“I’ve…” He swallowed and started again. “I’ve been meaning to tell you that I’m sorry about…when I knocked the flour out of your arms. It was an accident, and I should have stopped to help you.”
Rachel’s jaw dropped. “Why didn’t you?”
He took a deep breath and considered his answer. There was no way he could admit to Rachel that he became nervous in her presence, but he couldn’t lie to her either. He decided to avoid the question entirely. “I wanted to, but…let me make it up to you. I’ll walk you home, to make sure you get there safely.”
The corners of Rachel’s lips turned up slightly, making Sergei’s heart skip a beat. “I feel terrible about the way those girls treated you,” he said as they headed south, to lower Kishinev. The sun was going down, tinting the sky a grayish-lavender, and a streetcar rumbled past.
“It’s not your fault,” Rachel replied slowly, her head down. “Ever since Mikhail…people, like those girls, act as if we’re all guilty.”
Sergei stuck his hands in his pockets and felt her shawl. He turned around and walked backwards, facing Rachel, ignoring the rest of the people rushing past. “Can I ask you something?”
She stopped and lifted her head. “I guess so…”
“Why do people say that Jews killed Mikhail for his blood?”
Rachel sighed. “That’s just a stupid rumor. It’s been around forever.”
Sergei locked her in his gaze, waiting for her to continue.
“When matzah is a few days old, or gets wet, a red mold appears.”
“And matzah is…?”
“A bread we make without flour for Passover, when we can’t eat anything with wheat.”
“So that’s it?” Sergei turned and resumed walking with Rachel. “Just because this bread turns red, people think it’s made with blood?”
“Yes, but it’s against our religion to eat anything with blood.” Rachel smiled wanly. “Silly, isn’t it?”
“Ridiculous. And Mikhail would be so angry if he knew such lies were being spread about his murder. Even the newspaper is running stories about Jews crucifying him for his blood.”
Rachel nodded. “I know. I want to be a writer, a journalist perhaps, but now—I don’t trust newspapers anymore.”
Sergei stopped and faced Rachel. “You shouldn’t give up on becoming a writer because of a few crooked journalists. I’m sure there are many honest writers working at good newspapers.”
“You don’t think I’m crazy for wanting to write, even though I’m a girl?”
He shook his head and started walking again. “My sister is smart, like you. I want her to be able to do what she wants, not get stuck cooking and cleaning for a drunken husband.” Sergei blushed, hearing the words that came out of his mouth. He hoped Rachel didn’t realize he was talking about his father.
“You have a sister?”
“Natalya. She’s eight,” said Sergei, relieved Rachel showed interest in his sister only.
“She’s lucky to have a big brother looking out for her.” Rachel stopped and glanced at the walled courtyard behind them.
Sergei realized they were standing in the shabbiest part of town. There were no sidewalks, just a muddy pathway alongside the street. The courtyard walls were gray cement, cracked with age. Through the narrow opening into the courtyard, Sergei caught a glimpse of tiny, sagging houses with low, tiled roofs. They looked tired and worn out, the way Rachel appeared now, standing before him with dishevelled hair, holes in her stockings, and blood on her face. Still, her deep-set green eyes, and high cheekbones overshadowed her injuries. He imagined himself painting her face. He was intrigued by the mystery of Rachel and her culture that was as foreign to him as America. She wasn’t like the other girls he knew, silly and giggling all the time about nothing of importance. Rachel was more thoughtful, more interesting, and much prettier.
“Thank you for walking me home,” she said. “And for coming to my rescue.”
“Any time.” He paused. “But you should be more careful, until all of the anger and lies are gone.”
“That’s what my father told me.”
“He sounds like a smart person.”
“He is, very smart.”
Sergei smiled. “Maybe we can talk again?”
She raised her eyes to meet his. “I’d like that.”
He watched Rachel disappear inside the courtyard and then shuffled home slowly, fingering her shawl, which was still in his pocket. Sergei knew he should have returned it, but he liked having something that reminded him of Rachel, and it gave him a reason to see her again.
Two
Sergei tugged at the stiff red collar around his neck. He and his family were part of a growing procession of people on their way to Mass. The Orthodox cathedral’s church bells rang out, occasionally muffled by the clip-clop of horses drawing carriages full of people.
“I hate wearing these clothes to church,” Sergei complained to his mother. “I don’t think anybody cares what we look like when we pray.”
“You should be grateful you have such nice things to wear,” his mother replied. “Especially at such an important time as Lent.”
“I love dressing up,” said Natalya, grinning at Sergei.
Just before they reached the impressive stone and iron gates leading to the cathedral, they saw men and women in ragged clothes begging for money to buy food. Sergei looked away when he smelled their poverty,fixing his eyes on the three-tiered belfry with its domed roof.
“Please sir, a few coins for our convent?” A gaunt woman in a long black robe held out her hand. Her skin was so white that her eyebrows looked like sticks on snow. Sergei’s father reached into his front pocket, pulled out a few kopecks, and handed them to her.
As he watched, Sergei wished that his father could be generous and kind every day, not just on Sundays.
Entering the pale yellow cathedral, Sergei approached the icons and kissed them, a custom that was entrenched in his Sunday routine. As the crowd filled the cathedral, Sergei was pressed so tightly against other people that he could smell their skin, their smelly sheepskin coats, and their stale breath. Yet when the procession entered, the throng of people divided. The soft murmur of voices stopped instantly when the priest walked through the Royal Door at the back of the building, dressed in full ecclesiastical vestments. The fragrant incense and smoldering odor of burning candles filled the church, creating a soft haze in the air.
“Let us pray,” said the priest in a commanding tone.
After an hour of standing, singing, chanting, and crossing himself, Sergei was ready to go home. He looked down at Natalya, whose head was at people’s waists. She was drooping from the heat and the crowd. Sergei squeezed her warm, sticky hand. She gave him a look of desperation.
“Can we go now?” he asked his mother, wedged in beside him.
“Shh…” she whispered. “The choir is about to sing.”
Sergei listened. The men’s voices, unaccompanied by instruments, sounded simple and pure. People standing near Sergei closed their eyes as the voices soared. He wondered if any of these men and women were responsible for spreading the rumors about Mikhail’s body being sewn shut. But it was impossible to see beyond people’s skin and into their hearts and minds.
When the service ended, Sergei, still holding Natalya’s hand, worked his way through the congregation with his parents. Outside, he saw Mikhail’s grandparents for the first time since the funeral. Looking old and stooped, they walked alone, carefully descending the steps of the church. Sergei remembered how Mikhail used to place his arm around his grandmother when they left the cathedral, so that she appeared upright and proud. Now she looked fragile and defeated.
“Sergei, we must greet Mikhail’s grandparents,” said his mother. “Natalya, you stay here with Papa.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Sergei protested.
“Come.” His mother firmly nudged him toward Mikhail’s grandparents. “Good afternoon,” she said effusively.
Sergei’s voice was dry with apprehension. “Hello.”
His mother continued. “It is so nice to see you. How are you coping? Is there anything we can do for you?” She touched Mikhail’s grandmother lightly on the shoulder.
“We’re as well as can be expected,” said Mikhail’s grandfather. He had the same sharp blue eyes as Mikhail, and brown spots on his pale, almost translucent, face.
Mikhail’s grandmother looked up and smiled wearily. She had white hair and waxy looking skin. Over her black overcoat hung Mikhail’s silver cross, the one he’d worn since his birth. When he saw it, Sergei’s throat constricted. Somehow, seeing Mikhail’s icon on his grandmother made everything that had happened so real and final.
Mikhail’s grandfather gazed at Sergei solemnly. “Excuse us, we must go.”
“Of course,” said Sergei’s mother. “I will pray for you.”
Mikhail’s grandmother’s eyes filled with tears. She took her husband’s arm and started to walk away. As she did, she turned around and stared at Sergei. All he could see was Mikhail’s silver icon sparkling brightly against her coat.
Sergei sat hunched on the bench watching his friends skate. This was the first time he’d been back to the river since he’d come with his father, when blood had stained the ice. Now he felt guilty for being here, as if he was betraying his friend by being alive.
Petya skated in front of the bench. “Come on, Sergei. The ice is going to break in a couple of weeks.”
Grimacing, Sergei stood up, stepped onto the ice, and followed Petya to their group of friends skating toward the bend in the river. When he passed the spot where he last saw Mikhail, he held his breath.
“Sergei’s here,” announced Petya, stopping suddenly on the ice and nodding toward him.
“Good. Let’s race to where the river narrows,” said Theodore. “On the count of three…one, two, three!”
The boys were off in a flurry, commanding the ice as they flew by parents teaching small children to skate, young people practicing turns, and older couples gliding sedately along the frozen river.
Sergei started slowly, swinging his arms from side to side. All he could think about was how Mikhail would never be able to skate again, or do any of the other things he had loved to do. Eventually, the cold air cleared his head, making him feel a little bit better. He picked up speed, but Nikolai, tall and lean, had already arrived, followed by Theodore and Petya.
“Hey, let’s sit over there.” Nikolai skated to the river’s edge where an immense tree trunk had fallen on its side years ago. He pulled himself up to sit on it and gestured to the others to join him.
“I can’t stay for long,” said Sergei. “My father gets mad if I’m out too late.”
“What does The Beard do? Interrogate you?” asked Theodore, with a sly grin. “Isn’t he busy looking for Mikhail’s killer?”
Nikolai undid his skate blades, stood up, and walked gingerly along a thick branch overhanging the river. His hair was shaved so close to his scalp that his head reflected the afternoon sun. “My father says it’s only a matter of time before the guilty Jew is caught.”
“How does your father know it’s a Jew?” asked Petya.
“Petya’s right. It may not be a Jew. Those stories about Jews killing for blood aren’t true.” Sergei watched as Nikolai swayed and almost fell off the branch, then managed to regain his balance. “Why don’t you get off that branch?”
“Who are you? My mother?” Sneering, Nikolai stood on one leg and teetered back and forth, then walked back along the branch toward the boys.
“How do you know those stories aren’t true?” Theodore asked, frowning at Sergei. “I’ve seen the headlines in the newspaper about Jews needing blood to make bread.”
Sergei scowled at Theodore. “Don’t believe everything you read.”
“Did you hear that another Russian—a girl—was killed yesterday?” asked Nikolai, as he picked at the dry bark of the tree with his bare hands.
“What are you talking about?” said Sergei.
“Some girl who worked as a housemaid for a Jewish doctor. There were wounds on her heels and people say she was killed for her blood, like Mikhail.”
“That’s crazy. What people? And how do you know they weren’t making the whole story up?” asked Sergei.
Nikolai stood up and kicked at the bark. “My mother heard people talking about the girl at the market.” He jumped down from the branch. “Why would people make up a story like that?”
“Because—” Sergei took a deep breath. “Rachel told me that their bread turns red when it gets wet or is old, from mold. That’s why people think it’s made with blood.”
“When were you talking to Rachel?” asked Theodore.
“A few days ago.”
“And you believe what she says?” said Nikolai.
“Mikhail would have believed her,” said Petya. “Why shouldn’t Sergei?”
“So now you two are Jew lovers, like Mikhail,” scoffed Theodore. “Look where that got him.”
“We’re not Jew lovers,” argued Petya. “But can you honestly believe that Jews would kill people and make food from their blood? It just seems so…so…”
“Idiotic,” said Sergei.
Petya slipped off the tree trunk and began attaching his skate blades to his boots. “We all believe Jesus rose from the dead, which might seem stupid to them.” He stood and started skating back.
Sergei, Nikolai, and Theodore jumped onto the ground, attached their skate blades, and followed Petya.
“My father says the Jews are going to have a surprise soon. Maybe at Easter,” said Nikolai, rushing to the lead and turning around to skate backwards, facing the others.
“How can he be sure?” asked Sergei.
Nikolai shrugged his shoulders. “He says we need to get rid of a lot of the Jews, that there are more than fifty thousand here in Kishinev now, half of our entire population.” Nikolai turned around again so that he was facing the same direction as everyone else.
“I heard my father tell my uncle that the Jews have helped make Kishinev successful, because they run better businesses than Russians do,” said Petya.
“That’s why my father lost his job,” said Theodore with obvious reproach. “The flour mill he worked for closed down because it couldn’t compete with the Jewish mill.”
“But there’s nothing illegal about running a good business,” argued Sergei.
Petya nodded. “You can’t force Jews to leave just because they’re successful.”
“They’re lashing out at us,” said Theodore. “Look at Mikhail and now this Russian girl. We have to do something to show them we’re not going to sit here and let them destroy us.”
“What does your father say, Sergei?” asked Petya.
“Well, he can’t do anything without proof. He’s been interviewing people—”
“But what does he think?” asked Nikolai.
The three boys stopped skating and looked at Sergei expectantly.
“He thinks a Jew killed Mikhail, but he has no evidence, in fact the medical examiner—”
“You see, even The Beard knows the truth. He doesn’t need proof to know what happened,” Theodore said.
Sergei swallowed and found his throat was scratchy and dry. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“Wait and see,” warned Nikolai. “Something’s going to happen soon.”
Three
“Why don’t you dress as Esther?” Rachel suggested to Nucia. The girls were standing by the bench they slept on, clothing scattered all over the floor.
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�Half the girls from the shul will be Esther.” Nucia held up a faded black skirt. “Look at this rag. You can see where the seams have been let out twice!”
Rachel held the skirt up and frowned. “Maybe you can wear something of Mother’s.”
“This was Mother’s,” replied Nucia. She grabbed the skirt from Rachel and threw it on the floor.
“Nucia, you’ll look beautiful no matter what you wear.”
Nucia scowled at Rachel and held her face in her hands.
“What’s going on in here?” asked their mother. She stood with her hands on her hips surveying the mess.
“I can’t find a costume to wear for Purim,” said Nucia. “We don’t have anything.”
“Enough already.” Rachel’s mother shook her head. “Just choose something. And put this clothing away where it belongs.”
“But I want to look different from everyone else,” said Nucia.
“You should have so many dresses…a different one for every day! You should be so lucky…I should be so lucky.” Rachel’s mother went back behind the curtain, mumbling loudly about craziness.
“Ohh—” groaned Nucia. She threw herself face down, banging her fist on the bench.
Rachel finished buttoning her father’s black shirt and put on his black cap which completed her Haman costume. Haman was the evil character in the story of Esther who tried to have all the Jews in Persia killed. But in the end, Haman was killed and the Jews survived. Every year, Rachel dressed as Haman for Purim because she liked pretending to be evil. Now, she pictured Haman as the policeman who had killed Mikhail.She blinked to get the disturbing image out of her head and thought of another idea for Nucia. “Why don’t you be Vashti? You know, the first queen of Persia who refused to appear before the king’s guests and was banished.”
“There’s no point in choosing costumes this year,” interrupted their father in a flat voice as he walked into the house.
“What do you mean?” asked Rachel. She and Nucia pushed the curtain aside and joined their parents.
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