Petya shrugged. “They do good work; my mother buys all of our shoes from a Jewish shop.”
“Pretty soon there won’t be anything but Jewish shops here,” Sergei said. “That’s why we have to make sure Jews know their place.”
He and Petya walked in silence, heads down to avoid the cold wind cutting into their faces. On the corner where they went their separate ways, a tea seller was closing up for the night. The light from the gas lamps made his silver samovar shine.
Sergei could hardly feel his fingers by the time he arrived home, the second floor of a four-story building divided into flats. Hot air from the stove and the aroma of salted pork enveloped him when he opened the door. He removed his boots and hung his coat on an iron hook in the vestibule, then he crossed himself in front of the icon of the Madonna and infant Jesus that hung on the wall beside the door.
“Good heavens, Sergei, it’s almost dark,” exclaimed his mother, rushing over to him.
“I didn’t realize it was so late.” Sergei smiled down at her.
“Carlotta, would you come and stir the soup?” his mother asked her sister, who lived with them.
From a dimly lit corner, Carlotta emerged with a childlike smile on her plain face. Her long, gray-streaked hair hung in a loose braid down the back of her dress, which fit snugly over her podgy belly. Taking the spoon, she began humming an indecipherable melody.
“Come,” said Sergei’s mother, pushing him toward the fire. “Get your wet clothes off, put them by the stove, and have some tea. Make haste, before you catch a cold.”
“Stop fussing over the boy,” ordered Sergei’s father in a voice that resonated throughout the room. Sitting on the chintz-covered sofa, he inhaled his cigarette, filling a ceramic dish with ashes, and read the Bessarabetz, the local daily newspaper. As his father stroked his chin, Sergei smiled, thinking about how his friends called his father “The Beard” because his whiskers were so long.
Sergei’s mother poured a glass of tea from the copper samovar. Sergei put a beetroot sugar cube in his mouth and took a sip. He savored the bitter tea as it passed through the sugar. Feeling warmer instantly, Sergei cupped his hands around the warm glass.
“When will Papa be home, Tonia?” Carlotta asked as she stirred a pot of hot cucumber soup.
Sergei’s mother gently took the spoon from Carlotta. “You know that Papa is gone, Carlotta.”
“Gone!” cried Carlotta. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and cried into it. “The tongue speaks but the head doesn’t know,” she said through her tears.
Sergei’s mother sighed and did what she always did when her sister had an outburst. She put her arm around her and led Carlotta to a rocking chair by the table. Then, wrapping her distraught sister in a shawl, she asked Sergei where he had been.
“I was skating with Mikhail on the river.”
“Can I come next time?” asked Natalya, Sergei’s eight-year-old sister. She was curled up on a chair in the corner playing with her wooden doll. A kerchief partially covered Natalya’s long, black hair. Her eyes, nose, and mouth were so delicate, they looked as if they’d been drawn on her face.
“Natalya, you’re too young to be out skating with your brother on the river. Anyway, there’s enough around here to keep you busy,” said Sergei’s mother. “Now go and get the lace tablecloth from the trunk and lay it on the table. And Sergei, when you’ve finished your tea, put another log into the stove.”
Sergei shrugged his shoulders at Natalya, who made a face when told she couldn’t go skating. He took a birch log from the wood box by the door and fed the tall, black stove in the middle of the room.
“I’m famished,” he said. “When will supper be ready?”
“If you’re so anxious to eat, pray for patience,” said his father, his face riveted to his newspaper.
“Glory hallelujah!” exclaimed Carlotta suddenly and loudly.
Sergei bit down on his bottom lip to keep from laughing.
Sergei’s father turned and glared at Carlotta. “Tell your sister to be quiet,” he ordered his wife.
Sergei watched as his mother cowered under his father’s disapproval. He took one last sip of tea and walked over to the eastern wall of the flat where religious icons from many generations of his family hung, softly illuminated by the oil lamp. He liked the icon with the yellow background, which reminded him of the sun, even on dark days.
“Come everyone,” called his mother. “It’s time to eat.”
Carlotta stood up, filled the bowls with soup and carried them to the table. She sat down in her spot and bent her head in prayer.
Sergei’s father got to his feet, patting his ample stomach with one hand and rubbing his stiff lower back with the other. “Ah. All day I’ve been thinking of this food.” He sat down heavily in his chair across from Sergei, Carlotta, and Natalya.
“Here it is,” said Sergei’s mother, bringing to the table a wooden platter filled with boiled pork, followed by a plate piled high with rye bread. She tied her apron and sat beside her husband.
Sergei’s father folded his hands in prayer. “We thank thee for the food you have so graciously provided. Amen,” he said.
“Amen,” proclaimed Carlotta, as if she was addressing a crowd.
Sergei exchanged a smile with Natalya and began loading his plate with the boiled pork.
“Papa, Sergei is taking so much food. There won’t be any left for us,” Natalya whined.
“He’s a growing boy, almost a man. Soon he’ll become a police officer like I am.” He beamed at his son. “And in a few years he’ll get married and have his own family to clothe and feed.”
Sergei almost choked on his meat as his father spoke. He didn’t want to be a police officer, and he certainly didn’t want to get married soon. Tomorrow, he vowed, he’d tell Mikhail that they had to leave soon, before his father stuck him in a uniform.
Two
Mikhail skated toward the bend in the river and thrust his face into the wind, not yet ready to go home. He wanted to clear his head, but he couldn’t stop thinking about what Rachel had said, how they could never be together…yet he wanted her more than any other girl. It frustrated him, wanting something he could not have.
He pumped his legs until he was skating briskly against the wind. He loved moving fast; it made him feel free, like the fish underneath the ice. No cares or responsibilities, no grandparents expecting him to live the life they had chosen. Mikhail’s brow wrinkled into folds of annoyance when he recalled the disagreement he’d had with his grandfather earlier that day.
“You must start working at the factory soon,” his grandfather had said over their midday meal of bread, fish, and soup. “To gain the workers’ respect, you must learn the business from the bottom up.”
Mikhail had kept his eyes on his carrot soup, hoping the conversation was over. But his grandfather was persistent. His old hand, with swollen finger joints and veins that crossed his skin like lines on a map, grabbed Mikhail’s wrist. Mikhail lifted his eyes and looked at his grandfather. In the background, he heard his grandmother washing pots noisily, as though reminding them that she was there.
“I’m not ready yet,” Mikhail began in a cautious tone. “I want to do some other things first.”
“Other things?” His grandfather stared into Mikhail’s eyes.
“I…I want to travel, maybe attend university—”
“Nonsense!” His grandfather let go of Mikhail’s hand and pounded his fist on the table. “How will you eat? How will you live?” His voice rose to a thundering boom. “This is nothing but a childish fairy tale. It is time to grow up!”
“I can find work,” Mikhail had said, determined to change his grandfather’s mind. “There is work in big cities like Petersburg.”
“Please stop,” his grandmother had cried, droppin
g her cloth into the basin. “I don’t like to hear you arguing.”
“But this is the only way to get some sense into this stupid boy,” his grandfather had replied with obvious scorn. “Do you hear what he is planning…to travel thousands of versts away when he has all he needs right here?”
“Maybe this isn’t what I need,” said Mikhail, his stomach knotted with frustration. “Maybe I’m different from you…”
“Different?” scoffed his grandfather. He leaned toward his grandson until Mikhail could smell the tobacco on his breath; tobacco his grandfather’s business had processed, tobacco his grandfather wanted him to process. “You are no different than I. No different than your father who worked with pride in the business.”
Mikhail groaned. His grandfather stoked his guilt by mentioning his father who, along with his mother, had been killed years ago in an accident.
“You must honor your father, do as he would have wished,” his grandfather continued, his blue eyes focused on Mikhail.
“How do you know what he would have wanted?” Mikhail swallowed and had tried to think of something else to say, but his mind was blank. He had no compelling reason to avoid working with his grandfather, other than the fact that he didn’t want to, which clearly was not good enough. Mikhail had left for the river without another word, but the wrath of his grandfather had been with him all afternoon, like a bad taste in his mouth.
Mikhail slowed down to catch his breath and give his burning thigh muscles a rest. He turned around and skated slowly, enjoying the view of the trees hugging the riverbank. The sun was low in the sky, yet still bright enough to make the untouched snow sparkle like sugar. His mouth watered as he thought about the sweet pastry his grandmother was making for supper. Then he thought about his grandfather and felt the anticipation drain from his body. Mikhail didn’t like his grandfather being angry with him; it made everything else seem unbalanced and wrong. As he rounded the bend, he felt the hairs on his neck rise and wondered if the temperature had fallen. In the dim light, he saw two people standing near the bench.
“Uncle?” he said, when he came closer and saw his Uncle Vasily and his cousin Philip. Vasily looked bulky with a sheepskin coat over his police uniform. His thick, dirty fingers held a half-finished cigarette. Philip stood close to his father with a blank expression on his pasty face.
Though Vasily and Philip were family, they were not welcome in his grandfather’s home. Something had happened before Mikhail was born, an argument that had never been resolved. Mikhail only saw his uncle and cousin in passing, usually from a distance. He’d never seen them skating.
“What are you doing here?” Mikhail skated closer and stopped when he saw his uncle’s dark eyes and bitter expression.
“We came to see you,” his uncle answered without smiling.
“Well…I’m just about to go home,” Mikhail said shakily. He skated toward the bench to remove his blades, but his uncle blocked his way.
“Looks like you won’t be going into the family business after all.” An ugly sneer spread over Vasily’s face.
Mikhail smelled alcohol on his uncle’s breath and looked at his cousin for help. But Philip stood, legs planted firmly, mocking him in silence.
“What…what do you mean?” Mikhail stammered.
Vasily slowly exhaled his cigarette smoke directly in Mikhail’s face. “I lost my position yesterday. Relieved of my duties. Poor conduct, whatever that means.” He threw his cigarette on the ground. “How am I going to put food on the table?”
Mikhail cringed. “I don’t know…perhaps Grandfather—”
“Ha!” Vasily spat on the ice. “He will give me nothing.” His voice rose with every word. “His own son, flesh and blood. Nothing! But you…you get everything.”
Mikhail started to back away but Philip thrust his leg behind his cousin’s knees. Mikhail stuck his arms out to keep his balance, but fell backwards. His skull sounded like a heavy rock as it hit the ice.
Flat on his back, Mikhail didn’t move for almost a minute. Then he felt his head thumping, as if it were being kicked from the inside. He opened his eyes and saw his uncle’s face spinning in front of him. Everything was swirling, the trees, the sky, his cousin’s eyes that seemed to come at him from every angle. Mikhail groaned and brought his hands to his head. “What…what do you want from me?” He pushed himself up with one hand so that he was sitting on the frozen river.
“I want what’s coming to me,” growled Vasily, planted over Mikhail like a massive tree trunk.
“I can talk to Grandfather,” Mikhail offered in a weak voice. “I’m sure he’ll help if you just tell him—”
“Tell him what?” Vasily’s voice grew louder. “That his own son has struggled for years on a policeman’s wage, and now I don’t even have that?” He stepped forward, closer to Mikhail. “Your grandfather doesn’t care about me or Philip. Only you. But if you’re gone, he has nobody else but me to take over the business.”
Mikhail turned his head to see if anyone else was nearby, but the world started spinning again. He thought he saw something red in the distance, but wasn’t sure. The river was disturbingly quiet and still.
“Let me talk to Grandfather,” pleaded Mikhail, still clutching his head with one hand. “I don’t even want to be a tobacco processor…he’ll listen to me…”
Vasily shook his head. He scowled and calmly pulled a large knife out of his coat pocket.
Unable to pry his eyes from the knife, Mikhail tried to stand on his skates, but the blood rushing from his head made him feel dizzy and weak. He collapsed forward, onto his chest.
“Please, Philip, for once in your life, stand up to your father. Don’t let him do this,” Mikhail cried, pushing himself away with his hands. “I’ll give you money…whatever you want.”
Philip stared at him with indifference and said nothing. Vasily crouched down beside Mikhail, holding the knife in front of him.
“No!” cried Mikhail. “Uncle, please don’t. Philip…help me!” He tried swiveling to his side, so he could kick his uncle with his skate blades, but Vasily was quick, despite his bulk. In one swift motion, he lifted Mikhail by his coat and stabbed him in the chest. Mikhail fell to the ground clutching his wound. His chest felt like it was on fire, burning with each breath he took.
Mikhail curled up into a ball and tried to scream when he felt the knife cutting his back, arms, and legs, but no sound came out. A scorching sensation ran down his spine. Blood filled his mouth making it difficult to breathe. Mikhail closed his eyes, clutching the silver icon that hung from a chain around his neck. He pictured his grandmother waiting for him to come home, her face pinched with worry, and his grandfather’s eyes, clouded over from the horrible things Mikhail had said to him in the heat of the moment, words he would never be able to take back, words that would darken the remainder of his grandfather’s days.
Remorse crushed Mikhail’s heart, drained it of hope and life until his grandparents’ faces became blurry, then disappeared. Mikhail felt himself gliding forward to a shadowy abyss, and then his pain was gone.
“Oh no! I don’t have my shawl,” Rachel cried to Nucia when they were halfway home. “I must have dropped it somewhere.” Rachel stopped and stared at her sister.
“Your new red shawl, the one Mother knitted for your birthday?”
Rachel gulped. “Yes.”
Nucia shook her head and folded her arms across her chest. “You must go back for it. Mother will be very angry if you lose it. She spent hours working on it.”
Just once, Rachel thought, couldn’t Nucia be the one to forget something? “But it’s going to be dark soon.”
“Then you had better run,” Nucia said.
Rachel turned and fled back toward the river, the cold air drying her throat, making it hard to catch her breath. She saw her shawl not far from the bench
, on the ground behind a dense stand of fir trees. As she bent down to pick it up, Rachel heard a familiar voice crying out for help. She froze. Another voice, deep and muffled, was speaking, but she couldn’t make out what was being said. She crept toward a small opening in the trees, peered through the prickly branches, and gasped. Mikhail was lying on the ice underneath two other people, heavy-set men she did not recognize. The bigger man, wearing a sheepskin coat and a policeman’s distinctive cap, held a long knife.
“Uncle, please don’t do this,” cried Mikhail. “Philip, help me.”
Rachel clamped her hands over her mouth. His uncle? How could that be? She watched the policeman bend down, lift Mikhail as easily as a rag doll, and plunge the knife into his chest in one quick movement. Mikhail clutched his abdomen and barely whimpered when the knife cut into his back again and again.
Rachel turned and ran, shawl in hand. Her feet smashed down on the snow and she flinched as she heard the crunch of dead branches and leaves under her feet. She tripped over a tree root and fell on her face.
“Who’s there?”
Her insides twisted into a knot as the threatening voice came closer and closer. Mikhail’s uncle knew someone had witnessed the stabbing. Without stopping to wipe the muddy snow from her skirt and legs, Rachel scrambled to her feet and ran. She could hear footsteps behind her, but raced ahead without looking back until the footsteps grew fainter and receded into the distance. Her face was wet with perspiration and tears. Only when she saw the peeling walls that surrounded her house did Rachel slow down to catch her breath.
Once she’d entered the gate and was safely in her courtyard, Rachel was relieved to find that everyone, including old Mr. Gervitz, who sat outside regularly since losing his job, had gone inside. She rushed to one of the outhouses in the corner of the courtyard where she could be alone. “Mikhail, oh Mikhail,” she whispered, shutting the rickety door behind her. Tears fell onto her dirty skirt and guilt turned her heart inside out as she recalled kissing him. Rachel feared that Mikhail’s uncle had seen them together, that maybe she was partly to blame for the stabbing.
Rachel's Secret Page 2
