Rachel's Secret

by Shelly Sanders

  “Rachel Paskar and we have four…I mean…” She gulped and paused. “Three people in our family: my mother, Ita, my sister, Nucia, and me.”

  The woman carefully recorded their names in a notebook with a feather pen. “I must tell you that space is limited here now, and getting scarcer by the minute. To tell you the truth, we have at least four hundred people spread throughout the building, and just one hundred and ten beds, so I’m afraid there’s not much privacy. But you’ll be glad to hear we are separating men and women—men on the first floor, women and children on the second.”

  Rachel nodded.

  “I’m also not sure how long you can stay; we don’t really know what lies ahead, do we?”

  Rachel shook her head.

  “Now, are any of you injured in any way?” Her voice was smooth and efficient, as if she had repeated the same words over and over.

  “No,” said Rachel. She watched the woman’s eyes scour her body for blood, bumps, and bruises.

  “Fine.” The woman made a note on her paper.

  “The Berlatskys…they arrived just before us,” said Rachel. “Could we be in a room with them?”

  “Well, let me see.” The woman looked over her notes and frowned. “Yes, one girl was badly injured. She’s in a treatment room. You can stay with the rest of the family in the ward.” She gestured to the area behind her. “Walk through the courtyard and once inside, take the stairs on your right to the second floor. Follow the corridor until it ends and turn left. It’s room 28, on your left.”

  “Thank you,” mumbled Rachel.

  “My name is Rena, if you have any questions or problems.”

  Rachel turned back to thank Rena again, but she was already talking to another group of new arrivals.

  The courtyard was a stark square surrounded by dirty white cement walls. It looked shabby and old. As her eyes moved around the dingy area, Rachel saw something in the far corner. Squinting to see better, she cried out “Ei!” when she saw dead bodies stacked neatly against the wall like birch logs. Is this where they would bring her father? To be callously piled as if he was worth no more than firewood?

  “Are you all right, Rachel?” asked Nucia.

  Feeling as if she might vomit, Rachel waited a minute before she was able to respond. “Don’t look around,” she said in a dry voice. “Keep your eyes straight ahead.”

  Inside, the air was stale and smelled like sweat, soap, and urine. Men sat in the dimly lit corridor, their backs against the wall, with the same vacant expression Rachel saw on her mother. She wondered if her own face looked that empty.

  As they walked past room after room, she gasped. So many men were crammed into the small spaces, lying on cots and the bare floor, talking and groaning.

  “Look, there’s Mr. Gervitz!” Nucia exclaimed, pointing to an elderly man asleep in the hall.

  “It’s not fair,” Rachel whispered. Why had he survived instead of her father? Her tears were unstoppable as she trudged through the building.

  Rachel climbed the stairs slowly, her legs heavy, as if they were bags of potatoes. She took a deep breath and then entered the stuffy room. There were ten narrow metal cots with their heads to the wall, five on each side of the room. The space between the beds was no more than the length of her father’s violin, and the passageway down the middle was only wide enough for two people side by side. One old woman rocked back and forth with her eyes closed as she sat on a cot. She didn’t appear to be hurt, but her clothing was splattered with blood.

  “Rachel, is that you?” Esther Berlatsky appeared from the shadows in the corner. She stood in front of the last cot on the right-hand side of the room. Huddled behind her were Mrs. Berlatsky, Elena, and Jacob.

  Rachel rushed over to them and found herself in a comforting embrace. “How is Chaia?”

  Mrs. Berlatsky dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “The doctor didn’t have time to speak to me when we arrived. So many people. She was taken away without a word.” Mrs. Berlatsky’s eyes rested on Rachel for a second before welling up with tears. Jacob, his face gray and wan, flung his arms around his mother and started crying as well.

  Rachel stepped back as Elena and Esther tried to console their mother, embarrassed to witness their private sorrow. She turned her head and saw her mother climb onto the empty cot beside the Berlatskys. Without uttering a single word, her mother closed her eyes and turned onto her side, her back facing Rachel.

  While Nucia embraced the Berlatskys, Rachel looked around and realized that there were no more empty beds. A few children slept fitfully on the floor and a number of beds held two women. One small square window overlooked the courtyard, but Rachel turned away from it. She didn’t want to see the stacks of bodies again.

  It was difficult to sleep on the hard floor, wedged in between her sister and Esther Berlatsky. A thin, brown cotton cover was folded over them, but Rachel pushed it down. It smelled strange and musty, reminding her of all that had happened even when she closed her eyes and tried to pretend that nothing had changed…that she was safe at home with her parents and sister…that tomorrow would be another normal day.

  But tomorrow would be far from normal. Life would never be the same or as good without her father. Rachel recalled his last words, how he had promised her that he would make sure everyone in the house was safe, and then join them in the outhouse. If only he had come with them right away, she thought. He would be in the hospital with them right now. She would have his strong shoulders to lean on, his infinite wisdom to guide her through the difficult days ahead.

  Rachel tossed and turned, groaned, and sat up. A soft light from the moon streamed in through the window just like it had at her house, reminding Rachel that the outside world was unchanged, unaffected by these riots. For people far away in Petersburg and Moscow, life would go on as usual. And the Bessarabetz, filled with the lies that had led to these attacks, would continue to be published without penalty. It all seemed bitterly unfair.

  Nucia sat up beside Rachel.

  “What are we going to do?” whispered Rachel.

  “I don’t know,” said Nucia quietly.

  “Where are we going to live? Our house is gone. And how are we going to pay for food?”

  “Shh! You’ll get Mother upset.” Nucia squinted at Rachel and yawned. “Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

  “I can’t. Every time I close my eyes, I think of Father.”

  “You must try. We need to be strong for Mother.” Nucia sighed and lay back down. Rachel listened to the noises in the room. Across from her, someone snored loudly. A few babies were crying, and many of the women wept softly. Rachel couldn’t cry anymore. Every tear she had in her had been shed for her father. A hollowness had settled inside of her, a hole that could never be filled.

  “No…no…no! My children…don’t hurt them…no…No!”

  Rachel turned in the direction of the voice and saw a woman in the hallway yelling at a nurse. The woman’s long hair hung wildly around her face.

  “Please calm down. You’re in a hospital,” said the nurse. “I’m trying to help you.”

  “Where are my children?”

  “They’re gone.”

  “No, they can’t be dead. They’re only children. They’ve done no harm. You’re lying. Tell me…where are they?”

  The woman’s desperate screams woke everyone in the room. All eyes were on her as she called for her children. Eventually, a couple of orderlies carried her away, but her voice could still be heard as she was taken down the corridor, and it echoed in Rachel’s head until dawn.

  Funerals could not be held inside the synagogue because it was an ashen shell, destroyed in the riots. Rachel couldn’t believe how the building had been burned into charred remains. Worst of all were the desecrated Torah scrolls. Scattered all over the ground, the sacred scrolls
were black at the edges and burned completely through in parts. Rachel wondered if this was a sign that Jews should abandon their traditions, go forward believing only in what they could see, feel, taste, and hear—birch trees that provided welcome shade in the summer, rain that made fruit and vegetables grow, the sweet smell of lavender in the spring, fish that kept bellies full in the winter, brisk wind that howled in the night, and violin music that warmed hearts and souls. What purpose did faith have? How had it improved their lives?

  “This is horrible,” said Sacha. His curls were barely evident, flattened by dirt and grease, and his eyes were outlined in dark shadows. He and his father were also staying at the hospital because their home had been destroyed. “I can’t believe the scrolls weren’t burned entirely to ashes.”

  Rachel looked away and tried to swallow the lump in her throat. She wondered if her father’s faith would be shaken right now, like hers, if he would be devastated by this sight, or more committed to their faith than ever before.

  The rabbi said a prayer asking for peace for all of the forty-nine victims. It was early afternoon, two days after the massacre, and Rachel stood facing the dead who lay on the ground at the Jewish cemetery. Since there were not enough coffins, the bodies were wrapped in prayer shawls.

  Rachel listened to Rabbi Yitzchak with an impassive face, and her hands shook as she tore her clothing at the gravesite to honor her father. She didn’t know what to believe anymore…was being Jewish worth all the pain and suffering her family had endured? While everyone else said the Kaddish to mark the end of the burial service, Rachel closed her eyes and listened to the words of the prayer.

  “May His illustrious name be blessed always and forever…Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, honored, raised up, and acclaimed to be the name of the Holy One, blessed be He, beyond every blessing, hymn, praise and consolation that is uttered in the world. And let us say Amen. May abundant peace from heaven and life be upon us and upon all Israel. And let us say Amen.”

  Rachel opened her eyes. The meaning of this prayer, which seemed strange given the occasion, confused her. The prayer didn’t mention the dead, and she didn’t understand why there was so much praise when so many were killed because they were Jewish. And as for peace, how could anyone expect peace when they were surrounded by such open hostility?

  Warm tears started to flow down Rachel’s cheeks. Sobs rose from her throat to her mouth. She hung her head down as her mother and sister threw clumps of earth over her father’s shrouded body. Suddenly, she pictured her father in the ground, scratching at the earth to get out. “Father, Father!” she cried. “Don’t put him in the dirt. He’s not dead. Please, take him out of there. It’s cold and dark underground. He doesn’t belong there. Let him out! Please! Let him out!”

  Strong arms pulled Rachel away from the grave. She struggled to break free, but the arms were stronger than she was.

  “It’s all right. Calm down. You’ll be all right.” Mr. Talansky held Rachel until her energy subsided and she wilted in his arms. She was hot and feverish, tired and empty, worn out with grief. Mr. Talansky picked Rachel up and carried her away from her father’s grave.

  “Where are we going?” Rachel looked at Mr. Talansky as he carried her.

  “Back to the hospital,” he said.

  “I don’t want to go back there. I want to go home.” Rachel began crying, her tears falling onto Mr. Talansky’s collar. Up ahead, through her blurry eyes, she saw Sacha, Nucia, and her mother. “We don’t have Father anymore. What are we going to do?” Rachel lowered her eyes to see Mr. Talansky’s face. The twinkle in his eyes was gone, replaced by despair.

  “Here we are.” He put Rachel down in front of the door to the hospital.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” she said.

  His eyes met hers. “That’s because I do not have an answer.”

  “She has three broken ribs, a broken leg, and a nasty cut on her head,” said Mrs. Berlatsky to Rachel. They were standing beside Chaia’s bed in the hospital, where she shared a room with a dozen other injured people. “Her body is going to mend but…” She looked at Rachel sadly. “She says nothing. Nothing.”

  Rachel gazed down at her friend who was barely recognizable with all the bandages. Her beautiful blonde hair had been cut and her head was covered in gauze. And her empty, glassy eyes stared up at the ceiling.

  “Chaia…it’s me, Rachel.” She waited to see if her friend’s eyes moved or even blinked. Nothing. “Chaia…please look at me.” Rachel glanced at Chaia’s mother who nodded for her to continue. “I—” Rachel realized she didn’t know what to say. There was no good news, nothing light to speak of. “I really miss you Chaia. You must wake up and see how awful I look because my hair hasn’t been washed or brushed or braided in days and I’ve been wearing the same clothes, but I don’t really mind because I know that soon we’ll be able to go home and…and you’ll get that bonnet you love so much…I just know it.”

  Rachel started to sob into her hands. She felt Mrs. Berlatsky’s gentle touch around her shoulders as she led her away.

  “You did very well, Rachel,” said Mrs. Berlatsky. “I’m sure it will just take time until Chaia is with us again. Come. We must go and see how your mother is doing.”

  “She’s not much better than Chaia,” said Rachel. “No broken bones, but she doesn’t speak. It’s as if there is nothing inside of her.”

  “It has been a terrible time for all of us.”

  They walked down the corridor where moans drifted from doorways like a brisk fall wind.

  “But why are you able to be so strong and my mother…why is she so weak?”

  “Do not call your mother weak, Rachel,” said Mrs. Berlatsky sternly. “She is one of the strongest people I’ve ever known.”

  “Then why—”

  “Your mother is used to being in control, to planning and having things turn out the way she expects. This violence…losing your father…she needs time, like Chaia. She will come around. You will see.” She squeezed Rachel’s shoulders, which reassured her and made her feel hopeful.

  Rachel turned away with tears in her eyes as the doctor pulled the bloodstained blanket over the young woman’s yellowish-gray face. For two days, the woman had been groaning in agony, though there were no visible signs of trauma. She had been louder than anyone else in their room, yet Rachel had become used to the sound. Now she was dead, and it was almost too quiet.

  “Rachel, do you want to go for a walk?”

  She looked up to see Sacha standing at the door to the room. He looked thin, gaunt, and tired. Rachel glanced at her mother who lay motionless on her cot, her eyes looking up at the white ceiling, and nodded. When she stood, a hunger pang ripped through her insides, and she had to balance herself on the wall until it went away. She tiptoed carefully over the people on the floor. Some slept, others were weeping, and a few talked quietly.

  In the courtyard, Rachel inhaled the cool air. “Oh! I didn’t realize how stifling it was in there.”

  “I know,” said Sacha. “I hate being surrounded by strangers…all the time, every minute. There’s nowhere to be alone.”

  As soon as they stepped outside the courtyard, Rachel gasped and clutched Sacha’s arm. Though the bodies were gone, the road was still strewn with debris and she could see blood stains a few inches from her feet. Furniture had been pushed to the sides to make way for carriages, and there was an endless trail of broken glass, tiles, pieces of wood, and feathers. The air was thick with the scent of urine and lamp oil.

  She let go of Sacha’s arm, leaned on the courtyard wall, and began breathing heavily and with difficulty.

  “I can’t…I can’t do this,” she said. “I’m just not ready.”

  “That’s all right.” Sacha took her hand firmly and led her back into the courtyard.

  “Do you th
ink most gentiles want to hurt us?” she asked him when they were back inside the safety of the walls.

  “No.” He hesitated. “My father and I wouldn’t be here without the help of a gentile family.”

  “What do you mean?” She pulled her hand from his, which was clammy and warm, and saw a pained expression flicker across his face.

  “When the riots began on our street, we fled from our flat. At first, we ran along the street, ahead of the rioters, but they were catching up to us. Then a door opened—a red door—and a man with a kind face told us to come in for protection. Other Jews were already inside. We hid there for hours. The man and his wife fed us and made sure we were safe.”

  “I’m glad they took you in.” His story reminded her of Sergei and how he had risked his own life to try and stop the rioters in her courtyard. He believed in her so completely, He didn’t see her as a Jew but as a person equal to himself.

  Rachel had a sudden urge to see Sergei, to thank him once more, and to get to know him better, but at the same time, she realized they would both be better off if their paths never crossed again.

  Four

  “What do you want?” The shopkeeper leaned over the counter. His fingers were stained yellow at the tips and the few teeth he had in his mouth were crooked and brown.

  “Some tobacco please.” Sergei looked down as he spoke to avoid the shopkeeper’s foul breath. He hated buying anything from this disagreeable man, but he had the cheapest tobacco in Kishinev. The small store had shelves of cigarette papers, loose tobacco, pipes and cigars. A bold red advertisement for cigarettes hung on the wall, with a caricature of two well-dressed men sporting shiny white teeth. Outside, a policeman’s voice rose above the crowd, ordering people to stay back on the sidewalk.

  “A mess out there, yes?” muttered the shopkeeper. “They’re waiting for Lopukhin to arrive.”

  “Who’s he?” Petya asked.

  “Head of the Imperial Police. Come to investigate the riots.” He paused and leaned over the counter. “If you ask me, the Yids brought all this on themselves.”