Wolf Winter (22 page)

The wind grew. It was icy. The limp flakes froze and began to insist. They drove in fierce waves and smattered at her front.

“We need to press on,” she called, but her voice was stolen by the wind. She stopped, shuffled with her back against it, and made signs for her children and the priest to come near.

“We’re not far from the marsh, but it will be hard. Ski close to each other so you don’t get lost.”

They looked at her to see if there was more, but the wind shoved flakes in her mouth. She shook her head, turned, gestured for them to follow.

She skied head down, but the gusts still hit her face with ice. Every couple of strides she half-turned to make certain Dorotea was behind her.
Dig a shelter,
a voice inside her said.
Dig it now.
They ought to, but she hadn’t brought a spade. She half-turned again. Dorotea was still there.

For hours they skied straight into a wind that drove so strongly, she felt it might wipe them off the mountain. Maija leaned into its force and pressed her legs forward one after the other, and still she was not certain she had moved. It was too late for shelters—they were sweaty and their clothes were frozen.

It was night by the time they reached the homestead. Maija fell on her knees to help Dorotea and Frederika take off their skis. She pushed on them, and they flung themselves toward the porch.

“Hurry. Undress in the hallway.” She called the words but didn’t think there had been any sound.

She crept on her knees until she found the priest’s skis and undid his. He tried to speak, but she waved: Go in. Go inside.

Dorotea stumbled against the table as she tried to sit. Frederika was building a fire. The priest had bent beside her and was handing her wood. Maija grabbed the stones. Her eyes were burning. Her fingers shook so she had to let go of the flint stones and shake her hands to try to get some mobility into them. Try again.
Knock, knock, knock.
Fire. She bent forward and blew on the dried grass. Her lips quivered. With trembling fingers she put splinters of wood close to it.
Careful. Don’t ruin it.

“Get all the skins and blankets,” she said and didn’t recognize her own voice. “Put them here.”

She put a blanket over Dorotea. The girl was shaking. Frederika pushed her sister backward and lay down beside her and hugged her.

We could have died,
Maija thought. Her head felt muddled and thick.

We didn’t die,
she thought.

She removed her woolens—the clothes were wet and her movements slow. She lay down beside her daughters in front of the flames that were licking the stone of the fireplace.

Snow whirled up, and with the sound of a handful of pebbles, it threw itself against the window panes.

“We are going to have to shovel the porch tonight,” Maija said. “Take turns.” She made as if to sit up, but beside the fireplace the priest shook his head.

“I’ll start.”

“Look at the window. An inch on the windowsill and you’ll have to shovel. Wake me up when you’re tired.”

She lay down again.

“What is it with you and the Church?” he asked.

“What?”

“For some reason you hate the Church. Or priests. It isn’t just me.”

At once Jutta was there. By the fire. Her back toward Maija, erect. Listening.

“I mean …” he said.

“I know what you mean,” she snapped. That she had the strength surprised her.

Beside her, Dorotea stirred. “I know what you mean,” Maija repeated, more quietly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I am a priest,” he said after a while. “You can talk to me.”

Though we don’t do confessions any longer,
she thought.

We could have died,
her head insisted.

But we didn’t.

Their toes.
Get up,
she thought.
Get up.
She forced herself. She reached for Frederika and removed her socks. Lifted them off. Pink toes. Five. Ten. Pink.

She would never have forgiven herself.

She pulled the blanket over Frederika’s feet and found Dorotea’s. Dorotea’s legs were hopping underneath the blanket. Maija put both her hands on her daughter’s legs as if to try to still them, then removed her hands and pulled off Dorotea’s socks.

Her baby’s feet looked unreal, as if made of yellow wax. Her middle toe still a little bit above the others in an imitation of the foot it had once been, for now the foot was hard.

The priest met her eyes. He did not turn away.

“Dorotea,” she said, and pressed her nail down deep into the flesh of her daughter’s foot. “How do your feet feel?”

“Fine, Mamma,” Dorotea mumbled.

Maija closed her eyes, opened them again. “Snow.” She rose. “We’ll rub the skin with snow.”

The priest grabbed her arm. “No. I’ve seen it in the war. It makes it worse.”

He bent to cover Dorotea’s feet.

“We wait,” he said.

Maija lay down again. She pressed with her fingers and thumb into her eyelids. As she held herself so, she became aware of the silence. All this time it had been concealed beneath the chores, the changing seasons and weathers; beneath all words, all thoughts, it was there.

Like a block of ice, it pressed against the window, waiting to break in.

They alternated. Took turns to sit by the kitchen table and, as the snow climbed another inch up the pane, to dress, force themselves outside and shovel the white hell away, and then wake the other one up. Sleep like the dead.

“We have to keep the porch clear,” Maija repeated.

At first the priest didn’t know why, but then, on one occasion, when he waited that little too long—oh God, he was so tired, just one more minute—he wasn’t able to open the door and then with a jolt, he understood. He was certain he had seen more winter than she. Nothing could be worse than what they’d had in Russia. But this she had foreseen, and he had not.

Frederika appeared by his side. She began to throw her shoulder against the wood at rhythmic intervals. He joined her, and together they edged the door open.

“Thank you,” he said, although “Don’t tell your mother” was what he wanted to say.

The light from inside turned the snowfall into a wall in front of him, a wall crawling with life. He stepped out, the door shut behind him, and he was inside that life. All was dark. He was totally alone.

Toward morning the little one began to moan. It was her flesh thawing. Muscles, ligaments, blood vessels, and nerves, waking up to discover the damage. The next time he and Maija looked, Dorotea’s feet were swollen and purple. The blisters weren’t far away.

He must have been sleeping, because the sound of breaking glass made him sit bolt upright. The little girl had been lying so close against him, she rolled into his space.

“Sorry.” Maija lifted her hand with the ladle. “The drinking water has frozen.”

His heart beat fast.

“Is it still snowing?” he asked, although the winds pounded the cottage so hard he had to raise his voice.

She nodded. Her eyes seemed large.

“We don’t have much firewood,” she said. “It’s in the woodshed. I didn’t bring enough in. I didn’t think …”

He rose and walked to the window. The floor was glacial. He shifted from one foot to the other as he bent to peer out. It was black outside. Impossible to see anything.

“We’ll wait until there’s some light,” he said, “and then we’ll get it.”

She nodded. In the circumstances and for the moment there was some sort of truce between them.

Her mouth was a thin line in her face. “Her feet are not black,” she said about her daughter and nodded several times, as if she had decided something for herself.

The priest didn’t say anything. He had no solace to give. They wouldn’t know the extent of the damage done to the girl’s feet for many weeks, perhaps months.

At daybreak they saw the face of the storm: the snow battering down, the rush of flakes driven sideward by the squall. He could not see the trees or the outbuildings, although he knew they were right there.

“Well, the longer we wait, the worse it will be,” he said.

“Frederika, see to your sister,” Maija said.

When the priest opened the door, the wind snatched it and threw it against the wall. He grabbed it and pressed it shut behind them.

They pushed across the yard, leaning against the wind. With each step he took, he sank to his knees. She was there, beside him, behind him, a shape, a shadow. Yet he’d never felt more lonely.

She leaned forward and pointed: the woodshed. When he reached it, he supported himself with his hand against its wall until he found the door. It was already half-covered. He began to shovel. For every
spadesful of snow he removed, the storm seemed to throw two back at him. Rather than seeing the whole, he centered himself on that one scoop, then the next. He found there was silence in the midst of tempest. She took the shovel from him, and he rubbed his fingers against the heels of his hands inside his mittens and wriggled his toes inside his shoes to keep hot blood flowing.

After a while he took the shovel from her.

He didn’t know how long they worked like this. It might have been hours, but then it might not. When they could open the door, he continued shoveling, knowing now it wasn’t only about getting inside but about keeping ahead of the snowfall.

Inside, the mound of wood reached the roof. He exhaled in relief. Someone had done good work.

As they left, Maija looked further away. They had to do the same for the food storage. He touched her shoulder, nodded, but then shook his head: Later. They’d do it later.

They came inside, and the little girl was screaming.

Once upon a time there was a small bird …

“What kind of a bird?”

The priest stroked the younger daughter’s head. It was clammy. “Think of something different,” Maija had shouted at her in frustration when she kept screaming. Not so easy. He stroked it again, combed the blonde locks stuck to her forehead away with his fingers.

“I don’t know,” he said. “One of the usual ones. Small, gray …”

The bird was ravenous. It rummaged in the soil for worms, but found none. In the sky, high above it, a hawk floated an airstream.
Oh, if I had eyesight like the hawk,
the little bird thought,
then I would see to find worms when they hid from me.

God heard and gave it the eyesight of the hawk.

Now the little bird saw each separate blade of grass, the grains of the moss on the stones, the veins on the leaves. The world was so plentiful and its colors so sharp, it had to shut its eyes.
Oh, if I could fly as high as the hawk,
the little bird thought,
then I would be at the right distance to the earth to watch it.

God heard and gave it the ability to fly as high as the hawk.

The little bird glided in the sky. Below it, far down on the ground, it discerned many worms and insects, but the little bird shivered. This high up, it was cold.
Oh, if I had the thick feathers of the hawk, it thought, then I’d be warm here in the sky.

God heard and gave it the plumage of the hawk.

But the feathers were not fit for such a small bird. It beat its wings as fast as it could, with all its might, but before long it had to surrender, and it plummeted through the air and down to the ground.