“I’ve written to a few of my friends and recommended the Estonian countryside to them. You’ve been a wonderful guide to life in the provinces. The soil seems fertile, good for growing—what else could you need? We could have our own paradise out in the country.”
“But after the war I’m sure you’ll have tremendous opportunities to do anything you want, anyplace you want,” Juudit protested.
“I thought you wanted to stay here.”
“You’ve never asked about the future before.”
Hellmuth opened his cigarette case and lit one. “Do you want to go to Germany, then?”
“You’ve never asked about that, either.”
“I didn’t dare to.”
The words soothed her. She had panicked for no reason. He wasn’t far along with his plans. He hadn’t yet looked at land or houses. Maybe she wouldn’t have to explain to him that Estonians looked at mistresses differently, wouldn’t have to put her shame into words. Germans seemed to be so much more tolerant—a companion or a secretary with a swelling belly didn’t cause alarm. Women were just sent on vacation, to some German city where the time could apparently be passed more pleasantly and safely and the food was better. That’s what happened to a woman who had gone to the same seamstress as Juudit, and another who had gone to the same hairdresser. Gerda had eventually packed her bags, too, but at least she’d promised to write. Gerda could tell her what it would be like living in Germany. Maybe she could visit Gerda before making her final decision. In Germany she wouldn’t have to deal with any acquaintances from her old life. Maybe once she was there she wouldn’t care if she spent the rest of her days as a secret lover. Hellmuth could marry a wife acceptable to his family and the Reich. Juudit could bear even that, as long as they were together.
“I’ll go wherever you want to go,” she whispered.
Reval, Estland General Commissariat, Ostland National Commissariat
EDGAR GLANCED AT his pocket watch. He was on time. The fabric of his pocket had become stretched from the repetition of this impatient gesture; he spent every day counting the hours until his next meeting. Every crumb of information he’d managed to get was doubly exciting because every matter to report felt like a personal gift to SS-Hauptsturmführer Hertz. Hertz was satisfied with him, he could tell. He might even be invited to spend an evening at the theater at some point. He’d already prepared himself for that possibility by ordering a new suit from his tailor, instructing him that it should look like it came straight from Berlin.
The buzz in the restaurant was the same as always: the Allgemeine-SS in black, the Wehrmacht in gray, long-legged, as always. Seeing veterans of the eastern front was like a needle in the eye. Edgar made himself look away from their eagles and swastikas. The stories of Stalingrad were unsuitable for women and children, and for Edgar.
Hauptsturmführer Hertz waved and stood up.
“Nice to see you again, Herr Fürst. Waitress! I recommend the squab. Absolutely delicious. Bring some of that excellent Riesling, too.”
As he sat down at the white tablecloth, Edgar tried as usual not to stare at the man’s Ritterkreuz and remembered to keep his eyebrows elegantly raised. Just enough to make his gaze appear open. Not overdoing it. Right cheek toward Hertz. The morning had passed in nervousness, the warm towel he’d put over his face before shaving had been too hot and he had lost his styptic—it had been a mistake to sharpen his razor. He was behaving like a young man barely out of his teens preparing for his first date with the one his heart had chosen—he was that excited—repeating phrases he might need to use, his voice trembling. This thought made his moaning skin burn even more and the glow didn’t cool when he went outdoors. Luckily the restaurant was dim. Edgar noticed how the adventuresses who passed their table sized Hertz up, and he noticed with satisfaction that Hertz paid them no attention whatsoever. He was polite to the ladies, but his gaze never wandered to their knees, let alone their hips. So the powder mark on his otherwise spotless collar was all the more surprising.
“You’ve done excellent work,” Hertz said. “I can’t thank you enough. And now I have a new and interesting task for you. As I’m sure you understand, a greater workforce is needed here, and they’ve decided to send it.”
The dishes brought to the table calmed Edgar’s galloping thoughts, and he wet his lips with the wine but didn’t swallow. He didn’t dare to ask for something else to drink, though his mouth felt so dry he could hardly get his meat down. He cleared his throat. He had to concentrate on work; he couldn’t afford to lose Hertz’s trust.
“There aren’t enough men,” the Hauptsturmführer said. “Industry isn’t getting up to speed. The Bolsheviks’ scorched-earth tactics did unbelievable damage—but I don’t need to tell you that. We need new manufacturing facilities and new housing for the workers. The previous labor camps were under the purview of Reich security forces, but the work camp they’re establishing now will be under the economics side of the SS. We’re counting on them to get better results because, to be quite honest, the performance of the labor camps hasn’t quite been what we’d hoped. We’ll be working directly under the appointed Inspekteur der Konzentrationslager, SS-Gruppenführer Glücks, who answers directly to Reichsführer Himmler. In other words, I’ve been transferred, and now I’m gathering up responsible staff for this important project. I went last week to get to know the area where the new camp will be built, and I can tell you there will be plenty of work. The roads are in deplorable condition—I have a renewed appreciation for my driver’s mechanical skills. SS-Hauptsturmführer Hans Aumeier, who’s been named commandant of Vaivara, has ten years’ experience on the economics end, so I assume he’ll be guiding camp efficiency to a new level. We’re in discussion on the administrative arrangements at the moment. We’ll be working together with Baltische Öl petroleum company and the construction administration’s Einsatzgruppe Russland-Nord, and I need a reliable man on board, someone who understands the native mood.”
Reval, Estland General Commissariat, Ostland National Commissariat
JUST AS JUUDIT turned onto Roosikrantsi, Roland, wearing a German military jacket, stepped out from a courtyard passageway in front of her and politely raised his hat. Juudit froze. She thought about running away—was there time to get to the door, to get inside? It was only a few dozen meters. Roland’s fixed stare had startled the maid, who was carrying the shopping—Juudit noticed her uncertain movement.
“You can go in, Maria,” Juudit said.
The girl slipped through the gate; Juudit forced a polite smile and nodded to a passing neighbor and the manager of the German commissary. Roland took her by the arm and steered her away from the building.
“Let’s go for a walk,” he said.
They walked arm in arm. Roland’s stride was relaxed. His voice wasn’t.
“I need your mother’s apartment.”
Juudit didn’t answer. If she shouted loudly, she could get away from him for good. No more imagining she’d seen him in a crowd, no more being startled by his sudden appearances, no more wondering if Hellmuth would ever find out. They were out in public. There was a patrol officer just a scream away. Juudit opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her eyes flew from one passerby to the next. She went over how she would introduce him if they passed someone she knew. Alternatives flew through her mind in a flock, but every sentence she prepared struck up against the glass of Roland’s stare. He held her arm tightly, forcing her to walk at a steady pace as she struggled against him.
“There are fewer refugee transports to Finland as the days get shorter,” he said. “But there’s a severe housing shortage, so it’s hard for people underground to find a place to stay. Everyone’s afraid, everyone’s asking for papers.”
“Talk more softly,” Juudit whispered.
“Even you’re afraid. Are you thinking in German now?”
“No.”
“The apartment on Valge Laeva Street is next to the park, which is good. The park offers shelter and
the Bolsheviks destroyed the warehouses next door, so it’s easy to get to. You don’t need the apartment, and others do,” he said. “Have you heard from your brother, by the way? Can’t your Aryan manage to solve even that?”
Juudit opened her mouth again, then shut it. Hellmuth had told her that it was best to wait until the war was over. Then they would have a better chance of finding out Johan’s fate. He had taken her in his arms and the empathy in his touch had made her cry. She didn’t want to talk about Johan with Roland. His voice was cold. Her throat tightened, but she wouldn’t cry in front of him. They turned into Lühike Jalg Street and started to climb the stairs to Toompea. She could slip under the railing, run down the cobblestones. There was a crowd of people on the stairs—maybe Roland wouldn’t be able to run after her quickly enough, and she could yell, and that would be the end of it. But she just said, “I can’t get involved in something like that.”
“Nothing’s being asked of you.”
Roland took Juudit’s purse from her numb hand, looked through it, and took out the keys. They’d reached Kohtu Street. On the lookout platform were yet more German officers, some with binoculars, and photographers and reporters filming the borders of Ostland. Roland started to steer Juudit away. On the Patkuli stairs he took her hand, holding it like a newborn chick.
THE CLOCK DIDN’T SEEM to have moved at all. Its pace either slowed to nothing or sped up. In any case, it was always wrong. Tomorrow was the day Juudit would go to the apartment on Valge Laeva to complete the task Roland had given her. She paced around the office, unable to work although a pile of translating was waiting next to the typewriter. The sentences got all tangled every time she tried. It was a lucky thing Hellmuth was busy so she could be left alone, jumping whenever a car backfired or an ambulance sped by or a shadow moved in a corner, trying to calm herself by walking around although every circuit of the room made her feel more like an animal in a trap. Hellmuth wasn’t dreaming of country life anymore; he was thinking about Berlin, talking about his childhood there, the places Juudit must see, until at last his brow would crumple like paper.
“Maybe someplace else, then, someplace where we wouldn’t see the war,” he said.
Hellmuth was serious about her but Juudit was the one risking everything. She could lose all this—the smoking table that he had cleared off to make a place for her typewriter, his office, the Estonian newspapers the maid piled on his desk. He often just stopped in at headquarters and spent the rest of the day in his office at home; he preferred to listen to Juudit rather than to the office interpreters, so she translated the newspapers for him. Those were the days she liked the best, and she could lose them. Being able to send her mother Estonian newspapers. The newspapers were running out of paper to print on in spite of the fact that the mills were operating at full capacity. But the Germans had enough of everything, and so did she. She could keep scrubbing her face with sugar. But not without Hellmuth. Juudit continued pacing. She wasn’t going to get any work done today. Her skin felt raw. Her stockings were tormenting her. Her legs itched as if they were covered in layers of wool like the ones she wore in the summer as a child to protect against snakes. She took off her garter and rolled her stocking down. The beginning of a varicose vein on her right calf always made her think of her friend whose father had been executed by the Bolsheviks, his remains dug up from Pikk Street. She could still remember the smell of the girl’s mother, her sweaty powder, her groan as she took off the rubberized stockings she used for varicose veins. Her skin was red. And those veins. Juudit couldn’t afford to have varicose veins, couldn’t afford to lose Hellmuth’s interest, his fingers that crept up her legs in the darkness of the Estonia Theater. Hellmuth’s worries had grown with his transfer. He had a longer trip to the offices in the economic division and missed working in his own area of expertise. There was a hollowness in his touch now, and this worried Juudit more and more each day, frightened her into taking greater care of her beauty. Her life depended on Hellmuth’s feelings for her. Without them she had nothing.
A noise from outside made her start, although there was always noise when the children in the morning session came home from school. The clock only read noon, but she already craved a drink. The itch was unbearable. Tomorrow would come soon. Thirty hours from now she would go to meet the refugees. What if she ruined everything, if she didn’t know how to act and made a stupid mistake? What if there was someone she knew among the refugees? What if she just didn’t go? Roland could find someone else to do it. How could he be sure the coast guard schedules he’d obtained were accurate? How did he know the fishermen in the ring were trustworthy, or how long they could fool the inspectors, or whether they would have enough saws and other forestry equipment to cover the refugees hiding in the trucks? And what if the fishermen started blackmailing them? Where would they get the money? Where exactly were the trucks and the fuel coming from? Juudit didn’t want to know. Why hadn’t she resisted earlier? What had kept her lips sealed? Stalingrad, Tunisia, Rostov, or the fact that citizens of the occupied eastern regions were being drafted into the German forces? If she had confided in Gerda, she might have had a solution, might have told her to use her womanly wiles, to steer Roland, not let him steer her. But Juudit wasn’t Gerda, she didn’t have Gerda’s instinctive ability to melt even the most hardened opponent with her charm. Juudit missed Gerda, missed her advice. She hadn’t received a single letter from her, though she’d promised to write.
Tomorrow Hellmuth wouldn’t notice if Juudit slipped out after curfew because in the morning the whole group except for Juudit was going to Vilnius for a few days. But now the clock that had felt so slow started to rush. She usually couldn’t predict when Hellmuth would be home early and when he wouldn’t. She had to get ready. Hellmuth would be back, and the heels of guests’ shoes would be clattering over the floor. The cook was already whipping the eggs, the maid setting the table. She should be preparing to charm her guests. Nerves show immediately in a woman’s skin, that’s what Gerda would have said, and Juudit couldn’t afford to let them show. She started by lathering up her shaving soap. She’d learned from Gerda that you can only get really smooth legs with a razor, not with hydrogen sulfide, which stank in any case. The tan on Juudit’s legs was weak, pale. She ought to do something about that. After her bath she sprinkled salicylic powder under her arms and put the can back on the shelf next to the black pen she’d used to use to draw seams along the backs of her legs in her stockingless days. Her darkened elbows showed in the mirror like storm clouds. She picked up the hand mirror and tried to see how bad they were. She should have the maid bring more lemons. Other than that, her transformation from dove soft to scaly snake didn’t show. Or was she just fooling herself?
EDGAR TOOK A MOMENT to breathe as he stood at SS-Hauptsturmführer Hertz’s door. He could see the soft light of the entryway through the green glass transom. He straightened his shoulders. The tailor had done his work well, and made sure the badge on his sleeve was straight. OT-Bauführer. Because of the shortages he would have to make do with a sleeve badge and his employee ID booklet, but what did it matter? He had plenty of reasons to be pleased. He’d waited for this invitation for a long time. Once he was through this door, the whole Empire would be open to him. Men from Baltische Öl and the Goldfeld company would arrive; so would the Einsatzgruppe Russland-Nord, whose activities he’d already researched. When the Germans had retreated from the Caucasus and lost access to the Caspian Sea, their gaze had turned to Estonia. Edgar understood immediately what it meant. They were out of oil. They would never surrender Estonia. Petrochemicals were the future. Baltische Öl’s interests would be prioritized, and although he had never researched the subject, he would start now.
The maid took Edgar’s coat and hat. There was already a cheerful atmosphere in the room, the Führer’s portrait on the wall slightly askew. Hauptsturmführer Hertz gave him a warm welcome, led him to a room full of guests, and left to look for his girlfriend, who was still in her dre
ssing room. SS-Sturmbannführer Aumeier came over to continue a conversation he and Edgar had begun earlier in the day about a trip to Vilnius and Riga. It seemed an intriguing device had been invented in Lithuania to make processing easier, and they would see it at work at the Paneriai camp. Perhaps something similar could be used in Estland. Edgar told him the system of delegation was progressing well with the police patrols as well as Third Battalion Major Koort. Regulations said that staff members had to maintain a six-foot distance from the inmates; they still needed to discuss logistics. The Sturmbannführer nodded—it was a familiar situation: the SS-Wirtschafter wanted to keep close tabs on certain key sectors.
The door to the drawing room was open, and at first Edgar was too focused on fitting in to realize why the voice of the woman talking with the Hauptsturmführer in the hallway sounded familiar. Then he knew: there was no mistaking that voice, even over the cheerful chatter of the other guests. Edgar glanced at the windows. No, he shouldn’t even think it—but the center window was a large double door. It must lead to a balcony.
He squeezed his way to a corner of the balcony, pressed his back against the stucco, and held tight to the railing with his right hand. The hem of the curtains licked at his shoes from between the doors. He could hear the click of high heels in the drawing room, the squeak of the floor, and that easily recognizable female laugh. There was no way to jump—the apartment was too high up. The guests were going to the table. Edgar heard Sturmbannführer Aumeier mention his name and say something about his needing some fresh air. When the maid came to summon the woman to the phone, Edgar saw his chance. As her footsteps retreated, he slipped back inside, exchanged a few quick words with his host, walked calmly across the carpet, then quickened his steps and found the water closet just as Juudit walked past him into the drawing room. There was a door from the water closet into a hallway, and another from the hallway directly to the entryway, where he found his hat and coat. He whispered to the cook that he’d had a sudden bout of queasiness and had to leave, asked her to convey his apologies to the hosts for his sudden departure. Later he sent word that they could send a car for him when the rest of the guests were ready for the trip. He felt well enough to travel.