“We all need to be absolutely quiet,” whispered Mr. Grienschpoun. “Remember, the door doesn’t lock from the inside.”
“Then why are we hiding here?” asked Rachel.
“Because there’s nothing to break or steal, so hopefully they won’t even think of coming in. I’m going to see that everyone else is well hidden. Stay here and keep quiet.” He opened the door slowly and ran out. Mrs. Grienschpoun and her children began crying softly as they huddled in the corner.
Rachel’s mother and sister sat down on the board set in place by Mr. Grienschpoun. Rachel cleared a corner by kicking the snow away, sat down, closed her eyes, and prayed for her father to come through the door soon.
“Have mercy and pity on us,” she whispered. “Please, protect us all.”
For a few minutes, silence was their only companion. Then the terrifying clamor of people marching and screaming began, growing louder and louder until it sounded as if they were right outside the outhouse. Rachel sat frozen in place, terrified at the thought of the outhouse door being ripped open by the rioters.
“Give us thirty rubles or we will kill you,” yelled a crowd outside in unison, like students reciting a lesson.
Rachel heard Mr. Serebrenik, the shopkeeper, stammer, “H…here…here, take it.” There was silence and then the smash of glass breaking. As the crowd drew nearer, Rachel heard something hitting the stone walls hard and felt her chin quiver in fear.
Masculine voices yelled, “Beat the Yids!”
Cheers rose from the crowd.
Rachel hugged her knees to her chest and tried to bury her head, to drown out the noise.Crash! Glass shattered. Bang! Thump! Heavy objects fell to the ground. Hearing the sounds of havoc, of destruction, all around her, without being able to see anything terrified Rachel. She held her breath as heavy footsteps ran toward the outhouse, and exhaled when the footsteps moved past their hiding place. “Where’s Father?” she mumbled softly.
Seconds later, a powerful bang, like thunder, sounded above them.
“I think someone’s on the roof of the outhouse,” whispered Rachel to her mother and Nucia.
On the bench, Mrs. Grienschpoun looked up and clung to her two boys tightly.
Rachel listened in horror as two more loud bangs shook the old roof. It wobbled precariously with each collision.
“Ech! The entire roof is going to fall on top of us,” Rachel whispered.
Voices rose from the courtyard, cheering the rioters on. Suddenly, there was a massive crash and then a thump.
“Ohh…” A groan from the man on the roof brought laughter from the crowd outside. “Help!”
“That sounded like Mr. Grienschpoun,” Nucia said.
“I know.” Rachel looked over and saw Mrs. Grienschpoun with her head down and her body trembling as she sobbed noiselessly.
Rachel stood up and crammed herself in beside her mother and Nucia. They clutched each other and listened helplessly to the frightening noises. Shrieks of pain and terror came from above. Rachel closed her eyes and held her hands over her ears to block out the sounds of agony, but it was impossible.
“They’re throwing something at him,” said Rachel’s mother. She looked smaller, a fraction of herself, receding into the outhouse.
“I hope Father’s all right,” whispered Rachel as she pulled her mother and Nucia closer, trying not to cry out loud.
“Stop!”
Rachel’s head shot up when she heard Sergei’s voice.
She couldn’t believe he was in her courtyard, urging people to stop the violence. Hope warmed her heart as she heard him say, “Enough already…too far…” She couldn’t make out all his words because of the noise from the crowd. It was maddening, knowing he was so close to her and yet she could not show herself.
Sergei saw a mass of people shouting in the street outside Rachel’s courtyard. They were beating a man lying in a mud puddle with wooden clubs. When his attackers stepped back, the man asked for water in a feeble voice. Sergei could tell that his legs and arms had been broken in many places from the peculiar way they dangled from his body. A couple of Jewish men lugged him from the puddle, gave him water, and started to wipe the dirt and blood off his face.
“The Yid’s still alive!” yelled one of the rioters.
The Jews that were helping the man quickly disappeared into the crowd.
Another rioter veered around and struck the groaning man on the head with a crowbar, knocking him over so he lay face down in the mud. His bony legs shook for a moment and then were still.
As Sergei gaped at the victim, he noticed four police officers huddled together. He elbowed his way frantically through the crowd to reach them.
“Stop them!” Sergei demanded, pointing back at the attackers.
One of the officers shrugged. “Don’t have any orders to stop it.”
“What are you talking about? Why do you need orders? They’re breaking the law, aren’t they? Look…they’ve killed that man over there.” Sergei pointed to the man who now lay dead in the mud.
“He’s right,” said another officer. “If the governor were here, he’d stop them.”
“But he’s not here,” snarled a third. “There’s nothing we can do until the governor gives us orders. Why don’t you just leave and go home, before you get hurt.”
“No! How can you just stand there and do nothing? You have to do something. Please!” cried Sergei.
“Look, just go home. By tomorrow this should all be over.” Three of the officers sauntered off as casually as if they were walking to a tavern.
The one who remained gave Sergei another shrug, this time looking only mildly apologetic as he sat down on the wooden curb.
Undeterred, Sergei fought his way into Rachel’s courtyard—past a handful of raging men hurling sticks and rocks toward the house; past men in ragged clothing waving knives and crowbars, as if in battle; past women and boys hurling insults that scorched the air. Sergei pushed his way toward Rachel’s house and was quickly swept up by the throng of people. He found himself staring at the remains of her home—an empty shell with battered windows and doors.
“Stop!” he cried out as he watched men and women discarding the contents of Rachel’s life, throwing dishes, mattresses, clothing, and their samovar from the door and windows.
“Stop!” a chorus of voices echoed Sergei.
He listened in disbelief as words of protest rippled through the crowd.
“Enough already!”
“It’s gone too far!”
“You’re behaving like savage animals!”
He spun around and was amazed to see both Christians and Jews, united in fear, pleading with the rioters to stop. Relief surged through him, sustaining his faith that good could triumph over evil. He cried out with renewed energy and determination for the crowd to help end this unprovoked attack. But tolerance succumbed to rage. Sergei and the other protestors were sorely outnumbered. They could not stop the tortuous killing of a man with bright red hair on top of a rickety outhouse.
The voice on the roof grew weak. Rachel could tell that the man was unable to keep fighting for himself. There was a big thump, the crowd cheered, and Rachel stared at Nucia in horror. The man had fallen off the roof.
Rachel listened for Sergei’s voice, but only wailing, shattering glass, heavy footsteps, and loud bangs filled the tiny outhouse, making it seem smaller and smaller until the walls closed in on them. Her body was cramped from being in one position for so long. She shook her tingling foot. The rioting went on and on as Rachel listened, tense with fear. At any moment, the unlocked door might open. She sniffed the air. Smoke was beginning to seep into the outhouse.
Feeling like she would suffocate, Rachel hugged herself tightly and recited the Eighteen Benedictions in her head, over and over, trying to soothe her
fear with familiar Hebrew words.
As the black night darkened the outhouse, the noise subsided. Rachel listened as the crowd dispersed, a low murmur fading away. Her eyes met Nucia’s, then her mother’s. Nobody in the outhouse moved or spoke. The Grienschpoun boys had fallen into a restless sleep, cradled in their mother’s arms. Rachel sank back against the wall, afraid to make a sound, afraid of what awaited all of them outside.
Sergei rushed into his father’s office and found him busy receiving a telegraph. He watched impatiently as his father tapped a reply, tugging at his whiskers as he sent the message. He glanced up at Sergei when he was finished and frowned.
“Papa, have you seen what’s going on? A mob of people has descended on lower Kishinev and is attacking Jews, and the police are doing nothing.”
His father stared at him. “Why are you so concerned about lower Kishinev, hmm?”
“I know someone there. A friend. She was Mikhail’s friend too. I know he would want me to help her.” His father’s face tightened as Sergei continued speaking. “You have to order the officers to stop the attacks.”
Sergei’s father narrowed his eyes so that his brows came together in a V. “I can’t give special treatment to someone, just because she’s your friend. There are three infantry companies and two cavalry squadrons in place, and I will have extra officers on duty all night.”
“All night! You think this violence will be going on all night?”
“It’s possible.”
Sergei smelled alcohol on his breath. “But you can stop it now. You have enough officers.”
“We have to wait for orders from the governor.” Sergei’s father put on his cap and buttoned up his coat.
“What are you talking about?”
“I have to leave now. You’re to go home and stay there with your mother and sister. Do you hear me?” He waved his finger in Sergei’s face.
“But why do you have to wait for orders?”
“Did you hear me?”
“But—”
“Go. Now!” Sergei’s father pointed to the door.
Sergei left, but he didn’t go home. Intent on finding Rachel, he started back to lower Kishinev.
By the time Sergei reached Gostinnii Street, he felt as if he was in a completely different city, the damage was so extensive. The Jewish tobacco store was destroyed. The front wall had collapsed, revealing the skeletal remains of the building. Shelves were torn from the walls and cartons had tipped over. Sergei swallowed and moved to the next store, the shoemaker’s shop with broken windows and doors beaten until they’d collapsed. Everything inside was gone or vandalized. It got worse as he continued walking. Homes and apartments ransacked. Furniture sitting in the streets, torn apart, broken beyond recognition.
The air reeked of wine, beer, and decay. Sergei stood motionless in front of a wine shop where broken bottles lay strewn across the pavement. He resumed walking, but a minute later stopped again when he saw dead, twisted bodies piled on top of one another in front of a Jewish bookstore. At the very top of the pile was a small boy, his head hanging over the edge, his clothing ripped, his skin a lifeless fish-gray.
Sergei gagged at the putrid stench of burnt flesh and blood, dirt and feathers, which were smeared over the bodies. Covering his mouth, he dashed to the edge of the sidewalk, where he crouched and vomited; he didn’t get up until the retching pain in his gut had eased and his legs felt steady.
When Sergei came to a residential street, his heart plummeted. There was no way people could have survived so much destruction. Feathers from pillows covered the ground like a blanket of snow. Pieces of tables, beds, and sofas littered the street.
“Bubbe…Bubbe…”
As Sergei stared at the devastation, he heard a small voice in one of the vandalized houses. Moving closer, he realized there was no longer a door, just a narrow, murky hole. He entered cautiously, following the sound. Sitting behind a wide trunk, which had miraculously survived, was a small boy with messy blond hair and swollen amber eyes sunk back in his face.
The boy stared anxiously at Sergei, trying to press his body against the wall.
“I won’t hurt you.” Sergei kneeled down to the boy’s level. “I’m Sergei. Can you tell me your name?”
The boy sniffed back some tears and wrapped his arms around his knees. “Menahem Katsap.”
“How old are you?”
Menahem sniffed. “Seven.”
Sergei’s brow furrowed. He didn’t look more than four or five. “Where’s the rest of your family?”
Menahem started sobbing.
“I’m sorry…I’m so sorry.” Sergei reached out and gently touched the boy’s shoulder.
“My grandmother…was beat up.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“And you lived with her?”
Menahem nodded. Gray mucus dripped from his nose.
“Come with me.” Sergei held out his hand. Menahem carefully searched Sergei’s face before taking his hand.
“Where are we going?”
“To the hospital. To make sure you’re all right. They’ll take care of you and we’ll see if your grandmother is there.”
“Will she be all right?” The little boy trembled as he looked up at Sergei.
“I don’t know.” Sergei, fearing the worst, couldn’t look Menahem in the eye. “Maybe they’ll know more at the hospital.”
The Jewish Hospital was located along the slope of Nicolayevskaya Street. It was a substantial two-story building enclosed within a courtyard now crammed with injured people—standing, sitting, and lying unconscious on the muddy ground. As they approached the steps leading inside, Sergei felt Menahem’s cold, skinny fingers clutch his hand tighter. Sergei held his breath as he pushed open the hospital’s heavy door. Inside, the waiting area, too, was packed with wounded people. Their raw, open sores and grief-stricken eyes made Sergei look away, but he couldn’t escape their moaning and the horrid smell of urine, blood, and despair.
“Can I help you?” A nurse greeted Sergei and Menahem in a harried voice. She spoke loudly to be heard above the background commotion. “Just a minute,” she said to a man with a bandaged head standing behind her. She looked at Sergei expectantly.
“I found this boy all alone. His name is Menahem Katsap. He says his grandmother was beaten. Maybe she’s here waiting for him.”
The nurse bent down and spoke gently to Menahem. “Did anybody hurt you?”
Menahem shook his head.
“Would you like to come with me? Perhaps we can take a look at you and find out what happened to your grandmother.”
Menahem looked at Sergei, who nodded, then took the nurse’s hand.
“Do you know if anyone from the Paskar family is here?” asked Sergei.
The nurse gave him a curious look and examined the chart in her hand. “No, I don’t have anyone here with that name, but they could arrive later…”
Sergei nodded and looked down at his shoes, which were covered with mud.
“Thank you,” the nurse said, her voice softer and kinder. “For bringing Menahem here.”
Sergei put his hand on Menahem’s shoulder, then watched them walk down the hall until he couldn’t see them anymore. He left, more determined than ever to find Rachel.
Out on the street, Sergei was swept up in a sea of people, mostly men and teenage boys, waving clubs and canes wildly in the air, wearing the same long, red blouses and tall boots he had seen on the men in the square yesterday. The uniform of mass hatred.
A nervous energy ignited the mob when they reached house No. 33 on Gostinnii Street. They surged and attacked, breaking windows and pushing in the door. A few leaders barged into the home, found the residents hiding in the attic, and beat them mercilessly. One man dragged
a young boy outside and beat him to death with a crowbar, while the child’s father begged for mercy.
Sergei was sick to his stomach again—this time on the sidewalk. He looked around for a policeman but saw none. Breaking away from the boisterous crowd, he ran further south to find help.
Down the street, at house No. 66, another gang of rioters was ambushing a troika driver.
“Can you believe it?” a woman said to Sergei when he stopped beside her. “That idiot Jew driver refused to take that poor boy to the hospital. He died. It’s terrible. Just terrible.”
Sergei watched, transfixed, as the driver was murdered right in front of him. Clubbed to death. Sergei looked around again for a policeman. Instead, he saw two more men and a young woman being brutally beaten and kicked in the courtyard. Both of the men were unconscious, and the woman was groaning. The crowd was cheering the attackers on.
Sergei ran toward Asia Street and passed the New Bessarabia Hotel, which an angry throng was busy destroying. Grocery stores, bakeries, a wine shop, a jewelry store, and a tavern were all being demolished. Furniture was scattered across the pavement. People were taking whatever they could carry from the ruined stores.
“Stop…you must stop,” cried Father Petrov, a young priest. He stood in front of a small house, his black cassock splattered with mud, and pressed his palms out toward the angry rioters. “We must not attack our Jewish neighbors. They are good, honest people.”
“How can you defend them, with their crazy blood rituals?” yelled a man waving a crowbar in the air.
“You’re wrong,” cried Father Petrov fervently. “Jewish people don’t eat any meat that has blood in it. This is part of their culture. This idea of consuming blood directly contradicts their religion.”
A few people stopped and listened to the priest, their eyebrows rising with comprehension as he spoke. They moved slowly back from the house and the mob. But more of them, Sergei noted, kept going, ignoring the priest’s words.
Sergei walked aimlessly, his mind reeling with the horrific sights, smells, and sounds he had experienced. Kishinev had become derelict, dirty, and ravaged overnight. On one corner, three bodies lay together—a woman, man, and boy. He prayed the little boy never felt any pain.
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