Her father cleared his throat and sat down on the bench by the stove. “Rabbi Yitzchak has decided that costumes are not appropriate this year, given the somber mood in Kishinev right now.”
“But you can’t have Purim without costumes,” said Nucia.
Rachel gazed down at her Haman costume. “What do our costumes have to do with the rest of Kishinev? I don’t understand…”
Her father shook his head.
“Come, Rachel, get out of those clothes,” said her mother. “And Nucia help clean up this mess.”
“Father, it won’t seem like Purim with so many people missing,” Rachel whispered when she saw the meager turnout at shul. Rabbi Yitzchak began the service with a special prayer and then carefully took the scroll containing the Book of Esther from the sacred Ark. Flanked by twisted columns, the Ark was in the middle of the synagogue on a raised platform.
When the story of Esther was finished, Rachel began fidgeting in her seat. Her mind drifted to the River Byk; she saw it meander on the north side of Kishinev, frozen and white. Then she spotted a crack right down the middle, dividing the river in half. Rachel closed her eyes and the image of the river grew and grew until she could see the jagged edges of the crack break apart. Blood seeped through the ice and spread across the river until it was an angry red. Rachel jumped, her eyes wide open. Perspiration beaded down her forehead and her hands shook. She turned to her mother, whose gaze was fixed on the Ark below.
“Traditionally, our Purim celebration would begin now,” the rabbi said cautiously. “But—” he sighed. “I’ve decided, in light of the current situation, that such boisterous activities are not suitable this year.”
Rachel saw her mother’s mouth set in a hard line. Nucia gave Rachel an incredulous look and turned back to the rabbi.
“Today,” Rabbi Yitzchak continued in a grave voice, “we are facing a real Haman in Kishinev—Pavolachi Krushevan, editor of the gentile newspaper, the Bessarabetz. His scandalous stories bear no semblance to the truth. He wants to rid Kishinev of Jews, even though we have lived in relative harmony here for twenty-four years.”
“This is all because people think Jews killed Mikhail. We need to tell the truth about what happened,” Rachel whispered to Nucia.
Nucia shook her head and looked back at the rabbi.
“Fear has taken hold of our community,” he said. “The fear of walking alone, the fear of strangers, and the fear of attending shul. We must remain strong and united, and purge our enemies of their hatred and lust for violence. Only then will we have our freedom, without fear.”
Rachel agonized over the rabbi’s words. One newspaper editor was affecting the lives of all the Jews here today. It was hard to believe that one man’s printed words held such power. Maybe Sergei was right, she thought. Maybe she should try even harder to become a writer, an honest writer, so that the truth could be told one day.
“Would you like my pastry?” asked Sacha. He sat across from Rachel at her family’s table, which was laden with food. “There are no more left and I already had one.”
Rachel looked down at the hamantashen with its sweet seed filling and felt a wave of nausea. She was so full it hurt. She hadn’t eaten this much food in months. In the Purim tradition, neighbors, friends and even strangers, wealthy Jews from north Kishinev, had delivered food to their doorstep that morning. All of it was so good, the potatoes fried with butter and onions, the thick cabbage soup, the black bread layered with extra butter, and the hamantashen—the triangular-shaped pastry that represented Haman’s hat.
“No, thank you. I’m full,” she replied, glancing up and meeting Sacha’s eyes. He’d been staring at her all evening, which made her nervous. She fiddled with her hair and licked her lips, worried that she had food on her face.
Sasha shrugged and ate the hamantashen in two bites. “Your father told me about those girls and what they did to you. Are you feeling all right? You look a little pale.”
“Yes. I’m fine,” said Rachel, managing a weak smile. She twirled her braid with her fingers.
“Do you want to go for a walk? The fresh air might be good for you.”
For some reason, Rachel was suddenly uncomfortable with Sacha. He was paying too much attention to her, and being far too kind. Rachel had never considered Sacha as anything other than a friend, almost family, for they had spent so many holiday dinners together. He was like a brother to her. She could never imagine him as anything else.
“I don’t think so,” she said with a rueful smile. “I’m very tired today.”
Disappointment flickered across Sacha’s face. Rachel felt bad for causing him pain, but thought it was better he knew now that she didn’t return his feelings, rather than later. She turned to her father who was speaking with Sacha’s father.
“How about some more wine, Gofsha?” asked Mr. Talansky.
“Gladly,” said her father. He stood up to pour some dark red wine into Mr. Talansky’s clay cup.
“Did you ever meet with Bishop Iakov?” Mr. Talansky continued.
Rachel’s father took a sip of his wine. “Yes. We hoped he would spread the word that the tale about Mikhail being killed for blood was nothing more than a myth.” He cleared his throat, put his cup on the table, and reached into the pouch he carried around his waist for a cigarette. “The bishop was evasive, unwilling to promise anything, and even said it was useless to deny that Jews use Christian blood for ritual purposes.” He shook his head and lit the cigarette.
“I guess we can’t expect much help from the Orthodox Church then,” said Mr. Talansky.
Rachel’s mother and Nucia started to clear the dishes off the table. Rachel stood and prepared to help. “If we can’t convince a bishop, then how will we ever convince anybody that these rumors are crazy?” she asked.
“With great difficulty. It’s almost like we’re speaking a different language, yet we live and work alongside these people,” said Mr. Talansky. “The problem is that there are so many falsehoods and stories circulating. As soon as one ends another begins.”
“Why doesn’t somebody write an article for the newspaper that explains how these rumors started?” asked Sacha.
“Because the gentiles can’t read our Yiddish paper and they would never have an article written by a Jew in theirs,” said Rachel’s father.
Mr. Talansky grunted, a deep throaty sound that startled Rachel. “Well, we need to find some way to convince gentiles that we’re not savage animals. Before Passover, so that everyone feels safe to attend shul.” He held out his empty cup to Rachel’s father for more wine.
“The best thing would be if Mikhail’s real killer is found.” Rachel piled some plates in the enamel washbasin and stared at Nucia with pleading eyes.
“I’m sure the police are doing all they can,” said Nucia firmly.
Rachel touched the amber necklace around her neck and wondered if she had made a wise decision in revealing her secret to Nucia and then promising to keep it forever. Sometimes she felt the burden was more than she could bear.
I have ruined Purim for all the Jews in Kishinev, she wrote in her journal that evening. Even the rabbi is afraid to honor our traditions because of the bad feelings toward us. I want to go to Mikhail’s grandparents and tell them how sorry I am. They deserve to know how their grandson died, yet I cannot say a word.
If I had not forgotten my shawl that day, then I wouldn’t have Mikhail’s murder embalmed in my brain. I would not have to bear this secret like a scar.
Sergei and his father were on their way to the bathhouse when they ran into Zinaida Ustyug, a scrawny little man who lived in their building. Sergei cringed when his father stopped to talk to him. He had a hoarse, guttural voice, and when he spoke, an oversized lump moved up and down his neck.
“Might be some trouble ahead,” said Zinaida to Sergei’s father.
“What kind of trouble, hmm?” Sergei’s father scratched his head and looked at man.
“Some—” Zinaida broke into a coughing fit that lasted several minutes. “Some Moldavian farmers,” he continued. “I saw them at the tavern a couple of days ago. They were telling anybody who’d listen how they need to fight to protect themselves from the Jews.”
Sergei shook his head in disbelief and looked at his father.
“And just what were these farmers proposing to do?”
“Beat the Jews. That’s what they said. During the Easter holidays. I thought you should know.”
“Have you seen these men since?”
“I saw them walking around the main square yesterday, handing out leaflets, but I didn’t have time to get one for myself. I had to get back to the factory.”
“Very well. I’ll look into it.” Sergei’s father nodded at Zinaida and continued to the bathhouse.
“What are you going to do about those Moldavians Zinaida mentioned?” asked Sergei as they removed their clothes in the change area, a small square room with a wooden bench that ran around the perimeter. A couple of other men were getting ready for their baths as well.
“Nothing. Those men were just talking. Zinaida didn’t even see the leaflet. Everything will pass.”
“But what if Zinaida is right? What if a big fight—”
Sergei’s father grabbed his son’s arm tightly, squeezing until his skin burned. “I told you to stop interfering and I mean it.” He released Sergei’s arm and pulled open the heavy door leading to the steam room.
Sergei clenched his jaw and reluctantly followed his father into the hot-steam area, with its large glass windows, smooth linden-wood benches, and high ceiling. The room smelled of burnt wood and sweat. Sergei lay face down on a bench and let the boiling hot mist envelop his body, releasing sweat and dirt. After a few minutes, the bathhouse worker began beating Sergei’s back vigorously with soapy birch brooms.
As his body was joggled over and over, Sergei wished he could be a bathhouse worker for a few minutes and strike his father’s back. He would hit him so hard, he wouldn’t be able to get up.
Just when he could stand it no more, the beating stopped, and Sergei sat up. His pewter icon burned his chest, reminding him of the Sabbath the next day. On the bench across from him, his father was receiving the cupping treatment. The masseur ignited cotton and inserted heat into glass cups, which were then stuck to his father’s back. This treatment was supposed to cure nagging back problems.
Sergei headed to the other end of the large room where there was a cold-water shower. He turned the knob and gritted his teeth as the cold water collided with his hot skin producing a stinging sensation. When his body temperature cooled, the burning subsided. After a couple of minutes, Sergei left the shower and returned to the heat.
“Any progress on that boy’s murder, Aleksandr?” said Mr. Ulrich, who was lying across from Sergei’s father, his withered skin sagging from protruding bones.
Sergei scowled. Although he wanted nothing more than to find Mikhail’s killer, he was tired of listening to people prying his father for information.
“Not yet,” said Sergei’s father.
“I think Jews killed that Rybachenko boy and that housemaid. For blood. Like it says in the papers.”
Sergei glowered at Mr. Ulrich, disgusted by idiots like him who believed in such rubbish without any proof.
“I’m not sure anymore,” disagreed Dmitry Chesnokov, a young man who was being cupped as he spoke. “There was an article in the newspaper this morning that said the previous stories about the boy’s murder were not based on any proof. An autopsy found that he died from stab wounds, not some ritual killing.”
“That’s a cover-up because Jews have pressured the editors to stop the rumors,” Mr. Ulrich argued. “The Jews are getting scared about what people will do to them if their secret, barbaric rituals are exposed.”
“I agree,” said Sergei’s father. He sat up on his bench with his hands on his thick, hairy knees. “The sooner the Jews are exposed as animals, the better.”
Sergei clenched his fists.
“So you still think the murderer was a Jew?” asked Dmitry.
“Probably—”
“But you don’t know for sure, Papa,” Sergei argued. “You don’t have any information about Mikhail’s killer.” He flinched under his father’s withering glare, knowing he should have kept his mouth shut. But he wanted to defend the Jews, for Rachel and the other innocent people he had seen being attacked.
“How dare you contradict me,” his father hissed under his breath. “Get out of here right now.”
Sergei stomped out of the steam area, pulled his clothes over his perspiring body, and left. All he could think about was Rachel, and how she and the rest of the Jews in Kishinev had no chance against people like his father who drew horrible conclusions without any proof.
“I can’t wait to eat lots of cakes, anything sweet,” said Petya to Nikolai and Sergei. They were walking on the slushy sidewalks with a large crowd of boys from their school to Chuflinskii Square where they often gathered. The street was littered with horse excrement and rubbish that had been hidden for months by the snow.
“Me too, but there’s still another week and a half to go until Easter and the end of Lent,” said Nikolai. His voice cracked as he spoke. It was changing from a high-pitched boy’s voice to a young man’s.
Sergei stomped his feet as he walked, splashing the slush onto his leather boots. “I want to eat meat again and drink milk.”
Nikolai pointed ahead. “Look, Jews in the square.”
Sergei’s heart sank when he saw a Jewish woman and two children walking through the middle of the square. The woman looked up with fear in her eyes when she heard the boys talking and laughing. Sergei figured there were at least twenty boys now focused on the woman and children, two girls who appeared to be around six and eight years old.
“Let’s go to the tobacco shop,” said Sergei loudly, to distract everyone from the Jews.
“Later,” said Nikolai. He and some other boys were already moving swiftly toward the woman and girls.
“Come on. Now.” Sergei panicked when he remembered what a small number of girls had done to Rachel. With a crowd of boys, these people could be badly hurt. He looked around and saw eyes filled with rage directed at the Jews. Only he and Petya stood back as the rest of the boys advanced like a pack of wolves ready to attack a deer.
“Nikolai, Orest, Ivan, Dmitry…stop. Please,” called Sergei to the boys leading the crowd. “They’re not harming you…leave them alone.”
“Quiet, Sergei,” hissed Petya. “You’re going to be next if you don’t keep your mouth shut.”
“But this is wrong. You know this is horrible. It’s a woman and her children. They can’t defend themselves.”
“I know, but there’s nothing we can do. And if you keep yelling at them to stop, they’ll think you’re betraying them and go after you.”
“How can you just stand there and do nothing, Petya? You live beside Jews, you have a sister and a mother. Would you want them to be struck by a mob like this?”
Petya looked away.
“Don’t hurt my children!” The woman’s frightened voice rose above the loud, cheerful carousel music.
Sergei looked toward the carousel, watching the colorful carved horses revolving around the mirror, immune to the tension that was growing like a winter storm. He heard shouts and saw his friends kicking the woman and her children, throwing the vegetables and fruit she had purchased onto the ground. He looked frantically around the square for a policeman but saw nobody. “Damm! Come with me to stop them,” he said to Petya. “I can’t take them on by myself.”
“I won’t join our friends, but I can’t turn on them either,�
� said Petya. He started to drift away from the woman and children who lay groaning and crying on the muddy ground.
Sergei, repulsed by what he’d witnessed, disappointed by Petya, and disgusted by his inability to help, raced out of the square.
Sergei heard his sister’s voice chatting happily before he opened the door to their flat. She was perched on a chair at the table cutting leaves out of paper. His mother was stirring cabbage soup on the stove, and Carlotta was setting the table, humming as she worked. Though he was only a few blocks from the square, it felt like a completely different world.
“Papa…” Sergei strode toward his father who was adding some logs to the stove. “You have to send officers to the square. Some boys there are hurting a Jewish woman and her children.”
His father stood up and wiped his hands.
“One of the girls is about Natalya’s age.”
“Why tell me? Why not tell an officer in the square?”
“There were no officers in sight.”
Sergei’s father sighed. “I will put extra men in the square tomorrow. It’s too late to do anything now.” He poured himself a glass of brandy and sat down on the sofa.
“Too late, but—”
“That’s enough,” growled his father. “I don’t want to hear any more about this.”
Sergei stared at him, unable and unwilling to believe he could be so casual about the safety of the woman and her children. “But Papa—”
“Sergei,” said his mother. “Please don’t get into an argument with Papa right now. He’s had a very long day.”
Sergei looked at his mother. Even she didn’t care or didn’t understand that a mother, like her, and her children were in danger.
“Look, Sergei!” Natalya held out a branch covered with handmade leaves and flowers. “Papa brought home this big pussy willow branch and I’m adding my own pretty leaves. Do you like it?”
It was the Fast Fair. Sergei had forgotten all about it. On the Thursday before Palm Sunday—today—children celebrated by carrying branches around the streets. He had no intention of taking part this year, especially after seeing his friends attacking innocent Jews in the square.
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