The prosecutor slowly got to his feet and shook his head. Voices rose instantly, calling for this farce to be over with, while others pleaded that the court consider the evidence. Rachel’s heart clenched as she gazed around the courtroom. If she didn’t come forward, Mikhail’s killers would be freed. There would be no justice for Mikhail. She recalled her father’s words, about knowing the right time to reveal her secret. She rose to her feet. Without hesitation, she walked to the front of the room, not entirely sure of what she was doing or what she would say. Her feet seemed to move separately from her body, thrusting her forward. As she drew nearer to Goremykin, the room became eerily silent. Her eyes did not waver from his face as she stood in front of him.
“I saw it,” she began in a faint voice. “I saw Mikhail’s uncle and cousin stab him on the river.” She paused to take a deep breath. “I saw everything.”
The courtroom erupted into a frenzy of shouting with accusations flying past Rachel from every direction. But she did not take her eyes off Goremykin, who shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.
“Enough!” he cried, looking beyond Rachel at the spectators. The room quietened down. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Rachel Paskar,” she answered. “I was a friend of Mikhail’s. I skated with him on the day…right before…he died.”
He nodded for her to continue.
“I left, but forgot my shawl by the river and was going back to get it when I saw Mikhail talking with two men. Then I heard Mikhail call for help, and I hid behind a tree. He called the man ‘uncle’ and the boy ‘Philip.’ I did not hear much of their conversation, only Mikhail’s cries for help. I saw his uncle pull a knife out of his pocket and stab Mikhail.” Her voice broke but she was determined to finish. “Then Philip kicked him while his uncle kept stabbing him.”
She lowered her eyes for a second, then raised them again.
“Why did you not come forward earlier?” he asked without criticism.
She paused. “Because I am Jewish, and I saw the policeman’s cap on Mr. Rybachenko’s head. Who would believe a Jewish girl over a policeman? But I did tell my sister, and Sergei…Sergei Khanzhenkov. His father was the chief of police.” She hung her head. “Sergei told his father, but he didn’t believe him at first.”
She lifted her eyes to Goremykin, who began twirling his whiskers. He gazed at the courtroom for some time before he spoke, then he thanked her for coming forward. He told the lawyers that her testimony would be entered as evidence, and asked each lawyer if they had anything or anyone else to present. Neither did. Goremykin fixed his eyes on the senators and instructed them to retire and settle on a verdict.
Rachel trembled as she watched the senators file out. She could see in Goremykin’s eyes that he believed her, but she was not sure of the senators at all. As she walked back to her seat, her eyes rested on Mikhail’s grandfather. His lips curled up slightly and his eyes softened, as if he was saying thanks to her for standing up and speaking the truth. She saw Mikhail in his weathered face, and she knew that this man, a stranger to her, was a good person like his grandson. Her spirits rose through his silent approval, and for the first time in months she felt genuine hope that things really might get better.
The senators returned in an hour. Goremykin read the verdict, which found both Mikhail’s uncle and cousin guilty, and sentenced them to hard labor—Vasily to ten years and Philip to five. The courtroom was silent as the words sunk in, then it burst into a cacophony of voices that trailed Rachel as she rushed out of court. She was shocked by her own boldness, yet proud of what she had done. She could not bring Mikhail back, but at least she’d made sure the people responsible were punished. Truth had finally conquered evil.
Four
Rachel pulled her shawl tighter around her neck and turned left, toward her old house on Asia Street. She needed to see it one last time before she left Kishinev forever. The roads were still littered with broken doors and windows pushed off to the side, as if they were paying homage to people like her father and Mr. Berlatsky who’d lost their lives in the massacre.
Many businesses were still shut down: a tavern, a bookshop, a hat store, a vegetable market. Rachel wondered what had happened to the owners, and if the shops would ever open again. Fewer people walked along the streets now than before the massacre, and they moved in silence, heads bowed.
The signs of devastation increased as Rachel approached her home. Furniture that had been smashed to pieces lay in piles, abandoned, like so many of the people in the hospital. She stopped when she reached the courtyard of her former house. She touched the cold, stone wall and choked back tears.
A pile of broken tiles lay on the ground, and the courtyard was still strewn with feathers, broken glass, a torn sleeve, and a child’s pinafore. The doorway of their house had been boarded up with wood scraps and through the broken windows and twisted frames, there was nothing but darkness.
It looked like a shack, but for Rachel, it held a lifetime of memories—eating Shabbos dinners, playing chess with her father in front of the hot stove, lying on her bench reading, helping her mother prepare meals, arguing with Nucia, then making up. Her previous life flipped through her mind like the pages of a picture book.
As she stared at the remains, she saw something protruding from under a piece of broken glass. Rachel dug away at the spot with a stick until she could see more clearly.
“Father’s tallis!” she whispered.
She tore away the debris on top of the prayer shawl until she was able to pull it out. Though no longer white, it was in one piece. Rachel closed her eyes and pictured her father wearing it to the shul. The image settled her and made her feel as if her father was watching over her, Nucia, and her mother.
When she opened her eyes, Rachel felt someone watching her. Turning slowly, she found herself face to face with a tall Russian man, the journalist Korolenko whom she’d seen at the hospital. Rachel stiffened and started to back away from him.
“Have we met?” asked Korolenko, in a robust voice.
“I…I saw you at the hospital.”
“Ah, yes, you were reading to some children.”
“That’s right; what are you doing here?”
“I came to this house to see the damage from the riots that took place during Easter.”
Rachel twisted her braid and looked up at him. “Will you tell the truth about what happened, or are you going to spread more lies?”
He peered at her intently before answering. “I always try to tell the truth.”
“What if the people you talk to lie? The newspaper here told nothing but horrible lies about us.”
“I’ve seen those articles.” His eyes seemed to shine as he spoke. “That’s why I’m here. To try and make amends, to set the record straight.” He paused. “Would you like to tell me what happened?”
Rachel stared out at the rubble and thought carefully about what to say. “This is where I used to live. I was here when the riots started,” she began in a hollow voice. “We hid in the outhouse for hours. All night. One man was killed on the roof as we listened. And my father was killed in the shed.”
She cleared her throat and waited for Korolenko to write down what she said. “Mr. Grienschpoun was killed on this spot.” Rachel pointed to an area close to where they stood. “He ran past here.” Rachel sighed and pointed toward the shed. “He ran past here, and he fell down just there…and that’s where they murdered him.”
Korolenko stopped writing and stared at Rachel for a moment.
She moved toward the street. “Mr. Nisensen died in a puddle of mud out there.” She pointed straight ahead. “A police officer was there the whole time. We thought he’d protect us.” She paused. “He didn’t.”
She was suddenly worn out from describing what had happened. She realized that coming back and reliving the events of that night served
no purpose. It was time to go forward, to remember the past but live in the future.
“I…I have to go now,” she said. “My mother will be worried.”
Korolenko smiled at her. “Thank you for telling me your story.”
Rachel shrugged her shoulders. “Do you think that women could be writers like you, someday?”
He smiled at her. “Women are not taken seriously as writers now, but that will change.” He paused and gazed into the distance. “If you look outside of Russia, you will see many women attaining fame as writers.”
“What are their names?”
“There is Isabella Bird, from England, who writes about places such as Morocco, Japan, Canada, and America. And Emily Brontë, also from England, who wrote the novel Wuthering Heights years ago.”
Rachel’s heart raced as she listened to Korolenko. His words were proof that becoming a writer was not a fantasy, but a very real possibility. Rachel thanked him and turned to go back to the hospital, eager to tell her mother about these women and meeting Korolenko. Still surprised by what he had told her, she looked back to catch one last glimpse of him, but he was gone.
Sergei traipsed through the empty courtyard and into the hospital. The silence was unnerving
“I’m looking for Rachel Paskar,” he said to a woman who was sitting alone in the barren waiting room.
“They’ve all gone,” she said.
“Where?”
“To the train station. We received word that Moldavians are gathered a short distance from here…preparing to beat the Jews.” She wiped her eyes with a cloth. “Soldiers are trying to stop them, but after what has already occurred, everyone fled right away. The government has issued hundreds of exit visas so that Jews may escape safely. The only people still here are too ill to travel.”
Sergei ran to the door. He raced as fast as he could, past now-familiar landmarks in lower Kishinev…broken-down shops and houses and piles of rubbish at the side of the road, remnants of the Easter riots.
“Menahem,” Sergei gasped when he arrived at the orphanage. He was out of breath from running the whole way. “I need to see Menahem now.”
“I’m sorry but you can’t,” said an unfamiliar woman who was blocking the hallway. “It’s our Shabbos, you know. None of the children can leave here until this evening after sunset.”
“But there won’t be an evening for anyone here!” shouted Sergei. “Rioters are on their way right now. You have to take the children somewhere safe—somewhere they won’t be a target. I’ll take Menahem. I’ll make sure nothing happens to him.” Sergei’s eyes darted behind her, searching for Menahem in the corridor’s shadows.
“Why should I trust you?” asked the woman, frowning. “It was your people who started these riots in the first place.”
“He is trustworthy,” said another voice from the shadows.
Sergei squinted and recognized the woman he had often seen when he came to get Menahem.
“He cares for Menahem,” the woman continued, moving toward them. “Menahem will be safe with Sergei.”
The other woman cast a sideways glance at Sergei and grunted. “Very well. I’ll get the boy.” She disappeared down the corridor.
“Sergei!” cried Menahem a moment later. He appeared in the corridor with an excited smile. “Is it true? Are you really taking me away from here?”
“Yes. Now come.” Using his hand, he beckoned for Menahem. “We don’t have time to talk. I’ll explain later.” He smiled gratefully at the woman who had vouched for him, grabbed Menahem’s wrist, and darted out of the orphanage.
“Where are we going?” asked Menahem.
“On the train. Far from here,” puffed Sergei. “Where you’ll be safe.”
As she turned back to get one last look at the hospital, a wave of sadness washed over Rachel. She held her journal to her chest, feeling terrible about not being able to say good-bye to Sergei, about not being able to tell him what he meant to her, and how she wished things were different. Though the hospital had been her home for only a couple of months, it seemed like a lifetime. The ties that had bound her to Kishinev for so long had finally been cut. But this hospital had saved them when they had no place else to go, and in its own strange way, it had become her home.
“I wish the Berlatskys were coming with us,” she said to her mother and sister as they hurried out of the courtyard. “I’m worried about them.”
“You know they can’t travel until Chaia is better,” said her mother. “There is no other choice.” She pushed Rachel forward. “Make haste, Rachel, Nucia…we must get to the station.”
As soon as she was on the street, Rachel was immediately swept up and carried along with the crowd scurrying to the train station. The air echoed with children crying and women and men shouting out for them to hurry.
“How are all of us going to fit on the train?” she called out to Nucia. “There must be hundreds of people heading to the station.”
“I don’t know,” said her sister.
Up ahead, Rachel saw the station, a white building with a tall clock tower. As the crowd moved faster, she worried that she would trip and fall and be trampled. She could hear many people weeping and shouting as she and the others were pulled and pushed along.
“Help me!” a woman’s voice called out.
“Don’t let the train leave without me and my children,” cried another.
It was as if a dam had burst. Words rushed through the air, crashing into one another so that they became mixed up and indecipherable. Rachel’s head ached as the noise grew. She felt like she was hiding in the outhouse again, that the riots were repeating themselves all around her. That there was no escape.
“Rachel! Rachel!”
She stopped immediately when she heard Sergei’s voice. Rachel peered through the agitated crowd, but couldn’t see him. She shook her head and continued moving forward, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of Sergei.
“Over here, Rachel!”
She turned back in the direction of Sergei’s voice, toward the entrance of the station. The arched doorway, framed him with Menahem atop his shoulders. A few stragglers ran past him to catch the train, bumping against Sergei as they rushed by.
“Sergei!” She tried to push against the crowd to get to him, but it was like running uphill on ice.
Nucia screeched at her, “What are you doing? Turn around before you get hurt.”
Rachel felt her sister’s hand dig into her shoulder, trying to pull her along. “I have to see Sergei…he’s here, with Menahem!”
Her mother’s voice rose above the crowd. “There’s no time! Don’t you see? We have to get on the train. It’s the last one out tonight, Rachel.”
She broke away from her sister’s grasp, stuck her elbows out wide, and forced her way through the desperate throng of people, ignoring their dirty looks.
“Sergei…what are you doing here?” she asked when they were close enough to hear one another.
He was breathing hard and moved directly in front of her before responding. “I heard about the riots…I took Menahem….” He set the boy down gently.
Rachel grabbed Sergei’s hand and held it tightly. “You’ve probably saved his life.”
As they gazed at each other, the surrounding noise and chaos seemed to fade away. “Come with us,” said Rachel. “You said you wanted to travel, to get away from Kishinev. Come with us to America.”
Sergei’s eyes moved around the station, taking in the madness as people fought their way to the train. “I can’t leave my mother and sister, not now, with my father….” He bent down so that his face was at the same level as Menahem’s. The boy looked at him with frightened eyes and quivering lips. “You must go with Rachel,” said Sergei. “You will be safe with her family.”
“No, Sergei, no,” cried
Menahem. “I want to stay with you.” He threw his small arms around Sergei’s neck and sobbed on his shoulder.
Rachel, holding back tears, watched Sergei comfort Menahem. This shouldn’t be happening, she thought. Menahem shouldn’t have to leave Sergei just to be safe. We shouldn’t be forced to move from our home, from our country.
Sergei pried Menahem away from him, and set him on the ground. “I wish you could stay with me, but you need to be with a family that can take care of you.” He wiped the tears from Menahem’s cheek. “And it isn’t safe in Russia for Jews anymore.”
“I don’t want to be Jewish, I want to be like you,” said Menahem.
Rachel watched the color drain from Sergei’s face.
“You listen to me, Menahem,” Sergei said in a firm voice.
Menahem gazed at him with watery eyes.
“Don’t ever change who you are, not for anybody,” Sergei continued.
Menahem nodded solemnly.
“Do you think your grandmother would want you to give up everything she taught you, everything your parents knew and believed in?”
Menahem wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and shook his head. His bottom lip quivered but he had stopped crying.
Sergei gently pushed Menahem toward Rachel, who opened her arms for the boy.
Rachel felt Menahem’s shoulder blades as she held him tight.
“We have to go, or the train will leave without us,” she said, forcing herself to sound in control.
“Write me,” said Sergei, handing Rachel a slip of paper with his address. “Let me know when you are out of Russia.”
Rachel let go of Menahem, took the paper and stared at it, unable to look at Sergei for fear she would start crying and set Menahem off again.
Sergei reached out and lifted her chin so that their eyes met. “We will see each other again.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Yes, and I always keep my promises.”
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