“What are you talking about?” Sergei clenched his fists to keep his temper from getting the better of him.
“The newspaper says they’ve been taking over Kishinev. Putting us out of business. Time we did something about it.” He stopped speaking for a moment to wipe his brow with a dirty cloth. “Twenty kopecks.”
“Even if they do put people out of business, it’s not illegal, and it’s not worth killing for,” Sergei said, glaring at the shopkeeper. He threw the kopecks on the counter and headed to the door.
“You have to stop arguing with people,” Petya said to Sergei as soon as they were outside. “You’re going—”
A sharp jingling sound interrupted Petya as they stepped onto the crowded sidewalk. The boys looked to their left and watched a large closed carriage coming along the street, led by two majestic horses adorned with necklets, bells, and foxtails. When it came closer, Sergei could see from the intricate carvings on the carriage that it carried someone important.
Unable to get away from the mob of people, the boys watched as the carriage passed by. The passenger, a middle-aged man with gray hair and black, turned-up whiskers, wore round spectacles and stared straight ahead, ignoring the hordes of people gaping at him.
“Come on,” said Sergei. He slipped in front of the crowd and onto the street.
“That must be the police official the shopkeeper talked about,” said Petya.
Sergei nodded, his eyes pasted on the Jewish people lining the road. They were disheveled, with torn clothing, and many had open wounds. Turning a corner, Sergei and Petya left the crowd behind them. “Is he going to see your father?” Petya asked.
“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken with my father much. He’s been in a pretty bad mood since the riots.”
“How come? It’s not like they were his fault.”
“I saw a telegraph he received last night. The military troops are staying here for a while to make sure nobody else gets hurt. I don’t think my father likes having people watching over him.”
“Well, at least your father didn’t hide when all the fighting was going on. My father could at least have pretended to do something.” Petya shook his head and scowled.
“I don’t know. My father paraded around, watched the attacks, and did absolutely nothing.” Sergei turned to leave. “I’ll see you later.”
“Where are you going?” asked Petya.
Sergei wanted to tell Petya about Rachel, and how worried he was about her, but he knew this would be a mistake. “To find someone.”
In the hospital’s courtyard. Sergei stared, open-mouthed, at the patients sitting mutely on the steps, heads and arms wrapped in bandages, pain etched on their faces. Weeping—anguished cries—accosted him when he opened the door. The sharp, overpowering smell of antiseptic mixed with the putrid odor of perspiration filled his nose and mouth. He watched in disbelief as a crippled man, whose eye had been gouged out, begged a nurse to kill him. He saw men talking to themselves, their bodies covered in sores, bumps, and bruises. He saw a young girl sitting alone, her arms around her knees as she rocked back and forth. Her eyes were empty of life.
A sea of people sat hunched over in the waiting room, their ragged clothing torn and bloody, their faces lined in sorrow. Sergei pressed his hands to his eyes, unable to witness any more despair; just then, someone grabbed the back of his legs. Startled, he turned around and saw Menahem. He picked the boy up and gave him a big hug. When he tried to put him down, Menahem wouldn’t let go.
“How are they treating you? Are you getting enough to eat?” Sergei could feel Menahem’s bony spine through his shirt.
Menahem nodded. “We go to the soup kitchen every day, and they give us bread too.”
“You and your grandmother?”
“No…she…she’s gone.” Menahem’s lower lip began to tremble.
Sergei could tell the boy was trying to be brave. “Who’s taking care of you?”
“Some of the nurses.”
“I wish I could help you,” said Sergei.
“Can I come home with you?” Menahem asked. “I’ll be good. I promise.”
Sergei’s eyes watered as he hugged Menahem tighter. He wished he could hold onto Menahem’s innocence and trust forever, and that Menahem would never see him as the enemy. “I can’t take you, but I promise I’ll visit you as much as I can.”
Menahem’s body went limp in Sergei’s arms, and he sunk his head onto Sergei’s shoulder. “I won’t be here much longer. I have to go to the orphanage soon.”
Frustrated by this news, Sergei was trying to think of something positive to say, when he saw Rachel walking toward him. Relief swelled inside his chest as she drew closer and he saw that she was physically unharmed.
“Sergei—” she said, her face breaking into a smile. Dark circles underlined her red eyes and her untidy hair hung in her face. “Who is he?” She glanced curiously at Menahem and then at Sergei.
“My friend, Menahem. Menahem, this is Rachel.”
Menahem lifted his head and looked shyly at Rachel. “He brought me here when my grandmother…” Tears streamed down Menahem’s face. He buried his head in Sergei’s shoulder again.
“I was here, the day of the…you weren’t…I went to your house but I couldn’t find anybody,” Sergei said.
“I was hiding in the outhouse; I heard you asking people to stop.” She swallowed and took a deep breath. “That was very brave of you.”
Sergei hung his head, disturbed by the thought of Rachel hiding in a smelly outhouse. “I wish they had listened.”
“My father was killed, and Chaia’s father,” said Rachel in a flat voice. “Chaia has many broken bones and doesn’t speak. She saw her father…” Her voice broke and she turned away from Sergei.
“I know it doesn’t bring anyone back, but many people have been arrested,” he said slowly, watching her reaction. “And Mikhail’s uncle and cousin are being investigated. My father finally revealed what I told him.”
Rachel sniffed and wiped her tears. “I guess that’s good news. Still, I’ve lost everything because of horrible lies. We don’t know where we’ll be in a month from now, or even a week.”
“Are you going to have to go to the orphanage, too?” Menahem said to Rachel.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
Sergei looked past her at the people sprawled all over the floor. He shifted Menahem’s weight to his other shoulder. “I want to help you.”
“How?”
“With money, finding a place for you to live…”
“You don’t work…and you don’t owe us anything.” She looked back down the shadowy corridor. “I have to go now. My mother needs me.”
Sergei’s eyes followed her as she walked away. “Damm!” Rage built up inside of him like a fire fed with oil. He kicked the wall. “Dammit!”
A few patients sitting in the corridor cowered during Sergei’s outburst.
“Are you mad at me?” asked Menahem in a meek voice.
Sergei winced, embarrassed that he’d frightened Menahem with his display of anger. He crouched over and put Menahem on the floor. “No, of course I’m not mad at you. I didn’t mean to—” He bit his lip and tried to figure out the best words to say. “I’m mad at the people who hurt your grandmother and Rachel’s father.” He hung his head. “I want to make things right, but nothing I do will ever be enough.”
He felt a warm hand take his as he looked into Menahem’s hopeful eyes.
“You helped me,” said Menahem. “That was good.”
Sergei smiled and tousled his hair. “I guess that was good. Now I just need to do something good for Rachel.”
Rachel wiggled her toes to keep them from falling asleep. She’d been standing in the soup-kitchen line for almost two hours and was still a long wa
y from the front. Just ahead of them were Elena and Esther Berlatsky with their arms around Jacob. Mrs. Berlatsky and Rachel’s mother stood silently in front of Rachel.
“At least Mother came with us today,” said Rachel to Nucia.
“Yes. This will be the first time she’s eaten since…”
“I know.”
The girls stood quietly for a few minutes as the line moved slowly forward.
“I want to sit down,” Rachel told Nucia. “My shoes are so tight I can hardly feel my feet.”
Nucia shook her head. “The ground is dirty and wet. Stay standing.”
Rachel sighed but did as her sister said. Since they’d arrived at the hospital, Nucia had taken on the authoritative role in their family. Much to her surprise, Rachel didn’t mind at all. She liked having someone watching over her the way her father had.
They shuffled forward, a bit closer to the food, only to stop again. “What if they run out of soup?” asked Rachel.
“Then we don’t eat,” said Nucia. “But they’ve had enough every day so far.”
Rachel turned to see how far the line went behind them. Familiar faces surfaced as she scanned the swarm of people. Anna, a girl she knew from school…Yoram, with his pensive eyes and straight black hair…and Leah, her head bandaged where her hair used to be.
“Leah!” she called, rushing back to greet her.
The color drained from Rachel’s cheeks when she saw her friend’s face. Leah’s skin was bruised, in varying shades of purple and gray, and a raw-looking gash ran diagonally from her ear to her nose. She opened her arms and pulled Rachel into a tight embrace.
“Oh Rachel,” said Leah, loosening her hold. “I’m so glad to see you’re all right.”
Rachel looked down at her feet, riddled with shame for making it through the riots without a blemish while her two closest friends would be scarred for life. She lifted her head and gazed at Leah. “What about you? What happened?”
“Well…” Leah lowered her eyes. “A few fists and a knife ran into my face and head during the riots…I’m doing better now, but my parents are still unable to leave the hospital because of their injuries.”
“Your head…does it hurt?” asked Rachel.
“Not as much as it did.” She took a deep breath. “The worst was when they had to shave my hair off.”
“I’m so sorry, Leah.”
Tears welled up in Leah’s eyes. “Meyer is in bad shape, completely blinded during the attacks.”
“Oh no,” cried Rachel. She knew how much Leah cared for Meyer and feared this would affect or even ruin their future together.
Through her tears, Leah asked about Chaia. Rachel saw Yoram twist his head sharply to hear her reply. When Rachel explained briefly what had happened, Yoram grew pale. Leah averted her eyes for a moment before speaking. “That night…the things I saw…what those men did to me…”
Rachel gasped.
“I can never talk about what happened ever again.”
“I’ll never ask you to tell me,” said Rachel. “I’m just grateful you’re here.” She glanced ahead and saw that her mother and sister were near the front of the line. After planning to meet in the courtyard the next day, she left Leah and rejoined her family. She looked back to make sure Leah was still there, and that she hadn’t imagined their conversation. Leah was still in the same place, but Yoram was gone.
The soup tasted like hot water. There were tiny bits of cabbage that had floated to the bottom, but the broth was tasteless. And the tiny piece of bread she’d been given was hard to swallow because it was so dry.
When she placed her empty bowl in a wooden bucket piled high with other dirty bowls, she saw Sacha and his father hovering nearby. Both of them looked like skeletons of their former selves, their faces drawn so that their bones stuck out. Mr. Talansky’s hand shook when he placed his bowl in the bucket.
“We were among the first in line,” said Sacha to Rachel. “But it wasn’t enough to fill a bird.”
“I know. And I couldn’t taste any cabbage in my soup.” Rachel noticed Sacha’s eyes darting back and forth from her face to the bucket filled with discarded bowls. Turning her head, she saw Mr. Talansky grabbing bowls and holding them up to his mouth, licking the remains of other people’s soup.
“We’re both so hungry. What they give us isn’t enough.” Sacha fidgeted with his hands and looked down in shame. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“Don’t be. I’m still hungry, and I’m not nearly as big as you or your father. It’s all right,” she said, disconcerted by Mr. Talansky’s desperate condition. “As soon as I finished my bowl, I started counting the hours until the next meal.”
Sacha kicked at the ground. “We’re leaving tomorrow.”
“Where are you going?”
“Petersburg. My father has a sister there. We’re going to stay with her family until my father gets a job.”
Rachel twisted her braid and forced a smile. Sacha and his father had been like family to her, and now they were leaving. She might never see them again.
“Maybe your family could come too,” Sacha continued, his voice becoming earnest. “Maybe your mother could get a position…” His voice tapered off as he spoke, as if he knew what she was going to say.
“Doing what? All my mother knows how to do is cook and clean.”
“Well…she could get a job at a restaurant…or doing needlework.”
Rachel glanced at her mother who stood waiting for Mrs. Berlatsky to finish her soup. She was stooped over, as if she were sixty, not thirty-three. Her hair was streaked with gray and her face was pale, almost translucent.
“I don’t think so,” Rachel said. “My mother’s hardly spoken in days. All she does is sleep. I can’t see her making food or even doing needlework. Not for a long time; maybe never.”
“Then…maybe you could come with us,” said Sacha.
Rachel felt his eyes on her. “I can’t leave my mother or sister. It wouldn’t be right.” She looked up at him sadly. “But I will miss you and your father.” She glanced at Mr. Talansky, now sitting on the wet ground. “Will you promise to write me?”
Sacha nodded and gave her a rueful smile. She watched as he helped his father to his feet and headed back to the hospital. The Talanskys were another link to her former life that was now being broken. Little by little, her life was disintegrating, leaving her feeling helpless and despondent about the future.
Rachel and Nucia stood in the doorway to their hospital room staring at their mother. She lay motionless on her cot.
“I’m so worried about her,” said Nucia. “She’s lost so much weight and has no energy at all.”
“She hardly ate anything yesterday,” said Rachel. “And at night she’s restless, rolling around and groaning.”
“I wish we could take her away from here. Sacha and his father are lucky they have family in Petersburg.”
Rachel pushed her braids behind her shoulders. “We do have family…Father’s parents. Bubbe and Zeyde.”
“We’ve never even met his parents,” sighed Nucia.
A smile extended across Rachel’s face. “Let’s write them a letter. We’ll tell them what happened and ask if we can come.”
Nucia looked at Rachel as if she was crazy. “They might ignore a letter. They don’t know us at all…we don’t even know where they live.”
Rachel fixed her gaze on Nucia. “I know the town. We can address it to the synagogue there. We have to try. That’s what Father would say. When they hear about Father…” her voice broke, and she paused to gain her composure. “They may want to help us.”
Nucia shrugged her shoulders. “I think you’re wasting your time.”
Rachel’s eyes flashed with hope and determination. “All we have right now is time. There is nothing
to lose.” She turned and strode purposefully down the hall to Rena’s office.
Rena sat at her tidy desk filling out some forms. “Rena? Is there an inkwell and pen I can use to write a letter?” asked Rachel.
“Yes, of course. Use mine.” Rena gestured to her pewter inkwell. “And here’s a piece of paper.”
Rachel sat down on the chair facing Rena, laid the paper flat on the desk, and dipped the quill into the ink.
Zeyde and Bubbe, Sholom aleichem, she wrote neatly at the top of the page. We hope you are well. We are sorry to bring you bad news. Rachel paused to take a deep breath. When she continued, her hand shook, causing drops of ink to pool on the paper. Father was killed during a big fight that took place in Kishinev at the end of Passover. Our house was destroyed. Now we’re staying in the hospital but have to find a new place to live.
Rachel read over what she had written but was unsure of how to continue. “Rena…do you think it’s a good idea to write my grandparents and ask if we can live with them, when we’ve never even met them?”
Rena set her pen in its stand and sat back with a thoughtful look on her face. “I think it’s an excellent idea. I’m sure your grandparents have wanted to meet you for a long time…”
“You don’t understand,” said Rachel. “My father had a quarrel with his parents years ago, and they never saw each other again.”
Rena leaned forward and rested her elbows on the desk. “I don’t know your grandparents, but I am quite sure they deeply regret the argument that came between them and your father. Because of it, they don’t know you and your sister, and worse, their son has died before they could resolve their differences.” She looked intently at Rachel. “They won’t want the same thing to happen again.”
Rachel nodded, encouraged by Rena’s sensible words. With renewed determination, she continued writing. Mother has hardly spoken since the massacre. She won’t be able to work for some time. We would be very grateful if we could come and stay with you until Mother feels better. We promise we won’t cause any trouble, and we have always wanted to meet you both very much. Please send your reply to the Kishinev Jewish Hospital. Your loving granddaughter, Rachel.
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