“You’re actually doing needlework!” said Nucia when she arrived home from her work as a seamstress. “I can’t believe what I’m seeing.”
“Nucia, enough,” said their mother as she cut a head of cabbage for soup. “She’s been sitting all day working. Let her finish.” She put her knife down and poured a glass of tea from the samovar. “Come, Nucia, and have some hot tea before we make dinner.”
Rachel clumsily pushed the needle through the fabric and accidentally pricked her thumb. A tiny red spot appeared on her skin. The door swung open bringing a gust of cold air into the room. Rachel’s father, home from his job as a shoemaker’s assistant, entered with a somber expression on his weary face.
“What’s wrong, Gofsha?” asked Rachel’s mother.
He stomped his feet to get rid of the snow. “That boy Rachel knows—Mikhail—he was found dead in Dubossary. It was on the front page of the newspaper. Police think he was taken there after he was killed.”
Rachel froze with terror. She desperately wanted to tell her father what she’d seen but was afraid he wouldn’t believe that a police officer was responsible. He might think she’d been mistaken, that it wasn’t an officer at all, and insist on going to the police. Then the man who’d killed Mikhail would know she had seen him and come after her.
“When did you last see Mikhail?” her father asked.
“Sun…Sunday,” she stammered. “We skated together, but when I left he was on the river.”
“I was with Rachel, Father,” added Nucia. “We walked away and he still had his skates on.”
Rachel pressed her lips together and gave Nucia a grateful look.
Her father stroked his whiskers for a moment, then he put a log in the stove, poured himself a glass of tea, and sat down at the table with his newspaper. “Did his parents know he was friendly with you, Rachel?”
“His parents died a long time ago.” Her voice faltered. “He lived with his grandparents; I don’t know if he told them about me.”
“I don’t want you going anywhere alone for a while. And you as well, Ita. Make sure either Nucia or Rachel is with you when you go beyond lower Kishinev.”
Rachel’s mother put the kugel in the oven and looked at her husband anxiously. “Gofsha, surely you don’t think we’re in danger.”
Rachel’s father put his paper down on the table and scratched his head. “Ech. I just don’t want to take any chances. There is talk that a Jew is to blame for the boy’s murder, and though there’s no proof, Mikhail’s death has certainly added fuel to the fire.”
Later, when she climbed onto her bench to go to sleep, Rachel pictured herself throwing branches on a blazing fire and shook her head to get rid of the image. She sat up for hours writing in her journal under the light from an oil lamp, while the rest of her family slept.
If only I could have stopped Mikhail’s uncle, she wrote in Yiddish. For as long as I live, I will regret my actions, my cowardice. She stopped, dipped her pen in the inkwell and stared off into the darkness before continuing. I regret also my friendship with Mikhail. I see now that it was wrong, that people from two different worlds do not belong together. She blew on the page to dry the ink, closed her journal, and tried to go to sleep. But all night she twisted and turned, consumed by a flame that grew bigger and bigger in her mind until it was out of control.
Four
Rachel rubbed her eyes, underlined in half-moon shadows, and looked out the narrow window of her school, the Kishinev Jewish Gymnazyium. She watched people hurrying along the street, holding their hats to keep them from blowing away. Her head pounded. Another night of frightening sounds and visions had robbed her of much-needed sleep.
At the front of the room, Mr. Dubnow’s bony hand fingered his long white beard as he announced that school was over. “Gut Shabbos my children,” he called out, rising from behind his tall desk.
Rachel followed Chaia and Leah through the crowded hallway to the heavy door that led outside.
“We’re staying home from shul tomorrow because my father doesn’t think it’s safe,” said Chaia as they stepped onto the wooden sidewalk. Her golden hair shimmered in the daylight like neatly tied strands of wheat. “Yoram’s family isn’t going either.”
“Neither are we,” said Leah. “My father saw a stupid article in the newspaper yesterday that said Mikhail may have been killed by a Jew for his blood.” She linked arms with Chaia and they moved briskly ahead of Rachel, the snow crunching beneath their feet.
“That’s crazy,” said Chaia.
“Yes, and there’s more. The writer also said Jews have discovered a way to make wine without grapes and are going to take over the entire industry.”
“You can’t make wine without grapes,” said Rachel, stepping quickly to keep up with her friends. “That would be like saying we’re making cabbage soup without cabbage. It doesn’t make any sense.”
Leah smiled. “Nothing makes sense anymore—the newspaper, what people believe about us, Mikhail’s death. That’s why my father doesn’t want us going to shul. He says we would be as vulnerable as pieces of meat on a plate, especially after Mikhail—” She stopped and looked at Rachel. “I feel terrible about what happened to him.”
“So do I,” said Chaia. “He was a good friend.”
Tears welled up in Rachel’s eyes.
“You were one of the last people to see him,” Chaia continued. “Did he say anything? Was he worried about something?”
Rachel shook her head. “No.” She didn’t tell them about her quarrel with Mikhail. It was personal, and Chaia couldn’t be trusted to keep it to herself.
Chaia linked her arm through Rachel’s and the three girls walked the rest of the way in silence along the narrow, unpaved street, past shanties and crooked two-story dwellings with dingy shops on the main level and cramped flats overhead.
The moment Rachel arrived home, her mother ushered her and Nucia out the door to the community mikveh, the bath used to purify themselves before Shabbos. Rachel and her sister undressed and waited in the outer room because someone was already inside. Only one person at a time could enter the room with the water. After a couple of minutes, Chaia’s mother came out of the bath, her face red and shiny from the heat. She said hello and started to get dressed. Rachel walked into the next room and down the stairs into the hot water. When her cold skin met the heat, she shuddered until her body adjusted to the higher temperature. She closed her eyes and dipped her entire body into the fresh water. Three times for holiness.
Rachel submerged her head and wished the water could wash away the past, erase what had happened to Mikhail so that he would still be alive. When she was finished, she sat on the top step, staring at the water, until she began shivering and her pale skin broke out into little bumps.
“Sholom aleichem!” said Mr. Talansky. “Peace be upon you.”
Rachel looked up from the gefilte fish she was helping her mother stuff with eggs, onions, and pepper to see Mr. Talansky in the doorway. He was a broad man with curly brown hair and eyes that beamed when he spoke. As he marched confidently into their flat, the whole room seemed brighter. Even her mother smiled.
“Aleichem sholom,” said Rachel. Mr. Talansky and his sixteen-year-old son, Sacha, had been friends of their family for as long as Rachel could remember, spending many Shabbos evenings in their home since Mrs. Talansky had died years ago.
“Sholom aleichem, Rachel,” said Sacha, his lively brown eyes focused on her. “I have a quote for you.”
Funny Sacha. He always had a joke or a riddle to amuse her. His laugh reminded her of Mikhail, and how he had tricked her by falling on the ice. Rachel tried to smile, but couldn’t coax her lips to move. A wave of grief and guilt swallowed her up, sucking the air out of her.
“What’s the matter, Rachel?” asked her father. “You look as though you might faint
.” He put his arms around her waist, holding her up, until the lightheadedness passed and Rachel was able to breathe normally.
“I’m just hungry and tired,” she said.
“Then we must begin Shabbos,” her father announced. He guided Rachel to the table where her mother lit two white candles. They all said a prayer over wine. One by one, Rachel’s family and the Talanskys washed their hands using the bucket of water near the stove. They said a blessing over the loaves of challah, which were covered with the cloth Rachel had embroidered.
The bread seemed dull and tasteless to Rachel, a dense lump she could barely swallow.
“L’chayim,” said Rachel’s father, raising his glass of wine. “May his great name be blessed forever and for all eternity. Amen.”
“Amen,” said everyone at once, before taking a sip of wine.
Rachel saw Sacha look hungrily at the potato kugel. She knew he didn’t get to eat homemade food since his mother had died, because his father had no idea how to make a kugel or even challah.
“There’s talk of riots at shul, Gofsha,” said Mr. Talansky, after he finished a mouthful of kugel. “The gentile’s newspaper, what’s the name of it again?” He drummed on the table, then snapped his fingers. “The Bessarabetz. That’s it. The editor there is writing all kinds of rubbish, saying Jews are parasites…”
“Ech. That’s a horrible rumor,” said Rachel’s father, cutting off Mr. Talansky. “Not something that should be discussed at Shabbos.”
Rachel stared at the table, her mind going back to the last time she had seen Mikhail, to their kiss. Any gentile would have been horrified to see one of their own kissing a Jew. Maybe these riots were being planned to punish all Jews for her terrible mistake.
Sergei watched his little sister on the swing as she flew high as a bird and then sailed backwards. Before long, Natalya would be too big for the swing, he realized. Having a young child in the house had taken away some of his father’s meanness, softened his hard edges. Turning from Natalya, Sergei looked all around Chuflinskii Square for his parents. He saw a long line for the colorful merry-go-round, and a group of children that had gathered to watch the jugglers and mimes. His parents had disappeared into the bustling crowd of people celebrating the last day of Butter Week. Tomorrow, Lent would begin and butter would not be allowed.
He put his hands in his pocket to touch Rachel’s shawl. As his fingers brushed over the wool, he decided that Rachel must have lost it on her way home from skating. He remembered how Mikhail had gazed at her, as if she were the only person on earth. There was no way Rachel was involved in Mikhail’s murder. He was as sure of this as he was of his own innocence, and was glad that his father or another police officer hadn’t found Rachel’s shawl.
Sergei pulled a corner of the shawl out of his pocket and bent his face forward to inhale…a faint scent of soap and tea and cinnamon. Exactly what he had noticed when he had bumped into her in front of the shop. He cringed, thinking about how he had run off without helping her clean up the flour or even apologizing. For some reason, he wilted in her presence, felt like an idiot, and stumbled over his words.
He stuffed the shawl back in his pocket and glanced around the square to make sure nobody was looking at him. Though Sergei knew he should give the shawl back to Rachel, he liked having it in his pocket so he could touch it whenever he wanted.
“I want some something to eat. I’m hungry. Sergei, are you listening?” asked Natalya. She had finally gotten off the swing. Her pale cheeks were flushed from the cold.
“Let’s go to a vendor.” Sergei grabbed Natalya’s small hand and together they pushed through the crowd until they found a booth selling blini. Sergei handed the vendor some kopecks and he and Natalya sat at a round outdoor table to eat.
Sergei put a forkful of the thin pancake in his mouth and savored the rich, buttery flavor. Last year, he and Mikhail had a contest to see who could eat the most. Mikhail won after stuffing thirty blini in his mouth. Sergei had stopped at twenty-six and had an awful bellyache for two days. Sergei’s insides clenched uncomfortably as he thought about Mikhail. He pushed his plate away.
“I wish we could have one less week of Lent,” said Natalya. “I’m going to miss butter and meat and eggs.”
“Me too,” said Sergei, hoping his sister didn’t notice his uneaten blini. “Seven weeks of Lent feels like a whole year.”
“Are you thinking about Mikhail?” asked Natalya. She’d finished her pancakes and was licking her fingers.
“Yes. I can’t understand why anyone would want to hurt him.”
“What’s a blood ritual?”
“Where did you hear about that?” he asked in a solemn voice.
“My friend Maria. She heard her parents talking about it when they thought she was asleep. They said Jews eat blood—it’s called a blood ritual. Is that true?”
“I don’t think so.” He bit his lip. “You shouldn’t be talking about that.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re only eight, too young to worry about bad things.”
“I’m not too young. Besides, everybody’s talking about Mikhail being killed by Jews for blood. My friends, my teachers, everyone.”
“Well, you and your friends should be talking about other things, like schoolwork or games.”
“That’s not as interesting as Mikhail. Why do you think they wanted his blood?”
“I told you, I’m not talking about Mikhail anymore.” Sergei turned away and watched people mingling in the square. A couple of young peasant men with shaggy sheepskin coats, long hair, and flowing beards were marching toward a well-dressed Jewish family, shouting, “No Yids allowed! Yids go home!”
Sergei gasped. These Jewish people had done nothing wrong. The three children began crying as they lagged behind the adults. The biggest child, a boy with long dark brown hair, put his arms around the two little girls, prodding them toward the shops on the opposite side of the square.
Sergei reached out and took Natalya’s hand. Her eyes were riveted on the children.
When the peasants blocked the Jews from moving forward, the father raised his head and looked one of the men squarely in the eyes. The peasant blew cigarette smoke in the Jewish man’s face. The woman kept her eyes on the ground as she adjusted her kerchief. Both peasants spat at the man’s face. He didn’t blink.
Sergei motioned vigorously to a shopkeeper leaning against his window. He saw the man shift his gaze toward the Jews for a second. Then he looked back at Sergei, shrugged his shoulders, and sauntered back into his store.
Disgusted by the shopkeeper’s apathy, Sergei stood and told Natalya to get off her chair.
Both of the peasants were now kicking the Jewish man and woman in the shins. The cries of their children punctured the air.
“Sergei, why are the men hurting those people?” asked Natalya, who looked stricken. “Did they do something wrong?”
“No,” said Sergei. “Those peasants are fools. Come. We must find Papa and bring him here to stop things before they get out of control.”
Five
Mikhail skated quickly along the river. Smiling. All of a sudden, he was lying on the ice in a puddle of blood. And his eyes were open, water frozen to his lashes, like icicles dripping from the needles of an alder tree.
With a shudder, Rachel tried to put last night’s dream out of her mind and forced herself to concentrate on the morning service at shul—the Synagogue of the Glaziers. She gazed up at the coffered ceiling and studied the Jewish symbols, then looked down from the women’s gallery at the half-empty prayer hall and saw her father sitting tall, in spite of the threats that had kept so many other people from attending.
Rabbi Yitzchak’s resonant voice echoed off the walls of the sanctuary, filling hollow spaces with the morning blessings. The familiar words, chanted in Hebrew, were
soothing, but Rachel couldn’t focus. Her mind drifted to the never-ending dilemma that plagued her night and day…if only she hadn’t kissed Mikhail…if only she hadn’t argued with him…if only she could’ve convinced him to go home when she left the river that day. Rachel felt a tap on her shoulder and spun around to see Nucia glaring at her for not paying attention. She nodded and turned toward Rabbi Yitzchak, but her mind stayed on Mikhail and her regrets.
After the service, Rachel traipsed home beside her father. Nucia and her mother were a few steps ahead of them. Her father was telling her what he thought of the service when an earsplitting scream sliced through the quiet morning. Rachel stopped in her tracks. She put her hands over her face and crouched down, as if to hide.
“Rachel, are you all right?” asked her father, bending down and wrapping his arms around her. “It was just some boys teasing a girl. Nobody is hurt. Look.”
Rachel’s eyes followed his hand, which was pointing straight ahead at a group of children laughing together.
Her father’s forehead wrinkled into folds of concern. “Why are you so afraid?”
“Father,” she said, “if you had a secret but knew it could cause trouble if you told, what would you do?”
He looked at her thoughtfully before answering. “That depends. Would anyone be hurt if this secret was revealed?”
Rachel imagined the police beating down her family’s door to stop her from telling people what she had seen. She pictured the big policeman in the sheepskin coat chasing her through the forest, waving a bloody knife in the air as he grew closer.
“Yes,” she said. “I…people could get hurt.”
You know that Jewish law forbids gossip and slander—lashon ha-ra.”
“But when you know for sure that someone did a terrible thing…”
“Stop,” her father said sternly. “Disparaging words are prohibited. Especially if your words could bring about violence.”
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