“But Father—”
“Listen to me.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “Words that question another’s character are like feathers thrown into the wind. They can never be returned.”
She nodded.
“Is this secret the reason you’ve been acting so strangely? You haven’t been eating, and every morning you have dark circles under your eyes.”
Rachel wasn’t sure how to answer her father. She knew he would insist on telling the police what she’d seen, but he didn’t know how that policeman had stabbed Mikhail, with a vengeance and anger that truly horrified her. “Perhaps,” she said slowly.
“You are a wise girl. You will know in your heart if you should reveal your secret.”
They resumed walking in silence. Rachel wondered how she would know, if there would be a sign or if she would have to figure it out herself. She didn’t have a chance to think about this further, for when they entered their courtyard, a young police officer was waiting at their door.
“Good day,” said the policeman.
“The same to you,” said Rachel’s father. He glanced up at the clear blue sky and cleared his throat. “I think spring will be early this year.”
The officer nodded. “I, um, don’t mean to bother you and take up much of your time. It seems that your daughter Rachel was one of the last people to see Mikhail Rybachenko alive at the river. I just have a couple of questions for her.”
Her father nodded. “I knew you would be here sooner or later. This is Rachel. Come in.”
Rachel followed her father and the policeman inside.
“Allow me to introduce my wife, Ita,” said Rachel’s father, “and my older daughter, Nucia.” The two of them were seated quietly near the stove, on a bench that doubled as a bed for Rachel’s parents in the evening. The officer bowed his head toward them, then leaned against the wall. “Nucia was with Rachel the last time she saw Mikhail,” Rachel’s father added.
The officer fixed his eyes on Rachel, who had joined her mother and sister on the bench.“Can you tell me, umm, about the last few minutes you spent with Mikhail?” asked the policeman.
Rachel glanced at her father, who nodded, and began to speak. “There was nobody except Mikhail on the ice when we, Nucia and I, left the river.” Rachel looked down to hide her tears. “I wish he had gone home.”
“It’s true,” said Nucia. “When we left, Mikhail was alone.”
“Do you know of anyone who wanted to hurt Mikhail? Somebody who might have been mad at him?”
Rachel shook her head and looked at the officer, her eyes brimming with tears. “Everyone liked Mikhail. He…he…always knew the right thing to say and never had a harsh word for anyone.”
Rachel’s father cleared his throat. “Are…are you finished?”
The policeman examined his notes. “I’m sorry to have upset you like this, but, umm, we need all the information we can get in order to find the person responsible.”
Mikhail’s eyes stared at her, bright blue saucers in a pool of blood.
“No!” screamed Rachel. She sat up, looked around the dark sleeping area and began crying softly into her pillow.
“What’s wrong, Rachel?” Nucia called out sleepily.
“Nothing.” Rachel answered in a teary voice.
Nucia got up and shuffled over to her. “This is the third night in a row that you’ve had a nightmare. Is it about Mikhail?” She yawned as she spoke.
“I can’t tell you.” Rachel reached for Snegurochka and clutched the doll to her chest for comfort.
“Why not?”
Rachel looked up at her sister, a shadow against the wall. “Because I could get our whole family in trouble,” she whispered.
“What are you talking about?”
Rachel sat up and pulled her blanket up to her neck. “I told you. I can’t say.”
“What if I promise not to tell anybody?”
“How can I trust you?”
“You know that amber necklace Mother gave me last year? The one she’s had since she was a girl?”
Rachel nodded.
“I’ll give it to you for safekeeping. If I break my promise, it’s yours.”
Rachel closed her eyes for a moment and considered her sister’s offer. Entrusting her secret would be like sharing a burden, sharing the fear. “I saw something, something horrible that nobody was supposed to see.”
“What?” asked Nucia, now wide awake.
Rachel took a deep breath. “I know who killed Mikhail. A policeman stabbed him over and over.” Rachel hung her head and wept. “Mikhail called him ‘Uncle’ and cried out for help. But the man kept stabbing him. And another man, who was fat and silent, just stood beside Mikhail and did nothing.”
Nucia gasped. “Oh…tell me you’re lying. Please, tell me it’s not true.”
“I wish I was lying. I wish I had never seen it,” cried Rachel. “I can’t tell the police because a policeman was the killer.”
Nucia sat on the bench, moaning into her hands. “What you’ve seen is…is horrible.” She reached out and hugged Rachel to her. “You must never tell anyone what you saw, Rachel.” Nucia pulled back and grasped Rachel’s shoulders. “Our whole family could be in danger if you tell anybody, especially Father…he will insist on going to the police. Promise?”
Rachel choked back her tears. “I promise.” Though she’d worried about confiding in her sister, Rachel felt lighter somehow, relieved of her heavy load.
Sergei frowned at the clock hanging on the wall at the front of the classroom. Another hour of lessons. He knew he should be working on his arithmetic problems, but he couldn’t focus. Sergei turned his paper over and began drawing a picture of his teacher, Mr. Bogdanov, sitting at the front of the class, his eyes partially concealed beneath bushy red eyebrows.
Sergei peered at Mr. Bogdanov and drew his face with cross-hatching to denote his ruddy complexion. As he drew, Sergei couldn’t stop thinking about Mikhail. He used to love Sergei’s drawings and had encouraged him to become an artist. Mikhail had dreamed of studying at the university in Petersburg. Together they’d talked excitedly about their future, away from Kishinev and their families’ expectations that hindered their dreams.
He examined his caricature of Bogdanov and was pleased with what he saw. He’d captured the teacher’s swarthy eyes, and the gigantic nose was an excellent parody of the real thing. He looked up and saw Mr. Bogdanov glaring at him.
“Sergei, do you have a question?” asked Mr. Bogdanov.
“No, sir.”
Bring your work up to me so I can see it for myself.”
Sergei walked slowly to the front of the room. He lay the paper down in front of Mr. Bogdanov and stared at his feet.
“Umm. I see that arithmetic is not on your agenda today. Have you become an expert at mathematics overnight?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you feel that rubbish such as this is a better use of your time than the arithmetic I teach?”
“No, sir.”
“Then why are you wasting my time and the class’s time?” Mr. Bogdanov crushed Sergei’s drawing in his hands and threw it in the bin.
“I don’t know.” Sergei hung his head.
“Well, since you can’t be trusted to do your work on your own, you will now sit up at the front with me so I can keep an eye on you. And I will inform your parents of your insolence.”
Sergei bit his lips and clenched his fists. His father was going to be furious when he found out that Sergei had been disrespectful. As he dropped into the chair beside his teacher, Sergei started to devise a plan to get away from Kishinev.
“We can’t wait any longer to eat,” said Sergei’s mother. “I don’t know where your father is. More than likely police business has kept him. Come, S
ergei, Natalya. Come Carlotta. Make haste to the table.”
“Mama, how many more days of Lent are there?” asked Natalya when they sat down to their dinner of halibut and boiled potatoes.
“It hasn’t even been a week, child,” answered her mother. “There are still six weeks to go.”
“Oh,” groaned Natalya. “I miss eating eggs and meat and sweets. And I am so tired of fish.”
Carlotta piled her plate with halibut and passed the fish to Sergei. “Any fish is good if it is on a hook.”
Sergei raised his brow and smiled at Natalya, who had both hands over her mouth, giggling over Carlotta’s words.
“Sergei, put more on your plate. Eat. Come now. Eat,” his mother said when he took only one small piece.
“I’m not very hungry, Mama.”
“Are you in love?” Natalya asked him.
“Natalya!” said Sergei’s mother.
“Maria says that when people fall in love they can’t eat or sleep. How do they stay alive without food or sleep? Is that what happened to you, Mama?”
Carlotta belched and put her hand to her mouth. Both Sergei and Natalya snickered at their aunt’s table manners.
“Good heavens! The words that come out of your mouth Natalya,” said Sergei’s mother, ignoring Carlotta. “It’s a good thing your father’s not here. Now, enough of your chatter. Eat. Both of you.”
Sergei’s father sauntered in just as they finished, bringing a waft of cold air, tobacco, and alcohol into the room. “What the devil…have I missed supper? I was tied up with the second autopsy of that Rybachenko boy.” He stomped his feet, hung up his coat, and crossed himself. “Another idiot concluded there was no sign of a blood sacrifice. But I don’t believe this man any more than the Jew who did the first examination.” He turned to face Sergei directly. “I ran into Mr. Bogdanov at the tavern. He told me you’ve been wasting your time drawing pictures instead of doing the required lesson.”
“The tavern? But it’s Lent, Aleksandr,” said Sergei’s mother.
Sergei slumped in his chair, knowing what was about to come. His father waved his mother away and stood on the other side of the table, glaring at Sergei.
“It was a review class, and I was tired of doing the same problems over and over,” said Sergei.
“You were tired,” said his father in a mocking tone. “So you decided to do what you wanted rather than what you were told to do.”
“I’m sorry.”
“And why the silly pictures?” asked his father. He poured himself a large glass of vodka, held his head back, and took a big drink.
“They’re not silly. I like to draw. It’s not a crime, is it?” Sergei wanted to yell out that he wanted to become an artist, but his father was already full of vodka and rage. Sergei finished his dinner and went to bed, feeling as worthless as the crumpled piece of paper his teacher had thrown away.
MARCH
As Easter approaches, we need to come together, fellow Christians, to purge our town of Jews.
—Bessarabetz, March 29, 1903
One
Rachel wrapped herself in her threadbare coat and walked out to the courtyard past the Berlatsky children getting ready for a snowball fight. Though it was late in the afternoon, the air was still warm, hinting of spring.
“Rachel!” Chaia’s little brother, Jacob, waved at her, his curly blond hair hanging in his face.
Rachel waved back and saw they’d divided themselves into teams. Jacob and Chaia were behind a shed, and had only a few snowballs compared to their older sisters, Elena and Esther, who had a pyramid of them stacked next to the ice cellar.
“Come play with us, Rachel,” Chaia shouted.
Rachel was relieved that she had a reason to say no. She couldn’t imagine taking part in a silly snowball fight when Mikhail’s murder still haunted her day and night. “I was supposed to buy some thread on the way home from school today,” she said in the most apologetic tone she could muster, “but I forgot. Mother will be angry if I don’t have it.”
Chaia laughed. “You’re the most forgetful person I know!”
Rachel tightened the belt around her coat and walked briskly out of the courtyard.
“Wait, Rachel!” cried Chaia. “We’re not supposed to leave the courtyard alone—”
“I’ll be fine,” Rachel called over her shoulder. She wanted to be by herself; since Mikhail’s murder, she had not been alone for a single moment.
Rachel came out of the courtyard onto Stavrisky Street, the winding dirt road that led to upper Kishinev. Narrow branches wrapped with fresh snow were like larks’ claws perched above the road. The street seemed much quieter than usual; only a small group of boys smoking and laughing on the sidewalk, and a couple of women strolling toward a house in the distance.
As she approached the market, Rachel stopped and glanced around, suddenly feeling guilty for not heeding her father’s warning to stay in lower Kishinev. But she’d been coming to this market all of her life without a problem. Surely no harm could come from going directly to the shop. Feeling bold and somewhat courageous, Rachel marched forward, immediately passing pigs, quails, grouse, partridges chickens, and sheep standing on frozen legs, all covered in frost, all waiting patiently to be sold. Next to them rose neat piles of milk in icy brick shapes.
“It boils! It boils! Will nobody drink?”
An elderly tea seller was trying to make a few more sales before the end of the day. Around his waist was a leather case filled with glasses; a bag of cakes and lemons was slung over his shoulder. The steam from his samovar rose in delicate swirls and then disappeared into the air. A few peddlers stood warming their hands over a nearby bonfire.
Makovsky’s was a gray brick store with a red door and window frame, squeezed between a tavern and a restaurant. Inside, one entire wall was devoted to threads and wool, arranged by color from lightest to darkest, so that it looked like a brilliant rainbow. This large selection was the reason Rachel’s mother preferred this shop to the Jewish one near their house. Rachel looked around in silent delight. She didn’t like to use a needle and thread, but the wonderful colors brightened her mood.
“Hurry up, child. Make up your mind.” The shopkeeper glared at her over the counter. He began to complain loudly to the other person in the store, a well-dressed woman with a fancy embroidered headpiece and an overcoat trimmed in fur.
“They’re all the same, abominations and parasites, like it says in the newspaper,” he grumbled. “They come in here, take their time looking, and then buy one or two of my cheapest items, even though they have more money than the rest of us. And it’s worse since they killed that poor boy.” He leaned forward. “Why, I read that his eyes, ears, and mouth were sewn shut. And he had no blood left in his body.” He handed the woman’s purchases to her in a basket.
“Are you sure?” asked the woman. “I heard there were stab marks on him, but nothing about his eyes or ears.”
“I know what I read. And now the Jews feel guilty about one of their own committing such a vicious crime, so fewer of them are showing their faces,” said the shopkeeper, spitting out the sharp words like poison darts.
Rachel listened in disbelief. The shopkeeper was speaking as if Rachel could not hear his venomous words. She had done nothing, said nothing to provoke this man, yet he despised her as if she were guilty of a crime. She backed up while the shopkeeper leered at her like a snake eyeing its prey. The woman eyed her with pity but said nothing.
“Get on with you,” he shouted at Rachel. “As if you were going to spend money in here anyway. Get out of here, you Jewish pest!”
Rachel walked out of the store, her head held high, tears streaming down her face. As she hurried along the crowded sidewalks, faces blurred and her breathing accelerated. She knew that her black coat and shawl reflected her Jewish faith, her
respect for tradition, and she wore them proudly, like a badge of honor. But after the shopkeeper’s hateful words, she felt like one of the animals on display in the market, to be sold and devoured. She stepped up her pace in order to get home before anyone saw the tears in her eyes.
Forging straight ahead, she didn’t see the group of girls lurking in the doorway of a boarded-up store until they were almost upon her. As Rachel walked past, they grabbed hold of her arm and kicked her in the shins.
“Stop…please, stop!” cried Rachel. Her legs were burning, but the girls now had a firm grip on her waist and shoulders. She couldn’t get away or fight back.
“Stupid Yid!” The largest, strongest girl smacked Rachel across the top of her head.
“Let me go…leave me—” A punch in the gut took Rachel’s breath away. She lurched forward.
“What do you think you’re doing? Get away from here,” demanded a familiar, husky voice.
A pair of strong hands broke Rachel’s fall. She turned her head to see who had saved her and was astounded to see Sergei.
Sergei had been on his way home for dinner when he heard a girl scream for help. To his surprise, he saw Rachel, being battered and falling forward. He caught her, stopping her from collapsing onto her face.
“Get away from here,” he yelled at the girls.
“Stupid Yid,” snarled one of them. She spat at Rachel and moved down the street, the rest of the girls following like a herd of sheep.
“Th…thank you,” Rachel whispered, straightening her body slowly. “I think…I’ll be all right now.”
“Are you sure?” Sergei could already see a nasty bump developing on her forehead.
She nodded, smoothed her hair, and wiped her face. Sergei was impressed by her courage, her ability to stand tall and pretend nothing had happened. Remembering the Jews he’d seen harassed in the square, he shuddered. Like Rachel, they’d done nothing to provoke their attackers. He wanted Rachel to know that he was different from these girls, a better person.
Rachel's Secret Page 5
