“It’s very good,” he said, giving his sister a distracted smile.
“You’re going to come with me and carry a branch.” Natalya held out a long pussy willow branch. “See, Papa brought you one as well.”
“I think I’m too old for this now.”
“But you have to come,” cried Natalya, clutching Sergei’s branch.
His mother stopped stirring and wiped her hands on her apron. “Good heavens. You must come. You’ve always loved marching around with a branch.”
Sergei shook his head and looked from his mother to his father. “I’m not a little child anymore. I’m going to be fifteen soon. Nobody else my age will be walking around with branches tonight.”
His father set his glass on the table and sneered at Sergei. “Did you ask your friends?”
“Most of my friends were too busy attacking a Jewish mother and her children today,” he replied. “I doubt any of them are going.”
“Well, if nobody you know is there, then you don’t have to worry about being seen, hmm? You’re going to show that we are a happy, strong family. That’s what Kishinev needs right now. To see families together.” His father picked up his newspaper and turned away from Sergei.
“I’m not making leaves or anything,” Sergei said, biting his lower lip.
“That’s all right. I’ll make them for you.” Natalya resumed her leaf making with a broad smile across her little face.
Sergei’s branch was decorated with blue flowers and sparse green leaves, but he wished it was covered with real leaves so he could hide his face behind it. He dragged his feet as he joined hundreds of children marching noisily along streets. Hearing the excited, high-pitched voices around him, Sergei scowled. He looked behind to see if his father noticed how tall he was compared to the other children, but his father was busy waving and greeting people as he walked by. His mother, walking with Carlotta behind his father, looked happier than they’d been in ages, which slightly appeased his resentment at being forced to march along the streets of Kishinev with little children.
“Papa, can I have a gingerbread cross?” said Natalya, as they came upon a roadside booth that sold these.
Sergei’s mouth watered at the thought of gingerbread. He followed his father and Natalya to the booth, which was swarming with people. The vendor, a fleshy man with a booming voice, was selling the crosses to the loudest bidders. Sergei cringed when his father barked out a command for five, his voice overtaking others who’d certainly been waiting much longer.
Sergei picked the largest gingerbread icon from his father’s hand, and took a bite out of it. This was the only sweet thing he’d been allowed to eat since Lent began, yet it tasted dry and plain. He stared at the cross and became queasy. This icon was the most sacred symbol of their faith. It represented all that was good and noble. Yet the talk about blood and killing Jews went against everything the icon stood for. Just looking at his gingerbread cross, with a bit of the top missing, left a bitter taste in Sergei’s mouth. When he was sure nobody was looking, he dropped it on the ground and smashed it with his boot.
Four
“Father says we can start attending shul again,” Chaia reported to Rachel and Leah. The girls were walking home from school on late winter snow that was trampled and the color of strong tea. Rachel held up her long skirt to keep it from getting filthy, but the edges were already soggy.
“We’ll be coming back to shul also,” said Leah.
“Oh! That’s wonderful! I’ve really missed you both,” said Rachel. She let go of her skirt and watched as chunks of snow stuck to it. “But why now?”
“The newspaper,” Chaia said. The girls stopped at a corner and waited while a carriage drove past. “My father said there was a long article about Mikhail’s murder, and how there was never any proof that a Jewish person committed the crime.”
“Really?” said Rachel. “My father never thought they’d write anything but negative words about us.”
They continued across the street, dodging small piles of horse manure.
“I can’t understand why people actually believed such nonsense in the first place,” said Rachel. “Watch out!” She pulled Chaia out of the way of a man carrying a pyramid of cabbage on top of his head.
“Cabbage…cabbage…who will buy it?” he called out loudly.
“That would have been a disaster,” said Chaia. She turned to continue home.
Leah said good-bye a couple of minutes later. She lived in a house closer to town than Chaia and Rachel.
“I’m so glad I don’t have to spend another Shabbos stuck in my house with my brother and sisters,” Chaia said to Rachel. “Shul will be almost a holiday!”
“My sister can be nasty, but your sisters and brother are the loudest people I’ve ever heard.”
“Just think what it’s like to live with them,” said Chaia. “I’m never going to have children. And I’m going to marry a rich man who can buy me beautiful clothes and lots of food.” She paused. “I don’t think my mother has had a new dress in years, and I’m tired of wearing my sisters’ old clothes. Oh look, Rachel!” Chaia stopped and pointed to a shop window. “Look at that beautiful bonnet!”
Rachel peered in the shop window at the extravagant bonnet made of gold silk and velvet, embroidered with pearls. “It looks really expensive,” she said to Chaia.
“When I get married, I’m going to have a bonnet like that,” said Chaia, her face pasted to the window. “If I must cover my hair in front of strangers, I should have the prettiest bonnet in all of Kishinev. Don’t you agree, Rachel?”
“It is beautiful, yes. And you would look perfect in it with your golden hair.” Rachel looked wistfully at Chaia’s shiny blonde braids and wondered if Chaia and Yoram had spoken about marriage. Chaia spent a lot of time with Yoram but did not talk about him with Rachel anymore, not since Mikhail had died. Rachel liked to think Chaia didn’t really care for Yoram, that Chaia would eventually come back to her as a close friend, but in her heart, Rachel knew she was probably mistaken.
The girls walked past a candle shop and a group of jesters and musicians who were creating a large crowd with their dancing and singing. One jester, dressed in royal blue, purple and red, grabbed Chaia’s hand and tried to get her to dance with him. Chaia giggled and blushed, then pulled away. The jester gave her a sad face and moved on to another person. Chaia stayed close to Rachel until they were out of the area, and in front of a pastry shop.
“I wish I could buy as many cakes as I wanted,” said Chaia, peering through the window. “I hate having to worry about how much things cost, or how to divide a small piece of meat six ways. That’s why I’ll only marry a wealthy man.”
“I don’t know if I’ll get married,” said Rachel, twisting her braid.
Chaia stopped walking and stared at Rachel. “Are you crazy? Every girl marries. What would you do if you didn’t get married? How would you eat and buy nice things to wear?”
“Perhaps I would travel, see other countries, and then write about my experiences. Besides, who would want to marry me? I’m no good at needlework or sewing or cooking. The only thing I’m good at is reading, and that doesn’t take care of a household.”
“That’s not true, Rachel. You’re beautiful and fun…I know you miss Mikhail, but you could never have married him. There will be lots of other boys—nice Jewish boys like Yoram—who will want to marry you. You can’t leave Kishinev! What would I do without you?”
“It’s not like I’m going tomorrow,” Rachel said as they entered their courtyard. “Maybe I’ll never go. Maybe we’ll grow old together here.”
Rachel was in checkmate. Her father had his black bishops headed for her white king on one side, and his rook was facing her king on the other side.
“There’s nothing I can do.” She ran her fingers back and forth over her fo
rehead. “You win.”
He scrutinized her and cleared his throat. “Your face has healed well, thank goodness.”
“If Sergei hadn’t come along, I’d be a real mess.” Rachel shivered when she recalled those girls, so brutal and rough. “I wish I had listened to you and not gone to upper Kishinev by myself.”
Her father shook his head and sighed. “You certainly paid a high price for being disobedient, my child. I’m just grateful Sergei was there to help you. He is a good person.”
Rachel nodded and cast her gaze down at the chessboard. She couldn’t stop thinking about Sergei, how he had intervened and protected her from those awful girls, and how attentively he had listened to her.
“I don’t think your mind was on the game today,” her father said. “You have to pay more attention next time.”
“But you always beat me. I’ll never be as good as you.”
“Come now. I used to say the very same thing to my father, and then one day, I won. Just like that.”
Rachel watched her father put the chess set carefully into its wooden box. He never let anyone else take it out or put it away. Zeyde had carved the wooden set for her father when he was a boy. “Why have we never met Zeyde? Whenever I ask about him and Bubbe, you tell me we will go to see them, but we never do. Do they live too far from here?”
Her father ran his hand over the box. “They live in Mohileff in the Gomel province, which is a good distance, but that’s not why we haven’t gone.” He hesitated. “Zeyde and I had a disagreement years ago, and we haven’t spoken since then.”
From the corner of her eye, Rachel saw that Nucia had stopped embroidering her father’s prayer shawl and had turned her head in their direction to listen. Her mother’s head was still bent down as she sewed, as though she wanted no part of this conversation.
“What kind of disagreement?” asked Rachel carefully. Her father didn’t mention his parents often.
He cleared his throat before answering in a slow, measured voice. “Zeyde worked in a sweltering brick factory twelve hours a day for wages that barely put food on our plates, and he had this cough—a dry cough that would never go away.” He cleared his throat again. “I wanted a different life, a better life away from Gomel, but my father, he wanted me to stay and fight with him for better working conditions. He’s never forgiven me for leaving.”
Rachel considered this for a moment. “Is Zeyde still working in the brick factory?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do Zeyde and Bubbe know about Mother, and me and Nucia?”
Her father nodded wearily. “I write them twice a year to let them know how you are.”
“You do?” Rachel was surprised and pleased to hear this.
“Yes, but they’ve never written back to me.”
“Oh.” Rachel’s face fell.
“That’s horrible, Father,” said Nucia. “I don’t think you should write them anymore.”
His eyes moved from Rachel to Nucia. “I will not stop writing,” he said. “I cannot give up hope that one day they’ll forgive me and want to meet all of you. It is my dream for all of us to be together.”
Rachel stood and moved around the table to her father. “I’m sure they’ll forgive you soon,” she said, though she wasn’t sure of anything anymore. “You must keep writing.”
He pressed his lips together, nodded at Rachel, and gazed out the window.
Rachel moved from the sofa to the samovar, poured herself a glass of tea, and stood beside her father. It was a gray day, with all the color washed out of the sky. In the courtyard, Mr. Berlatsky, Mr. Grienschpoun, and Mr. Nissenson huddled together, smoking and gesturing excitedly with their hands. A halo of smoke hung overhead.
“I think I’ll go and join the other men,” said her father.
“Can I come?” asked Rachel.
“You stay here with your sister and mother. We’ll be talking about grown-up things, not for a young girl’s ears.” He grabbed his tobacco pouch, put on his coat, and tied the sash.
“Father, I’m not a young girl. I’m almost fifteen, you know!”
Her father turned and smiled at Rachel.
“I know you’re a young lady, but you must remain inside.” He placed his hand gently on her cheek for a moment and smiled.
When the door shut behind her father, the room seemed to grow colder. Rachel turned and looked at her mother and Nucia. They were absorbed in their sewing and embroidering, their needles moving swiftly through muslin. Rachel quietly picked her black shawl off the hook, slipped on her boots, and opened the door.
Outside the air was brisk and refreshing, like ice-cold tea in the summer. Spying a nearby snow fort built by the Berlatsky children, Rachel waited in the lengthening shadows until she was sure none of the men were looking in her direction. Then she crept over to the fort as quietly as she could and tilted her head in the direction of the men.
“What do you make of the latest article, Gofsha?” said Mr. Nissenson, a tall man with dark black whiskers. “The one in the Bessarabetz that says the Rybachenko boy’s death was not a ritual murder.”
Rachel’s father lit his pipe. “Krushevan’s words are too late. The damage is done. Fear is rampant among gentiles.” He spoke confidently, with authority, so that the other men hung on his words.
Rachel watched her breath spin and disappear into the air. She wiggled her toes and fingers to keep warm.
“This is a curse,” said Mr. Nissenson. “And it’s bringing shame to all of us here in Kishinev.”
“I have more bad news for you,” said her father. “These rumors have spread beyond our city. The Petersburg newspaper, Novoe Vremia, not only had a story about this killing, but it also falsely reported that the Jew who killed Mikhail has already been found.”
“We’re the chosen people,” said Mr. Nissenson. “It’s no wonder the whole world is out to get Jews. They envy us.”
“How can you believe in such rubbish?” said Rachel’s father. “That kind of talk will only lead to more trouble.”
“I agree, Gofsha,” said Mr. Berlatsky. “But it’s hard not to feel like pawns up against a field of kings and queens. The Moldavians hate us for settling on their land, and the peasants hate us for doing better than them.”
“That’s true. And the newspaper has helped their cause, publishing lie upon lie about us,” said Mr. Nissenson.
“That Krushevan is a lowdown good for nothing,” said Mr. Grienschpoun in a fierce voice. “I’d like to burn his printing press, and him along with it.”
Rachel cowered in fear behind the fort. She had never heard Mr. Grienschpoun speak so angrily. He sounded like he wanted to go to war against this Krushevan person. She shivered and hugged herself to stay warm.
“That would prove we’re as bad as he says,” said her father. “We must keep to ourselves and show that we are honorable, law-abiding citizens.”
“Look where that’s gotten us,” scoffed Mr. Berlatsky. “I think we need to do something to protect our children and ourselves.”
“What can we do? We have no power in Kishinev, nobody in government on our side,” said Mr. Nissenson in a voice that rose with every word. “The gentiles have occupied all of Russia for years. We are exiles in our own country.”
Mr. Berlatsky threw his cigarette butt in Rachel’s direction. She hid further back behind the fort and held her breath.
“Who is telling Krushevan these lies?” asked Mr. Berlatsky.
Her father removed his pipe from his mouth. “In the article I read in the Bessarabetz, the reporter talked to the man who runs the postal station, and then he paid Mikhail Rybachenko’s grandfather to talk about the boy’s disappearance.”
“But this is crazy! What does the postal man know about what happened to the boy?” Mr. Grienschpoun was practically scre
aming at Rachel’s father.
“How do I know? I’m just telling you what I read.”
“I feel bad for the Rybachenkos, but how can they possibly know their grandson’s fate?” said Mr. Berlatsky.
“I’ve heard that a group of rabbis and doctors is going to approach Governor von Raben,” said Rachel’s father. “Perhaps they’ll have some luck in stopping these rumors.”
“I wouldn’t bet my life on it. I’ve heard that von Raben prefers gambling to governing,” said Mr. Berlatsky. “I’m going in now. I need a glass of vodka to warm my insides.”
“Be quiet, unobtrusive, blend into the background, and the worst will pass,” warned Rachel’s father. “We have a large community here, a strong police force, and almost ten thousand soldiers in the province. I’m sure this will all blow over as soon as the murderer is found.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Mr. Nissenson. “But I’m not counting on it.”
Rachel remained in her hiding place as the men said good-bye to one another. She had to wait until her father went inside and then she would pretend she was returning from a visit to the outhouse.
“Are you coming?”
Rachel looked up at the sound of her father’s voice. He was leaning over the fort with a bemused expression on his face.
“Are you coming inside?” he asked again. “We’re finished out here. There’s no more for you to hear.”
“I’m sorry Father, I just…I didn’t want to embroider with Mother and Nucia, and I didn’t want to read, so I…” Her cheeks blazed with embarrassment at being caught.
“You shouldn’t have disobeyed me,” he said. “Our discussion was not for you to hear.”
“Why? Aren’t I affected by these rumors? Isn’t that what you said? Why shouldn’t I hear what’s going on?”
“Because I don’t want you to worry needlessly. Hopefully, nothing more will happen and we can go back to living on friendly terms with the gentiles. Come, let’s go in. Mother will need your help with supper.”
Rachel's Secret Page 8