Rachel’s
Secret
SHELLY SANDERS
Second Story Press
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Sanders, Shelly, 1964-
Rachel’s secret / Shelly Sanders.
Issued also in electronic format.
ISBN 978-1-926920-37-5/E-ISBN 978-1-926920-46-7
I. Title.
PS8637.A5389R33 2012 jC813’.6 C2011-908650-6
Copyright © 2012 by Shelly Sanders
Editor: Malcolm Lester
Line and Copy Editors: Kathryn White, Katie Todd
Design: Melissa Kaita
Cover photo © iStockphoto
Printed and bound in Canada
Second Story Press gratefully acknowledges the support of the Ontario Arts Council
and the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We acknowledge
the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.
Published by
Second Story Press
20 Maud Street, Suite 401
Toronto, ON M5V 2M5
www.secondstorypress.ca
Proceed thence to the ruins, the split walls reach,
Where wider grows the hollow, and greater grows the breach;
Pass over the shattered hearth, attain the broken wall
Whose burnt and barren brick, whose charred stones reveal
The open mouths of such wounds, that no mending
Shall ever mend, nor healing ever heal . . .
—excerpt from In the City of Slaughter,
Hayyim Nahman Bialik
In memory of my late grandmother,
Shelly Talan Geary, to honor her courage and strength.
For all people who suffer from prejudice and discrimination.
FEBRUARY
Jewish doctors have formed a secret syndicate to swindle and defraud their unsuspecting patients through charlatanism and quackery.
—Bessarabetz, February 11, 1903
One
By the time Rachel saw the branch on the ice it was too late. Her skate blades had caught in the bough, throwing her off balance. She waved her arms to stay upright, but gravity pulled her over. She landed facedown on the frozen River Byk, her long black skirt flying up to her knees, revealing skinny legs in dark woolen tights.
Rachel’s face flushed beet-red with embarrassment over her fall and the public display of her legs. She hastily pushed herself up and brushed the ice off her mittens and shawl.
“What happened?” Mikhail, asked as his lanky frame approached her. “One minute you were talking to me and the next minute you were down.”
“Ech…a branch got in my way,” she replied with a grimace. “I should have been paying more attention.” She looked ahead, squinting to find her friends, but all she saw was a group of children with their parents. “Where are Chaia and Leah?”
“They’re up ahead, skating with Yoram and Meyer.”
Rachel shook her head and let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “Then I don’t want to skate with them. Chaia acts silly around Yoram, as if he’s the most important person in the world.” She continued skating with Mikhail by her side, looming over her like a shadow. “But he’s just the same old Yoram.”
“Do you think Chaia’s thinking about marriage?” Mikhail asked, running his hand though his short, white-blond hair.
“I should hope not. She…I mean we’re far too young to be so serious.” She looked away so Mikhail wouldn’t see the fear in her eyes. Over the last few weeks, Leah and Chaia had been spending far more time with Yoram and Meyer than with her.
Through the barren trees clutching the edge of the narrow river, she saw the lower section of Kishinev, with its cramped wooden shanties and skeletal birches asleep for the winter. Thin, swirling lines of smoke rose from the chimneys. Rachel inhaled the flat, burnt fumes.
“My mother married when she was sixteen,” said Mikhail, smiling mischievously and fixing his eyes on Rachel. “My grandmother was even younger.”
Rachel noticed that the skin surrounding Mikhail’s eyes creased when he smiled. “I’m not getting married until I’m a famous writer who has traveled everywhere, and I shall only marry if I find someone I love more than anyone else.” She lengthened her stride to keep up with Mikhail, a difficult task with the afternoon wind picking up and her rusty skate blades too long for her feet. Every time she moved forward, her felt boots almost came off the blades entirely.
Mikhail’s eyebrows arched. “Don’t you think that’s a little too much to expect? I’ve never heard of a woman writer…women can’t even travel without permission from their father or husband.”
“There is Elena Gan, Karolina Pavlova and Isabella Grinevskaya.” Rachel’s eyes flashed with defiance. “Women are just as capable as men at writing. It doesn’t require strength or size like you need for farming or factory work.”
“But how can you be a wife, and a mother, and a writer?”
Rachel pressed her lips together and thought about Cecily, the rich heroine in her favorite book, A Double Life, by Karolina Pavlova. Cecily, trapped in a meaningless marriage, is despondent about her future, even when she sleeps and dreams:
Hold back your passion, stifle its sounds,
Teach your tears not to flow.
You are a woman! Live without defenses,
Without caprice, without will, without hope.
Even though Cecily has money, she is miserable because she has no purpose other than serving her husband. Rachel would rather be alone, writing and traveling, than be married to someone who didn’t encourage her to follow her dreams. “How can you be a husband, a father, and work in your grandfather’s business?”
Mikhail’s eyes clouded over. “It’s always been that way…men work and women raise the children and manage the house.”
“Not me,” said Rachel with shaky pride. “I don’t want to end up miserable like…” She searched her memory for a character that Mikhail would know. A Double Life was much more popular with girls than boys. “Like Anna Karenina.”
“I should hope not.” Mikhail stopped skating and gave Rachel an incredulous look. “Anna Karenina left her husband and chased after another man.”
Rachel’s green eyes narrowed. “She wasn’t happy with her husband, so why should she stay with him?”
“Because—”
“She married the wrong person and couldn’t be with the man she truly loved.”
“Yes, but—”
“Everyone treated her badly, even her friends, when all she wanted was to be happy.” Rachel put her hands on her hips and braced herself for another heated debate with Mikhail, their third in as many weeks.
But Mikhail’s face softened, and he looked at her with a tenderness that startled Rachel. Before she knew what was happening, he had wrapped his arms around her tiny waist. Shivers ran up and down her spine. She could smell the mint on his breath and tobacco smoke on his overcoat. Feeling constrained by his arms, she tried to pull away.
He tightened his grasp, bent his head down, and kissed her for the first time.
“Stop,” she cried, pushing him away. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Why not?” he demanded. “Chaia and Leah have probably already kissed Yoram and Meyer.”
Rachel swallowed a lump that had suddenly lodged in her throat. “I’m not like Chaia and Leah. All they talk about is getting married and having houses of their ow
n.” She paused. “Besides, they’re Jewish, Yoram and Meyer.”
Mikhail frowned. “It was only a kiss. I didn’t say anything about marriage.”
“I know,” snapped Rachel. “But if people saw us…” She turned around to see if anybody had been watching and winced when she saw Sergei, a friend of Mikhail’s, approaching them.
“Have you seen Petya or Nikolai?” Sergei asked. Although he was fourteen, like Mikhail, Sergei’s voice was deeper and dark hair was beginning to show above his lips.
“No, I didn’t know they were here today,” answered Mikhail.
Sergei turned and stared into the distance. “They must be way down the river. Too far to go now.”
Rachel wished Sergei would just leave. A couple of days ago, when she had walked out of a shop with some flour to make challah for Shabbos, Sergei had bumped into her and knocked her bag out of her hands. When she saw the flour all over the ground, Rachel had looked at Sergei for an offer to buy some more. Even an apology would have been welcome. Instead, he ran off without saying a word.
“I thought we were going to race to where the river narrows, Mikhail,” said Sergei.
Mikhail shrugged. “Next time. I’m skating with Rachel now.”
Rachel looked away and fiddled with the tea-colored braid that hung halfway down her back.
“But you skate with Rachel every Sunday. You don’t mind, do you, Rachel?”
She blinked at Sergei. “It’s up to Mikhail. I would never force him to skate with me.”
“I skate with you every Saturday, Sergei,” Mikhail said. “I told you, I’m skating with Rachel today.”
Rachel looked at Sergei and smiled—a gloating smile that she couldn’t hide.
Sergei shook his head and frowned as he skated back to the river’s edge, his arms flying wildly from side to side.
Rachel and Mikhail watched as Sergei sat down on the rickety wooden bench he and Mikhail had made earlier in the season. He unbuckled his skate blades and stomped away from the river.
“Why is he so angry?” she asked. Mikhail shrugged and took off across the ice. Rachel moved quickly to keep up with him, shoving Sergei and his foul temper to the back of her mind. In a way, she was grateful to Sergei for easing the tension between Mikhail and her. She wanted to forget about their kiss, pretend it had never happened.
Up ahead, Rachel saw her older sister, Nucia, showing off by skating on one leg, the other extended behind her. Tall and graceful, she looked as if she were flying on the ice.
“You’re so lucky you don’t have any brothers or sisters.” Rachel’s eyes were pasted on Nucia.
“I wouldn’t mind a brother,” Mikhail replied. “It’s pretty quiet with just my grandparents and me.”
“You may think you want a brother, but trust me, you don’t…especially if your brother was better than you at everything. I hate it when Mother tells me I need to be quieter like Nucia, or neater like Nucia.” She paused to catch her breath. “Chaia has an older sister who is a very good cook. She bakes bread that melts in your mouth. So Chaia’s mother expects her to be just like her sister, only Chaia can hardly make tea! If I was starving and there was no other food then maybe I’d eat Chaia’s rock-hard bread. I feel sorry for her future husband. He’ll probably starve to death…”
She glanced to her right and saw Mikhail’s mouth twitch with amusement.
“First one to that tree leaning over the river wins,” he said.
Rachel laughed and began skating faster. It took two of her strides to make one of his, and she had to keep pushing her long, bulky skirt out of the way. Mikhail was at least more than a body length ahead of her. “Just you wait, Mikhail,” she called out, clutching her shawl around her. “I’m not stopping until I get you.”
As soon as the words flew out of her mouth, Mikhail fell onto his back and stopped moving.
Rachel rushed over, blanketing his body with her shadow, a stricken expression on her face. As she leaned closer, Mikhail suddenly opened his eyes and grinned, his teeth glistening in the late afternoon light. Rachel fell backwards until she was sitting down on the cold ice. “I can’t believe you tricked me like that,” she laughed.
“I can’t believe you fell for it.” He got to his feet, extended his hand to help her up, and pulled her into an embrace.
“What are you doing?” she cried, squirming out of his arms. “I told you…I don’t want to be with you like that.”
Mikhail’s jaw clenched and he eyed her with derision. “You’re crazy for thinking you can choose your destiny. You will never leave Kishinev, and you will never become a writer.”
Nucia’s shrill voice pierced the air above the quiet river, now almost deserted. “Rachel, it’s time to go,” she called in Yiddish, the language Jewish families used among themselves.
Rachel heard her sister but was too upset to respond. She truly had thought that Mikhail, of all people, would understand and support her dreams, not rip through them with sharp, cynical words.
“Quickly. Mother will be angry if we’re not home to help with supper.” Nucia stood on the riverbank with her arms crossed, waiting for Rachel. A couple of parents and children were also leaving the river, skates in hand.
Without a word, Rachel skated over to the bench where she slowly undid her skates, buckled them together, and stood up. She looked back and saw Mikhail skating off, away from the river’s edge. Nobody else was in sight. In the distance, she heard the train whistle announcing its departure for Odessa, a sound that reminded Rachel of the larger world she desperately wanted to explore.
With a heavy heart, she walked silently beside Nucia from the river to the narrow, meandering street that led to their home.
Sergei kicked the snow as he walked from the tree-lined edge of the River Byk along the muddy street that led to town. He shivered as the cold penetrated his worn leather boots and quickened his pace. Laughter erupted as he neared the ice hill where children were climbing the wooden stairs. He watched some young boys fly down the icy slide on sleds painted brightly with flowers and birds. Just a few winters ago he had spent his free time on this hill, racing Mikhail to see who could get the most slides in one afternoon.
As he continued downhill toward the crowded Jewish district, the wind smacked against his face, stinging his eyes. Uneven stones and tiles jutted out from filthy snow, and short, half-dead birch trees stooped over like old Jewish men. Sergei wrinkled his nose at the strange odors emanating from the stone walls that obscured Jewish communities along the narrow road. He glanced through the arched gates of one courtyard. Inside were wooden houses with sagging tile roofs and a small child who looked at Sergei with mournful eyes.
The sharp whistle in the distance announced the departure of the afternoon train to Odessa. One day, Sergei promised himself, he would be on the train going somewhere, anywhere, to get away from Kishinev. He walked past the Jewish orphanage, a large, stone building with dark, narrow windows that had frightened Sergei when he was younger. His father told him that if he were really bad, he would be locked in the Jewish orphanage as a punishment. Looking at it now, Sergei decided it still looked ominous.
Sergei began walking uphill, crossing over to Aleksandrov Street and upper Kishinev, with its wide, paved sidewalks, stone office buildings, and schools, theaters, and churches. Stores, built from white stone, had red-trimmed windows, but many of them had gone out of business recently and were boarded up.
From the top of the hill, Sergei could see the whole city, set upon hilly plains. White limestone cathedrals rose up from the snow-covered evergreens, with cupolas that looked like helmets or onions. In the distance were flat steppes on which crops of sugar beets, sunflowers, wheat, maize, tobacco, and grapes would appear in the spring.
“Sergei! Wait for me!”
Turning, he saw Petya running to catch up with him. Serge
i frowned. “I was looking for you on the river today.”
Petya held his battered skate blades in his hands. His face was bright red from the cold—almost the color of his copper-red hair.
“Theodore, Nikolai, and I were racing at the other end of the river,” Petya replied, breathing heavily. “There were too many people in the middle. You should’ve come with us.”
“I wish I had. Mikhail went off with Rachel, so I left.” Sergei lit a cigarette with a birch splinter and they continued walking, leaving a trail of smoke behind them.
A large horse-drawn troika bearing a fur-clad woman and a young girl drove past. The girl wore a red hood with a deep cape and a long white cloak. The sleigh was low and small, with just enough room for two passengers and the coachman. His tall, black hat reminded Sergei of a stovepipe.
Sergei and Petya watched the troika go by, and continued on past The Moscow, where the bitter smell of beer and stale tobacco smoke hung in the air. A couple of infantry officers in green uniforms with high, stiff feathers in their caps stood outside the door, talking loudly and smoking.
“I don’t understand why Mikhail skates with Rachel every week,” said Sergei.
“Maybe because she’s kind of pretty and laughs a lot.” Petya pulled his collar up higher around his neck. “Do Mikhail’s grandparents know he spends so much time with her?”
“He’s never said.”
“My father would kill me if I took up with a Jewish girl,” said Petya, shaking his head. “We have lots of Jewish friends, like our neighbors, but my father pretends he doesn’t know them if he sees them in the square. He says people complain to him, because he’s the mayor, about how crowded Kishinev is becoming from all the Jews.”
Sergei frowned. “My father says Jews are taking away all our jobs, that Kishinev is going to be controlled by Jews if we don’t watch out.”
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