Rachel took her father’s hand. She glanced at his face as he opened the door. He looked older than usual, and exhausted. New lines cut across his face, wrinkling his skin, and his hair was grayer around the temple. It was as if he had aged overnight, edging one step closer to the end of his life.
“Ooohh!” Sergei groaned when something fell onto his chest. He opened his eyes gradually, not wanting to let go of slumber.
“Wake up, Sergei. Don’t be a lazy slugabed!” Natalya sat on top of him, beating his face playfully with the branch she’d decorated. “The rod beats, beats to tears. I beat thee not, the rod beats!” She sang the traditional Palm Sunday words out, loud and clear.
“It’s still dark. I’m tired. Leave me alone.” Sergei turned over, jostling his sister, and closed his eyes again.
“But it’s Palm Sunday! You can’t stay asleep! Only one more week until Easter and the end of Lent. And we get to decorate eggs today. Come! Let’s go wake Mama and Papa.”
Sergei groaned and pushed Natalya off him. He yawned and slowly sat up, his eyes heavy, his mouth dry and sour from sleep.
“I can hardly wait until you’re older and sleep in later,” he said.
“Papa told me you once woke him up at four o’clock in the morning on Palm Sunday. I’ve never gotten up that early.”
The cold, hard floor on his bare feet jolted Sergei awake. Natalya grabbed his hand and pulled him to their parents’ small bedroom adjacent to the living area. They were sound asleep under their feather-filled cover.
“It’s Palm Sunday!” Natalya shouted. She threw Sergei her branch and jumped onto their father.
“Oooof.” Sergei’s father grunted and opened one eye under his bushy brow.
“Beat Papa with the branch! Come on Sergei!” cried Natalya.
“Mercy!” Sergei’s mother sat up and looked at them with a startled expression. Her hair, usually pulled back neatly in a braid, fell in every direction, partially covering her plump face. “What’s going on? What time is it?”
Sergei, standing at the foot of his parent’s bed, squinted to see the time on the wall clock. “Five thirty.”
“Good heavens! It’s still the middle of the night.” His mother brushed the hair out of her half-opened eyes with her hand.
“But it’s Palm Sunday, Mama!” Natalya sat on her father’s stomach, her eyes shining.
Sergei’s father put his arms around Natalya and sat up. “Shall I put wood in the stove and fire up the samovar?” He gave her an affectionate smile that made Sergei stiffen with jealousy.
“Yes!” Natalya clapped her hands, scrambling down from the bed.
Sergei dragged his feet along as he followed his family to the cathedral. In his pocket, he wrapped his hand around the egg Natalya had dyed red. He hoped it wouldn’t crack or break before he gave it to the priest. As he felt the smooth, delicate egg, he wondered what the priest did with the hundreds of eggs he’d receive from families today.
“Tomorrow the whole market will be filled with people selling eggs,” said Natalya. “Mama, how many eggs can we buy this year?”
“Well, I suppose we’ll need some for our Easter dinner, some to give away to people we know…four dozen would probably do.”
“How about six or seven dozen?”
“Why do we need so many eggs?” asked Sergei. “We don’t even have six dozen friends.”
“I want to dye hundreds of eggs and give one to every person I see!” Natalya clapped her hands joyfully.
“That’s very generous of you, Natalya.” Sergei’s father smiled. “But I think four dozen will be enough.”
Sergei and his family joined the massive crowd making its way through the door to the Palm Sunday service. As his body was thrust forward, Sergei wiped perspiration from his brow and pulled at his collar.
“Welcome, one and all, to our community, our sobornost.” The priest stood with his back to the congregation and spoke in a voice as deep as rumbling thunder. “It’s Branch Sunday, a special day for our children, but also for our entire congregation. Today we start gathering eggs for Easter Sunday. These eggs symbolize Christ’s Resurrection, the most important event in our history, which we’ll celebrate in one week. Let us pray.”
As he bowed his head, Sergei thought about Mikhail and wondered if he was in heaven with his parents. He tried to imagine another world for people when they died, but he couldn’t picture it. It all seemed so unreal, like a place out of the fairy tales he’d heard when he was younger, where animals talked and snow maidens lived in ice castles.
The priest’s words fell around him, meaningless and empty, like rain on a hot summer’s day that dried as soon as it landed. As he listened, Sergei had trouble breathing and his head pounded. He needed to get out of the crowd before he suffocated. He turned around and used his shoulders to push his way through the people.
“Where are you going, Sergei?” hissed his father. “Get back here now.”
“I’m not feeling well,” Sergei mouthed back. “I need air.”
He ignored countless angry glares and headed for the doorway. When he was finally outside, he breathed a sigh of relief and started walking in the direction of lower Kishinev. Without their cloak of snow, the buildings were even more decrepit than he recalled. One market’s walls were cracked and the olive-green paint was peeling. The sagging roof of a bakery looked like it would collapse at any moment.
As soon as he walked into Rachel’s courtyard, he felt like an outcast. There were a number of rickety buildings around the perimeter of the courtyard: the largest was a house with a low, tiled roof and windows that couldn’t be more than twelve inches wide; the smallest included two outhouses and two sheds. At the far corner was a shop with an outdoor counter made of wooden boxes. A man with a long white beard and a tall black hat leaned against it. He peered at Sergei.
A group of women near a cart of wet clothes stopped talking when he entered and stared at him. Sergei paused and seriously considered turning around. Then he thought about Rachel, and approached the women with a boldness he didn’t know he possessed.
“Can you tell me where I might find Rachel?” he asked, his eyes grazing the women’s scarf-framed faces. They all wore long, dark skirts in varying shades of black and brown, and threadbare shawls.
“Do you know her?” asked a heavy-set woman.
“Yes.”
Silence. Another woman, her red hair arranged in a tidy braid down her back, came forward and stood directly in front of Sergei. She was short—her head came only to Sergei’s chest. But the strength in her green eyes belied her stature.
“I’m Rachel’s mother,” she said with an undertone of impatience. “What do you want with her?”
“I’m a friend. My name is Sergei.”
“You stopped those girls from beating her?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
She turned and entered a house that had eight front doors and four chimney flues. The walls were blistered and rotting, a dark contrast to the beautiful violin music escaping from the window, the passionate strains of Tchaikovsky.
“Has she gone to get Rachel?” Sergei asked the remaining women who were gaping at him. Nobody replied. The violin music stopped and the door opened. Rachel emerged with her mother. She walked over to him with a nervous expression that made him question if he should have come. Her mother stood closely beside her.
“What are you doing here?” Rachel asked him. She wore the same clothes he had seen her in when she was attacked by those girls.
“I…I just really wanted to see you, to talk to you again.” He looked up at the women, now eyeing him with suspicion, and lowered his voice. “Can you go for a walk with me?”
She pulled a black shawl tighter around her shoulders and turned her head toward her mother, who nodd
ed. “Yes, I can go for a short time. But only in lower Kishinev.”
He followed her onto the street and breathed a sigh of relief at being out of that repressive courtyard. “Was that you playing the violin?”
She laughed. “That was my father. He’s tried to teach me but I’m hopeless. My fingers cannot move like his.”
“He plays very well.”
“I know. He can’t read music, but he can play whatever he hears. It’s remarkable.”
Sergei shook his head. “I can read music but I can’t play a note. Strange.”
She nodded.
“How’ve you been?” he asked as they strolled along the almost-deserted street. Some Jewish men with long whiskers had gathered on the corner, talking to each other in a language he did not understand, their voices converging into one as Rachel and Sergei walked by.
Rachel furrowed her brow and looked straight ahead. “Better, I suppose,” she said. “And you?”
Sergei bit his lip. “Not very good.”
She tilted her head to look at him. “Why?”
His eyes roamed around, taking in the unfamiliar Jewish quarter. A cabinet shop. A shoemaker’s shop. A school with cracks in the walls. The few people they passed walked with heads down to avoid conversation or eye contact.
“Since I saw what happened to you, I’ve noticed how badly you’re all treated. Even my friends are going after Jews, as if it’s a game.” The words poured quickly from his mouth once he began speaking. “Everyone I know is sure that a Jew killed Mikhail, but there’s no proof—just rumors that are getting out of control. I’m afraid my father will never find the real killer because of the lies that are getting in the way of his investigation.”
He glanced at Rachel and stopped. Her face was twisted into a portrait of agony. Sergei took her arm and guided her to a more private spot behind a large fir tree.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Rachel sniffed and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “It’s not you,” she said quietly. She looked up at Sergei and took a deep breath. “I know who killed Mikhail. I saw everything.”
Her words echoed through his ears. “What?”
“I went back for my shawl and saw Mikhail with two big men. He called one ‘uncle.’” She paused and looked right into Sergei’s eyes. “This uncle, he was a policeman. I recognized his uniform.”
The color drained from Sergei’s face. The idea of a policeman killing Mikhail was almost too much to bear.
Rachel cleared her throat. “While Mikhail was lying on the ice, the uncle pulled out a knife and stabbed him. The other man, I think I heard Mikhail call him Philip, he kicked Mikhail as he lay there in his own blood.”
Sergei clutched his head and paced back and forth trying to make sense of Rachel’s words. “Are you sure?” he asked her. “That’s exactly what you saw?”
She nodded, tears streaming down her face. “I was afraid to tell anybody because it was a policeman. I was afraid the police would come after me and my family if I told. What choice did I have if I wanted my family to be safe?”
“But you’re telling me now…”
“I want you to know the truth, that we are not to blame.” She paused and wiped her eyes. “You were Mikhail’s closest friend. You deserve to know the truth.”
He lifted her chin with his hand so that her eyes met his. “I always knew the rumors were false.” His hand dropped to her shoulder.
They stood, face-to-face, for a long time, saying nothing. Sergei felt closer to Rachel at this moment than he had ever felt to anyone else. He knew that he had to do something to put an end to the false stories, and to gain Rachel’s trust.
“I will tell my father,” he said.
“But—”
“I won’t tell him who saw the murder; I promise I’ll find a way to tell him about the uncle without putting your family in danger.”
Rachel looked up at him with such relief and gratitude, his heart felt like it was going to explode. He drew her closer and wrapped her in his arms. She fit snugly into his embrace.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said a moment later, pulling away from him.
He let go of her and smiled. “I want this whole thing to end as much as you do.”
Rachel grimaced. “I want that also, but I’m afraid that even when the truth comes out, Jews and gentiles will never be able to live comfortably beside one another again.” She rubbed her hands together. “The words written about us, they cannot be taken back. People will always remember those lies.”
Sergei frowned. “I hope you’re wrong.”
“I should get back home now,” she said, turning and heading toward the street.
He nodded and put his hands in his pockets. “Wait! Rachel…” Sergei caught up to her and pulled her red shawl from his coat. “I think this is yours.”
Her mouth opened wide when she saw it. “Where…”
“I found it on the ground by the river and remembered seeing it on you. I took it because I didn’t want my father or another policeman finding it and coming to the wrong conclusion.”
Rachel took the shawl and hugged it to her cheek. “You always believed in me. I won’t ever forget what you have done for me and my family.”
“Sit down. You’re making me nervous standing over me like that.” Sergei’s father reached for his cigarette and inhaled. In the last few days his eyes had become swollen, with extra folds of skin underneath.
Sergei perched on the edge of a chair, across the sitting room from his father. It was late. His mother, sister, and aunt had already gone to bed.
“Papa,” he began. “I know who killed Mikhail.”
His father froze, the cigarette in his hands midway between his mouth and the table. “What did you say?”
Sergei took a deep breath and continued. “Someone I know saw the whole thing. He was at the river that day and saw Mikhail’s uncle and cousin Philip attack Mikhail with a knife.”
His father exhaled thin streams of smoke. “Why would Mikhail’s own uncle want him dead, hmm?”
“I’m not sure…Mikhail hardly ever mentioned his uncle or cousin.”
“I see,” said Sergei’s father. “And why didn’t this witness come to the police right away with this story?”
“She…I mean he was afraid.”
“Why?”
Sergei took a deep breath and prayed his father would believe and accept what he had to say. “The uncle is a policeman. The witness didn’t want to put himself or his family in danger.”
His father leaner forward. “Sergei, do you know what this is?”
“What?”
“A convenient story made up by a Jew to distract us from them. Don’t you see? This person approached you because you’re my son. Whoever he is, he knew you would tell me.”
Sergei’s heart started racing. “No, Papa. I know the person who told me. I trust him. He would never make up a story like that.”
“Oh, Sergei,” scoffed his father. “Sometimes I find it hard to believe you’re my son. How could you fall for such rubbish?”
“But—”
“You had better learn to tell the difference between the truth and lies before you become a police officer. Or you’re going to find yourself on the wrong end of the stick.”
Sergei stood up and glared at his father. “I’m never going to be a police officer. Never.” He ran to his room and wondered how he would tell Rachel that his plan had failed. That his father was so sure a Jew killed Mikhail, he wouldn’t even consider another possibility.
APRIL
There was an international-conspiracy meeting in the Kishinev Shul. We need to stand together to beat the Jews over the Easter Holidays.
—Bessarabetz, April 2, 1903
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One
“Why, on this night, do we only eat matzah?” asked Rachel, looking around the table.
It was the Passover Seder and the Paskar family, along with Sacha and his father, were gathered around the candle-lit table to remember how the Jews fled from slavery in Egypt. Rachel, as the youngest person at the table, had to ask the four important questions about the purpose of the Seder.
“We only eat matzah because our ancestors could not wait for their bread to rise when they were fleeing slavery,” answered Sacha in Hebrew. Though the answers were the same every year, Rachel found herself in awe of her ancestors’ strength. “They took the bread out of the oven when it was flat.”
She continued asking the questions, with Sacha giving the explanations—they were eating a bitter herb to remind themselves of slavery; they were dipping celery in salt water to symbolize the replacing of tears with gratefulness; and they had goose-down pillows on their chairs to sit comfortably, because in ancient times, people who reclined with ease were free from slavery.
Rachel picked up her copy of the Hagaddah, and, along with everyone else, read the ten plagues that forced the Egyptians to allow the Jews to escape. Then each person dipped a finger in their cup of wine and spilled a drop on their white plates for every plague—blood, frogs, vermin, wild beasts, pestilence, boils, hail, locusts, darkness, and the slaying of the first born.
Gazing at the stains on her plate, Rachel was reminded that when other people suffer, joy is diminished. She thought about how she hadn’t felt good inside since Mikhail’s death, and she had trouble keeping her mind on the Seder as she drank the second of four cups of wine, washed her hands, and recited the blessing.
As the fourth cup of wine was poured a few hours later, toward the end of the meal, Mr. Talansky opened the door to welcome in the prophet Elijah. Rachel’s father poured an extra cup of wine for Elijah, but while everyone else said a blessing, Rachel couldn’t keep her eyes off the open door. She was afraid that at any moment an angry Russian would come rushing through the door waving a sharp knife.
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