When the Doves Disappeared (22 page)

A
LTHOUGH HELLMUTH HAD URGED
Juudit to stay home on the fifth of October and warned her about the threat of a terrorist attack, Gerda stopped by and persuaded her to come along to see off the legionnaires.

“Terrorist attack? Pshaw. The boys should have the image of Estonian beauties in their eyes when they go off to war, not just weeping mothers. It’s our duty to go to the station!” She looked on as Juudit gave herself a beauty treatment, carefully mixing one part ammonia and two parts hydrogen peroxide with her fingers and dabbing it on her scalp with a cotton ball. Gerda thought Juudit ought to let a hairdresser lighten her hair—she would get much better results.

“Admit it—the only reason you’re dressing up is for the boys. But you don’t have to do all that yourself anymore. Sometimes I think you don’t realize that,” Gerda said reproachfully. “Let this be the last time! I heard that some girls are bringing provisions for the legionnaires. I figured I’d just paint my fingernails.”

Juudit laughed. There was no resisting Gerda, and in the morning they ran to stand in front of the Gustav Adolf Gymnasium for the best view of the procession as it marched toward Town Hall Square. The
road and courtyard were covered in flowers; people were following the band, the crowd growing. Girls in folk costumes swarmed around the legionnaires and pinned the flowers of the homeland to the men’s chests. Estonian flags waved madly, German flags hung limp until someone sent down an order and they were lifted higher. Town Hall Square buzzed and hummed; herds of little children hardly breathed as they stared at the rows of volunteers, their erect posture, their shorn heads. Gerda dragged Juudit after her, the crowd treading on their feet, and they managed to hear, if not see, SA-Obergruppenführer Litzmann’s arrival. Juudit stood on tiptoe, Hjalmar Mäe puffed behind Litzmann, and was that Security Police Commander Sandberger, with white lapels spread across his chest like a seagull’s wings, or was it SS-Oberführer Möller? Gerda waved with her free hand. Photographers swarmed around Litzmann, lunging forward and back looking for the best angle and dashing spent flashbulbs—flashbulbs they’d been given in profligate abundance—onto the cobblestones. Flags bloomed over the square—white, blue, black, red. The roar of the crowd made one dizzy. Juudit lowered herself onto her heels and swung her just-bleached locks, the hair at her temples already starting to curl again. There was no one she knew among those departing, not even Gerda’s relatives. So what was she doing here? Gerda had said this was a moment to experience, when Estonians could fight for their freedom. “They finally have their own legion, Juudit. Do you understand how long we’ve waited for this? The fate of Estonia depends on how much of a stake the people have in the fight against Bolshevism. Can’t you see that?”

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

E
DGAR’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 first 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.”