“Reichsmarschall Göring’s Thanksgiving speech was a bit problematic, particularly with the food shortages. You will recall that he said—”
The Haupsturmführer furrowed his brow. “Yes, yes. That we must feed Germans first, and only then provide for others.”
“One could perhaps present a cautious assessment that the result was a small but noticeable decline in Germany’s popularity. Doctor Veski’s activities have also aroused concern.”
“Who is Doctor Veski?” the Haupsturmführer asked.
Another plate of croquettes whisked past. The growling of Edgar’s stomach had ceased, the fire below had increased. Edgar raised his eyebrows slightly, to make his eyes brighter, and held them there. He could see from the reflection in a knife that his skin was gleaming as if he’d spread pomade on it with a spatula, and every schnapps was adding another layer.
“Doctor Veski is a philologist at Dorpat University. It’s said that he’s creating a precise map of the eastern territories. And that he’s creating it because the Estonians are going to be transplanted to Russia. There is talk that all the Russian villages on his map already have Estonian names.”
Edgar heard his own voice and knew that his words made sense, but they were fragments of a conversation he’d prepared in advance, and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to answer questions that diverged from his preset course. His eyes wandered, unable to avoid the Ritterkreuz the Haupsturmführer was wearing, forcing him to tear them from it continually.
“Is that so? It’s rather surprising, in fact quite incomprehensible. What is feeding such rumors, and who is spreading them? I can assure you that such plans would not be in the interests of the Reich.”
“Of course not, Herr Haupsturmführer!”
“You are better acquainted with events in the country than others are, Herr Fürst. Much better acquainted. You have the whole picture.”
Haupsturmführer Hertz’s face flashed another smile. Edgar was disconcerted. He raised a hand to his burning cheek, brushed by that smile.
“And what about anti-German activity?”
“For all practical purposes, there is none.”
“I’ve read your reports. Exceptional. Thanks have come from Berlin. I’m certain that you are just the person for a particular task. I hope you can continue your work in Gruppe B Abteilung B4, but in a slightly new direction. You’ve never met Gruppenleiter Ain-Ervin Mere personally? I’m sure you’ll get the chance at some point. He reports directly to me. Your task will be to keep me apprised of internal morale at the Abteilung and any internal threats. We’ve learned that a spy from the underground organizations has succeeded in infiltrating some very confidential operations, and I want to know what the situation is in Gruppe B.”
As Edgar left the restaurant and went into the street, the schnapps he’d poured into his empty stomach started to come back up. He hurried around a corner, found a courtyard tunnel, and waited for his stomach to calm. His cologne hadn’t caused any problems this time—he had remembered to keep the bottle well away from his clothes—but he should have known to eat something before the meeting. He knew he was trying too hard. Every meeting was spoiled by some mishap. But it wasn’t only the schnapps; it was the man who had been sitting across from him. The moment their legs brushed in passing under the table, Edgar decided that he was going to make himself indispensable to SS-Hauptsturmführer Hertz. Hertz would depend on him, and Edgar would see him again, soon.
Vaivara, Estland General Commissariat, Ostland National Commissariat
AS THE OPEL DROVE OUT of Tallinn, Juudit tried to hum “Das macht die Berliner Luft,” but Hellmuth just looked out the window with one arm absentmindedly around her shoulders and the other extended stiffly over the open ashtray, his hand holding a cigarette rather than the top of her stocking. Juudit’s voice faded out. Once again they weren’t going to sing happy tunes like they always used to do, not a single rousing march. Hellmuth didn’t take out the little Estonian–German phrase book to practice useful expressions, the one with the stanzas from Marie Under that Juudit had written on the cover; he didn’t whisper in her ear, in Estonian, “your mouth in my mouth.” The lines rushing by between the telephone poles changed to barbed wire. Hellmuth rolled down the window, threw his cigarette butt into the wind, and turned his face toward the breeze as if there wasn’t enough air in the Opel. She could feel his tension as he sat beside her, looking her in the eye at regular intervals—too regular, as if he did it consciously, to keep her from noticing his furrowed brow.
The men from the petroleum company Baltische Öl had been coming and going secretly on Roosikrantsi Street for some time, and tense words had crept under the bedroom door and into Juudit’s ears: Germany’s most important job in the wartime economy of the former Baltic countries was to extract petrochemicals—the supreme leader of the Reich wasn’t going to haggle over it. That was why the Opel Olympia was rushing to Vaivara and its potential oil production, with the nervous Juudit on board. Maybe it all started with Stalingrad. The continual retreat on the eastern front. Nervousness had begun to creep in among Hellmuth’s friends, and Juudit didn’t dare to think about what it might mean. She closed it away again and again and tried to be lively company while Hellmuth sighed about how the officer corps had become a hodgepodge of new replacements.
At first Juudit had thought it a good sign that the Germans were building apartments for the labor force and repairing the factories demolished in the Bolsheviks’ retreat. Surely they wouldn’t have been willing to put such an emphasis on local production unless they were convinced that the Bolsheviks would never advance that far. So why was Hellmuth worried? The news was full of propaganda. Gerda would have said that politics won’t put a dress on a woman’s back, that she shouldn’t get mixed up in it. Gerda was right. The acrid smell of exhaust made Juudit’s temples tight. Everything was too complicated. She didn’t understand, and she lamented how the intimacy between her and Hellmuth had dwindled to their time in the bedroom, superseded by these military concerns.
WHEN THEY ARRIVED in Vaivara, Hellmuth left Juudit behind to watch as he hurried to discuss important matters with the men, clicking his heels in greeting. She went to look for a good spot for what might be the summer’s last chance to sunbathe. She put on her sunglasses, took off her shoes and rolled down her stockings, and lifted the hem of her skirt, but not too high, for the sake of propriety, and because she could already sense the autumn in the cool breeze. She felt a shiver for other reasons, too, though not enough to get her Pervitin out of her handbag. She’d started carrying it with her after the bombings in February. Apparently the army wanted to get rid of its supply and Hellmuth had it by the case. He had been right—the Pervitin helped. It dissolved her anxiety like the bombs melted the snow. She remembered the black earth, unnatural for February, the lines of evacuees along the highway, the sleighs packed with people leaving the city, and how on the night before the bombing she had seen her first drunken German soldier. She snapped her purse open. She didn’t notice the ruins anymore; her eyes passed them by as if they were dust on furniture. She was numb to everything—except her husband. Her bright red toenails shining in the sunlight brought to mind again her husband’s rebuke about them; his auntie An
na supposedly didn’t approve of nail polish. Now they could gobble up the light as free and as red as Leni Riefenstahl’s. Riefenstahl’s painted toenails were famous, and she always took two photographers with her when she traveled, to take pictures of her and her clothes.
“WHAT WOULD YOU say to that? A few chickens, a cow, a simple life in the country? With you.”
Juudit wasn’t sure she’d understood him right. The Opel bounced over potholes in the road, knocking her elbow against the armrest and making her yelp in surprise and pain. When they’d left to make the trip home at sunset, Hellmuth had been silent as he got into the backseat of the car, and he’d remained silent for a long time. He hadn’t even taken Juudit’s hand, or kissed her. Had he really said something about the possibility of staying here after the war? Here? In the countryside?
“A lot of officers are planning to do the same. Don’t you want to live in the country, sweetheart?”
At first she had thought he was talking about going back to Germany without her. But he would stay. She wouldn’t lose him. Next her thoughts flew to an image of life in a village like Taarathe—smell of rye; the girls carrying their milk cans to the horse carts; herself, living with a German even though she was still married; the stares; the clots of spit flying at her neck every time she turned her back. It wouldn’t matter if Hellmuth bought them an estate instead of a farm; she didn’t want to be a concubine at a manor house. SS officers’ requests to marry went to the state security headquarters for processing and she was sure she wouldn’t pass the screening. Even if they got permission, such a marriage would ruin Hellmuth’s career—she had no business in Berlin. Maybe that was why he was talking about moving to the countryside. But his words meant something else, too: Germany would prevail, the Bolsheviks would not return. Otherwise he wouldn’t be planning a future here.