Rachel’s father ended the Seder with the traditional words: Le shana ha-ba’ah b’Yerushalayim—next year in Jerusalem. Listening to her father’s sober tone, Rachel considered the irony of the Seder, how it celebrated the miracle that allowed evil to pass over Jewish homes and spare those people who would have otherwise perished. Now, here they were, thousands of years later, hoping for another miracle to end the hostility in Kishinev without further violence.
Two
“I can’t remember when we’ve had nicer weather for Easter Sunday,” said Sergei’s mother when she reached the sidewalk. “Last year there was wet snow and it was much colder.”
“I remember, Mama,” said Natalya. “My hair and bonnet were soaking wet by the time we got home from church.”
“Oh, just look at how nice everyone looks…and the colors. It’s so nice to see bright colors after such a dull winter. I really feel as if there’s a festival today.”
Sergei watched the townspeople his mother was talking about, laughing and walking happily on their way home from church. Women were dressed in their best silks, embroidered with silver and gold thread, and they wore tall, elaborate, velvet headdresses.
“I think those headpieces look ridiculous,” mumbled Sergei. “I don’t feel like celebrating anything today.”
His mother shook her head. “That’s enough, Sergei. Let’s go to the square. I want to enjoy this lovely weather.”
“I just want to go home,” said Sergei.
“We are going to the square, as your mother wishes, and that’s final.” His father beamed at his mother. He signaled to a two-person carriage, pointed to Sergei and Natalya, and then motioned for another carriage for himself and Sergei’s mother.
Sergei, with cold gripping his chest, got into the carriage after his sister. Natalya, grinning, put her tiny arm through his. When they reached Chuflinskii Square, there were children playing games at some of the outdoor booths, while adults sat at tables drinking beer and vodka.
“Papa,” said Natalya, “why is the merry-go-round not moving?”
Sergei looked at the center of the square and saw that the carousel was, indeed, silent and still.
“The Ministry of Interior has decided that amusements like the merry-go-round should not open on holidays,” Sergei’s father replied.
“What a shame,” said Sergei’s mother, brushing her hand over Natalya’s hair. “The square seems odd without the carousel music.”
Sergei stared at the motionless carousel horses and felt as if a shadow was hanging over the square, as if life was about to change forever.
The sound of breaking glass, followed by a woman’s piercing scream, diverted Sergei’s attention from the merry-go-round. Turning toward the noise, he saw a group of men and boys throwing glasses at an elderly Jewish woman.
“Let’s have some fun with the Jews!” they shouted. They wore long, red, belted blouses, and their pants were tucked into tall boots. Sergei could tell by their staggering gait that they had been drinking.
The church bells pealed, announcing the noon hour.
“Go home, all of you.” Sergei’s father moved briskly toward the group of men.
“There’s no law against being outdoors,” said a bulky man in a slurred voice.
“That’s right.” A few other people voiced their displeasure at being ordered to leave, turned their backs on Sergei’s father, and kept drinking.
“Keep it down,” ordered Sergei’s father in his authoritative police chief voice. “We’re going to have extra police working this weekend, so watch yourselves or you’ll end up in jail.” He stood behind the men for a moment, as if he was expecting a response, and then walked back to his family. “Those men are big with noise but short of brains,” he said. “They’ll be passed out before they can do any real harm. Come—” He held out his right arm to Sergei’s mother, who grasped it with both hands. “Let’s enjoy this fine day.”
Sergei watched his sister take hold of his father’s other arm. The three of them paraded down the square as if nothing was the matter. Sergei scowled and sat down on a bench. He exhaled when he saw the Jewish woman run safely out of the square, but grew anxious when the men resumed their boisterous drinking. He could feel the tension in the air, sense the doom that was coming, and was disgusted by his own uselessness. Without anyone fighting the tide of hatred, he could not even begin to hope for a good outcome. Perhaps Nikolai was right, he fretted, about something bad happening this weekend.
“Beat the Yids!”
Sergei’s jaw dropped when he saw at least twenty-five people, mostly men, surrounding another Jewish woman.
“Stop!” she cried. “Somebody help me!”
Sergei stood up and looked across the square at his father as the crowd chased the woman, screaming “Beat the Yids!” over and over. He ran toward his family and saw his sister and mother hanging onto his father.
“I need to get some more officers down here,” said his father, plucking Natalya and his wife’s hands off his torso. “Take the children home, Tonia. I’m going back to the station.”
“Papa! Papa, you have to stop those people now,” cried Sergei, “before someone gets hurt.”
“I’m not risking my life to stop those idiots. Go home with your mother.”
Sergei winced when he saw a Jewish man being taunted mercilessly, while a group of young men chased a Jewish boy.
“Papa, you have to do something!”
“I’m not going to tell you again. Leave the police work to me and stop worrying about the Jews.” Sergei’s father walked away without looking back.
“Please come, Sergei,” pleaded Natalya.
Sergei gazed at his sister’s frightened face. “You go with Mama,” he told her. “I’ll come soon.”
He headed out of the square, his ears burning with the sound of his sister’s cries mixed with raging voices yelling obscenities at the Jews. He put his hands over his ears, but the sound grew with every minute. He lowered his hands and quickened his pace.
Large crosses were chalked on many store windows, and in others icons hung in plain view. Sergei realized these shop owners wanted to make it clear that they were not Jewish, as if they had sensed approaching danger. Up ahead, he saw boys and men throwing rocks at shops without crosses or icons.
Sergei looked frantically for police officers but couldn’t find even one. As he got closer to lower Kishinev, he saw boys whistling, shouting, and throwing rocks as they marched. Behind them, men carried crowbars, smashing Jewish shops and homes along the street. Women and men stood at the side of the road cheering the rioters on. Some were stealing items from Jewish stores that had been vandalized. Others dressed themselves in layers of clothes they took from the demolished stores.
The noise pounded inside Sergei’s head. He wanted everything to disappear, but it just got louder and louder.
Hearing a carriage coming from behind him, Sergei turned, hoping to see the police. But it was Bishop Iakov’s carriage. Sergei assumed the bishop would put an end to the violence, but the regal man, dressed in his gold-trimmed vestments, simply waved to the bystanders and continued on his way. People cheered as he moved past them. Sergei stood in shock for a moment, unable to move. If the bishop didn’t put a stop to this, he wondered, what hope did the Jews have?
The crowd was moving toward lower Kishinev. Rachel could be in danger. Sergei started running in the direction of her house and didn’t stop until he was in Rachel’s courtyard.
“A gezunt dir in pupik!”
“What?” Sergei looked at the man who had spoken. He was wearing a tattered robe and had so many wrinkles on his face his skin looked as though it might crack open.
“He’s saying good health to your belly button.” Sergei turned around and saw Rachel standing in front of her doorway. Her face was pale and stra
ined. “He says the same thing to everyone. He’s been strange ever since he lost his job.” She closed the door behind her and stepped toward him.
“Rachel, you have to stay inside. There’s a riot going on in town. Peasants are bashing Jewish stores and homes with crowbars and rocks.”
“Oh no!” she covered her mouth with her hand. “Haven’t you told your father yet, about Mikhail’s uncle?”
Sergei gulped and averted his eyes. “Yes. I did, but he wouldn’t listen. He wants only to believe that a Jew is guilty.”
Rachel’s face fell. “I should have said something earlier. I should have gone to the police myself.”
“Then you might have been hurt—or your family. It’s clear to me now that the simple truth is no match for the lies printed in the newspaper.”
“What are we going to do if the rioters come here? We have nowhere else to go.”
Sergei chewed his bottom lip and thought about what to say to make Rachel feel better. “I know there are extra policemen on duty this weekend. Hopefully they’ll have everything under control soon. Just stay inside and tell your father.” Sergei’s face turned red. He had to look down at his boots in order to get the rest of his words out. “I…I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
She nodded, backed into her doorway, and disappeared.
Sergei stared at her house. “Stay safe, Rachel,” he whispered, before running home.
“…get hurt…stay with us…”
“Don’t worry…many are coming…”
Rachel woke to her parents’ agitated voices. She got off her bench and pulled aside the muslin curtain. Except for a lit oil lamp on the table, the house was swathed in darkness. Sunday night had not yet given way to Monday morning.
Her father was tying the sash on his overcoat, while her mother stood nearby, clutching a square of white muslin.
“Father, where are you going?” The sight of him getting ready to leave so early alarmed Rachel.
His hands shook as he put his black yarmulka on his head. “A group of us are going to the New Marketplace.”
Rachel ran over to her father and wrapped her arms around him. “But Sergei said they had crowbars and were throwing rocks at Jews there yesterday. You could get hurt.” She sobbed into his coat. “Don’t go, Father. Please don’t go!”
“Even your daughter knows better than you today,” said her mother.
He pushed Rachel back firmly and looked into her eyes. “I must go to see what happened last night. The Talanskys live near there.” He cleared his throat. “Don’t you want me to see if they need help?”
Rachel lowered her eyes. “I suppose so…but Father—”
Her father smiled grimly and hugged Rachel. “Nothing’s going to happen to me.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” He walked over to Rachel’s mother, kissed her on the cheek, and held her hand for a moment.
“Do not leave the house today,” he ordered Rachel, before closing the door. “We want to make sure the riots are over before you go outside again. And be good for your mother.”
She kept her eyes on the door after it closed behind her father, hoping he would change his mind and reappear. But the door stayed shut, solid and forbidding.
Rachel picked at her matzah and dates and watched Nucia sweep the floor. “You know you’ve been sweeping the same spot for thirty minutes,” she said to her sister in a listless voice.
“I don’t care.” Nucia gripped the broom tightly in her hands as she swept.
Rachel looked at her mother washing dishes and then at the small clock hanging on the wall beside the door. Almost ten o’clock. “Father’s been gone nearly four hours. When will he be back?”
“How should I know? Am I there? He’ll be home when he’s home. Now eat.”
She put a piece of matzah in her mouth. It tasted extra dry, and the more she chewed, the more there seemed to be in her mouth. An unexpected knock at the door caused the matzah to slip down her throat, making her gag.
Her mother opened the door. The young policeman who had questioned Rachel before stood outside.
“There’s, um, trouble in the New Marketplace. You’d best not go out of your home,” he said. “We don’t, um, want you to get hurt.”
“What’s going on?” cried her mother. “Gofsha, my husband, is there as we speak.”
Rachel ran over to the door. “He went with some other men to help.”
The policeman frowned. “He shouldn’t have gone.” He put his hand to his forehead, gritted his teeth, and exhaled. “I have orders to stay here today, but if I hear anything about the marketplace I’ll, um, let you know.”
“Thank you very much,” said Rachel’s mother. She locked the door and stood perfectly still for a moment. Then she took a deep breath and poured herself another glass of tea.
Nucia fell to the floor and cried softly, still clutching the broom. Rachel’s mother began scouring the walls with a rag, scrubbing as if she was trying to wipe the surface off.
“Father will be all right. He promised me,” Rachel assured them, sounding more confident than she felt. She twisted her braid with her hand as she stood at the window and waited for her father to return.
She could not take her eyes off the courtyard, which was eerily quiet and empty. The old gray-cement courtyard walls looked filthy and shabby against the perfectly clear blue sky. The policeman was pacing back and forth on the street, which made her feel a bit safer. Nobody would dare enter their courtyard and start destroying the houses with a policeman on guard, would they?
“Come, Rachel,” said her mother an hour later. “You must eat something. Nucia and I are having some bread and butter.”
“I’m not hungry,” she said, without turning away from the window. Her stomach was cramped from anxiety. Every minute that passed seemed like an hour. She chewed on her hair to pass the time.
Shadows from trees on the street began to dance on the courtyard walls. The sun was going down without any sign of her father. Rachel turned and looked at her mother and sister. They were sitting in front of the stove knitting, their needles moving rapidly through the red wool.
“How can you sit there as if nothing’s the matter?” Rachel cried.
“Worrying never helps,” her mother answered in a flat voice, hands still flying smoothly through the air. “You have stood by that window all day and what good has it done?”
“But at least…” Rachel stopped speaking when she heard the door creak open. “He’s home! Father’s home!” She threw herself into her father’s arms.
“Gofsha, we were so frightened,” said Rachel’s mother. “How grateful I am that you’re safe.”
A smile spread across Nucia’s face. She dropped her knitting and ran over to give him a big hug.
“The policeman was here, Father,” said Rachel. “He said things were getting worse in town.”
Her father sat down wearily by the stove and stared into the fire. His face and clothing were smeared with dirt. He was breathing heavily and gray pouches hung under his bloodshot eyes.
“It’s…the worst…I’ve ever seen,” he said in a halting, breathless voice. “There must have been about…a hundred of us. We were able…to stop a small group of people…from ruining a store.” He cleared his throat. “But the police arrived…and ordered us home. They even arrested…a couple of men who…wanted to stay and protect their shops from rioters.”
“What are we going to do, Gofsha?” cried Rachel’s mother.
Rachel shrank back from her family, overwrought with guilt. She wished, more than ever, that she had gone to the police right away. Then maybe only she would be in danger, not every Jew in town.
“Now listen to me,” said Rachel’s father, his voice gaining strength with every word. “You must all do ex
actly as I say.” He stood, marched over to the window, and peered out. Then he closed and latched the wooden shutter. “You’re all going to hide in the outhouse with the Grienschpouns. Until this is over. To be safe.”
Rachel could hardly breathe. “Do you really think they’ll come here?” she asked her father.
“I don’t know. We came home as quickly as we could, but we heard people behind us yelling out, ‘stupid, dirty Yids.’ We must not take any chances.”
“What about Chaia and her family?” asked Rachel.
“They’re going to hide in the shed,” her father replied. “There’s more room for them there.”
“This can’t be happening,” said Nucia in a weak, raspy voice. Her face was ashen gray. “I think I’m going to be sick.” She held her abdomen and groaned.
Rachel’s father bent down, hugged Nucia, and pulled her to her feet. “Hurry—there’s no time to take anything with you. Go now. Before they get here.” He pushed Nucia to the door and gestured for Rachel and her mother to follow.
“What about you? Aren’t you coming too?” asked Rachel, when she saw that her father wasn’t following them. “I don’t want to go anywhere without you, Father.”
“I’ll come as soon as I make sure all the people in our house are safe. Now shut the door before the rioters arrive in our courtyard.”
Rachel entered the crude, weathered outhouse with her mother and sister. Mrs. Grienschpoun, a buxom woman with rosy cheeks, and her two red-haired little boys were already sitting on the bench that ran along one wall. Mr. Grienschpoun was placing a couple of old wood planks over the two holes in the other bench that opened to the ground. His bright red hair and whiskers seemed out of place in the drab outhouse.
Snow had seeped through the edges where the walls and floor met, leaving the ground wet and partially covered with snow. The strong smell was almost overpowering.
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