Night Crossing

Livia Kivisild
Calgary, Alberta

Thousands of Estonians fled their country in September 1944 when the Red Army was once again threatening. However, a large number of Estonians had left earlier during the German Occupation

Estonian boys - my brother among them - had fled to Finland to join the Finnish army in their fight against the Soviet Union. There were other Estonian refugees living in Finland; an Estonian Relief Committee in Helsinki acted as a communication centre for the Estonian troops. Estonians with connections to Sweden had migrated to that country legally. There was an agreement between the Swedish Government and the German occupation forces to allow Swedish citizens, their relatives and descendants to settle in Sweden. In spite of the war, a passenger boat made regular trips between Stockholm and Tallinn to evacuate the Swedes to their neutral homeland. Among the evacuees were many whose ties to Sweden were quite tenuous, but any way to escape the German occupation and the possible horror of a new Soviet invasion was welcome.

I was a teenager, a war time teenager, but still in many ways a child and I also started my journey earlier than most. It was January 1944. One day Mother told me I was leaving for Finland tomorrow. Everything was arranged. I tried to argue that there was this and that I had promised to do, I had to play the piano in my chamber music group and... But Mother was firm. I was leaving. It was arranged. And since I was a girl and could not really go alone, she had arranged for me to go with my brother's friend Vova, who was five years older than I, a university student fleeing from the draft into the German army. He had promised to take care of me, Mother said. Tomorrow came. The 31st of January, 1944. Not a very cold day, but it was snowing. Heavy, wet, coastal snow. Mother hired a horse drawn sleigh complete with bells to take us the 500 meters to Narva Road, where the traveling party was to assemble.

I was dressed for the cold journey: ski pants, two sweaters, winter coat with fur collar, and on my feet, my aunt's trusty Swiss mountain climbing boots, oiled to be water proof. The boots had been given to me, because my feet had grown as had the rest of me, but there had not been any shoe stores open for three years - just no shoes to be bought during the war.

My only piece of luggage was also a family heirloom: grandfather's rucksack. Dark green canvas with leather trim; it came from Switzerland as well. Mother let me take minimal luggage for two reasons. Firstly it was easy to carry. With the rucksack on my back, it left my hands free, which turned out to be a blessing. Secondly I was leaving the country illegally. Should the coast guard catch us, they might believe my prepared story about being on my way to the coast to visit cousins.

The sleigh stopped. We walked through a gate and found ourselves in the yard of an apartment building. A truck was parked at an angle, and people bundled up as I was, were standing around. There were two children - a boy and a girl perhaps eight or ten years old. They stood silently next to their mother while a man - their father - was arguing. The well dressed man, who turned out to be a judge, wanted the driver of the truck to give him a guarantee that his family would arrive safely. The request was ridiculous. Outboards crossing arms of the sea with ice floes, illegally at night in wartime carry no guarantees. The fisherman was clearly tired of the insistent customer. He turned and said: "Even if the boat did capsize - which is not likely, and your kids did fall in, the water would not turn to pea soup and the fish would live there as before."

With that we were told to get in the back of the truck, lie down and be quiet. I had one last glimpse of Mother standing in the snow. Then the tarpaulin was pulled over us to hide us from view, the truck started and we were off. The drive seemed endless. It was totally dark under the cover and no one dared to even whisper.

Finally the truck came to a stop. The cover was lifted and we disembarked. We were in a farmyard by the sea. There was no moon and no light visible in the house. But I was used to that. Windows were covered during the war. Blackout was very real.

A man stepped out of the shadows, told us to be quiet and to come in. We did. In the big room of the farmhouse, there was a long table, chairs and benches along the walls. So there was space for everyone to sit down. And the house was warm if dark.

We could see two boats pulled ashore. One had an outboard, the other did not. Then the older man who had stepped out of the shadows came into the house. He told us we would be leaving in about ten minutes or as soon as the coast guard patrol was further away. Then he said we should deposit our luggage in the motorless boat and board the outboard. He said the outboard would tow the other boat and we would be more comfortable with no clutter in our boat. I was confused. Mother had said under no circumstances to leave my rucksack anywhere, and my experience with boats made me doubt an outboard could tow another boat heavy with luggage all the way - 80 km - to Finland. So I did what I had to do. I told the man I was taking the rucksack, because I had to take it. Everybody turned to look at me. But it was dark and they couldn't see that I wasn't as sure of myself as I sounded.

Then it was time to go. Dutifully, my fellow passengers deposited their suitcases in the boat and I climbed into the passenger boat with my bag on my back. The motor started, and after about 50 meters, the rope towing the second boat gave way, and we could see men wading into the water and pulling the boat and cargo ashore. So I was the only member of my group setting off with my possessions intact.

Further away from shore, a light wind was blowing, and there were waves. Waves rocked the boat, but fortunately there were no ice floes. So there was no immediate danger. Still, some passengers became seasick. Among them Vova, who was supposed to escort and protect me. Instead, I had to sit next to him and prevent his falling overboard as he leaned over the side of the boat. In a way it was a good thing: the strenuous effort gave me no time to be afraid or to feel the cold. We were, after all, crossing the Gulf of Finland in an open outboard in the middle of a Nordic winter night.

Then we hit ice floes, but the Finnish islands were already in sight. We came to within 40 or 50 meters of the shore, and then the boat could not take us any further. Suddenly it was cold. It was still dark. With the number of hours we had traveled, it should have been morning, but it was winter and the nights were long. In the shallow waters of the Estonian coast we could have waded into the water, got ourselves wet and cold, and walked ashore. But the Finnish islands were rocky, and the water very close to shore could be quite deep. We had no choice. The boat had to return south and the two fishermen ordered us to jump the floes to the island. The grown-ups were terrified and tried to argue, but I was still indestructible. It was simple. The ice was white, the water black. All that was necessary was to make sure one stepped on the white and not the black. And off we went. No one fell in the water and in a few minutes we were all safely on Finnish soil.

Our exhausted group was met by a Finnish coast guard officer, apparently quite used to travelers like us. He invited us into a cabin on the other side of the tiny island. It was a modest wooden cabin, but it was warm, and we were served hot tea with sugar. It was probably very ordinary tea, but it tasted divine. And many of us hadn't had sugar cubes in years. So we sat on benches along the walls, and some of us on benches along the table, that was like and indoor picnic table. It was intoxicating to be warm, to not move, or sway, or rock. And we had arrived. The danger was over.