Rachel's Secret

by Shelly Sanders

  At one point, her foot sank in the thick sludge, stopping Rachel in her tracks. “Oh no!” She groaned as she pulled her boot from the mud. Moving carefully to avoid the clumps of muck, Rachel kept her eyes on the path until she reached the trees by the River Byk.

  I have to do this, she told herself, as she hesitated. I have to be able to face my demons before I leave Kishinev behind forever. She walked out from the trees and stood by the bench—the last place she had seen Mikhail. No longer frozen, the river was greenish-brown and barely flowing. It looked dirty and much less inviting than it did in the winter when it was shiny and white.

  She brushed some dried leaves and dirt off the bench and sat down. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she remembered the last time she’d been here. She could still picture Mikhail skating on the ice, his face so full of life and promise.

  “Rachel?”

  Startled, she turned and saw Sergei standing behind the bench. She smiled. “I guess we both had the same idea today.”

  Sergei sat down beside her. “Not really. I saw you walking in this direction and followed you.”

  She blushed.

  Sergei sat down. “I come here often. I like to get away from everyone, and this seems to be the only place in Kishinev that wasn’t destroyed.”

  Rachel nodded. “This is the first time I’ve been back since…since…” She looked out at the river.

  “I know,” said Sergei quietly.

  “Kishinev will never be the same. I’m glad we’re leaving soon.” Rachel picked up a stone and threw it in the river.

  “You’re leaving? When?”

  “When we can raise enough money for a ship’s passage to America. My grandparents sent us train tickets to Vladivostok.”

  Sergei nodded and fidgeted with the stones he held in his hands. “America…that will be a long journey.”

  Rachel nodded and picked up some stones. “I’ve never been away from Kishinev. It’s hard to imagine living so far away, in another country.” She pitched the stones into the water and listened to the plunking sound they made as they sank.

  Sergei looked at her closely, studying her face as if he would never see her again. “Will you write to me? I’ve always wanted to know what it’s like in America.”

  She gave him a half-smile. “Of course.” Her eyes moved to the river again, to the spot where she had last seen Mikhail. “And I’m going to write about Kishinev.” She turned and looked at Sergei. “So that people don’t forget what really happened to Mikhail and my father.”

  He grinned. “You will be a famous writer when your story is published. I’m sure of it.”

  Rachel felt warm and happy hearing the conviction in Sergei’s voice. He made her feel like anything was possible, that her dreams really could come true.

  “Mikhail and I had plans to travel to Petersburg together.” He threw a stone, which skipped lightly over the water. “I was going to study art and Mikhail planned to work there and go to the university.” Sergei pushed the mud around with his feet and scowled. “But now…my father lost his job and is drinking our savings away.”

  Rachel turned and stared at him. “Your father is not the police chief anymore?”

  He shook his head and smiled grimly. “He got what he deserved. Only it means I have to get a job to help take care of my mother and my sister and aunt.” He played with a stone in his hand and tossed it into the river. “Everyone—everything— has changed. The whole town is a different place now. I feel like I’m twenty years older than I was, as if I have the world on my shoulders.” He sighed and bit his lip. “Especially when I’m out looking for a job and my father is drunk at the tavern.” He looked pointedly at Rachel. “I love him because he’s my father, but I despise him as well. That sounds strange, doesn’t it?”

  “No, it doesn’t.” She paused. “Does he know you want to be an artist?”

  Sergei grunted. “He thinks I’m going to become a police officer like he was.”

  “Will you ever tell him the truth?”

  “Probably not.” He shrugged. “It was a stupid idea. I haven’t had time to draw in weeks. I need to make money now.”

  “I don’t think it’s stupid. Maybe you’ll get a chance to become an artist someday.”

  He hurled a large stone into the muddy water. “I doubt it.”

  “Can your aunt get a job to help?”

  He laughed. “She’s not right in the head. She says strange things to people, which is why she’s never been married or able to work.”

  “That’s a shame.” Rachel picked up a small black stone and examined it closely in her hand. “I miss playing chess with my father. He taught me to play, and I thought I would beat him some day. Do you play?”

  “A little, probably not as well as you. I don’t have a lot of patience. I play a lot of backgammon, especially with my sister. Most of the time I let her win.”

  Rachel nodded and stared at the river. The setting sun cast a glowing red haze on the water. “I guess I’d better go now, before my mother gets worried,” she said. “She’s convinced another riot is about to occur.”

  “First…” Sergei reached into his leather pouch. “I want you to have this.” He held out the money he had taken from the coffer.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just take it. You can use it for your passage to America.”

  She pressed her lips together and pushed his hand back, touched that he would make such a generous offer. Though she was determined to keep a wall between them that would guard her emotions, he was making it difficult. In spite of her best efforts, Rachel found herself caring for him. “No. I can’t. My mother would ask questions, and it’s not right. Your family needs it.”

  “But I want you to have it.”

  She shook her head firmly and stood up.

  Sergei sighed again and returned the money to his pouch. “I’ll walk with you.” He stood and they followed the path to the street together.

  Two

  “I promised Leah I’d meet her in the courtyard,” Rachel told her mother and sister. It was late afternoon and the three of them had finished sewing for the day. She left without waiting for them to respond, hurried outside where the air was cool, and sat down wearily on the top step. It had rained most of the morning, and the air felt heavy.

  Rachel was stretching her arms above her head to loosen her cramped muscles when a tall stranger entered the hospital’s courtyard. He had a thick beard, black as coal, and hair that stood straight up from his head.

  “Mr. Korolenko…welcome,” said Dr. Slutskii, the senior doctor who took care of Chaia and many other injured people in the hospital. He walked past Rachel and greeted the stranger. They shook hands and then the man called Korolenko opened a bag hanging over his shoulder, reached in, and pulled out a small notebook. He listened intently to Dr. Slutskii and wrote quickly. Rachel tried to listen, but they spoke in quiet voices.

  Dr. Slutskii appeared to be talking about the hospital. He waved his arms around, pointed at the building, and was very animated. Rachel slid down to the bottom step and craned her neck to hear, but still couldn’t make out one word. After a few moments, the two men walked by, nodding politely at Rachel as they passed, and entered the hospital.

  As soon as they had disappeared through the door, Rachel raced back inside and found Rena in her office. “Who was that man?” she asked.

  Rena looked up wearily from the stack of papers in front of her. “You mean the one who just came in with Dr. Slutskii?”

  “Yes…”

  “I believe that’s Vladimir Korolenko, a journalist. He’s come here to write about the massacre.”

  “A writer? You mean for newspapers?”

  “I suppose so. Does it matter?”

  Rachel’s
heart was pounding. “Didn’t you read the newspapers? All those horrible lies about us?” Her voice rose as she spoke. “That we eat blood, that we want to take over Kishinev, that our corpses should be bound to the wheels of carts?”

  Rena dropped the stack of papers she was holding onto her desk. “But Mr. Korolenko didn’t write those things. You can’t blame one writer for the poisonous pen of others.”

  Rachel’s eyes blazed. “But how can you be so sure he’ll write the truth?”

  Rena sighed and reached out to hold Rachel’s trembling hands. “Mr. Korolenko came here to find out what happened. To discover the facts, not to distort the truth. Dr. Slutskii says he has a very good reputation.”

  Rachel pulled away. “But,” her eyes teared up, “he might change Dr. Slutskii’s words for his story. How can you trust that he’ll write about what really happened?”

  Rena stood up, walked around her desk, and embraced Rachel. “I know you’re scared,” she said softly. “And I know it’s hard for you to trust anyone…but you can’t go through life in fear.”

  Rachel nodded and brushed the tears from her eyes as Leah walked into the office. Her hair was starting to grow back, but the scar on her face was now an ugly purple line, a constant reminder of the riots. “There you are. I thought we were going to meet in the courtyard,” she began. “Oh, what’s wrong, Rachel?”

  “She’s fine, nothing to worry about,” answered Rena quickly. “I have an idea. Rachel, would you like to read to a group of children? I was going to, but I have so much work. I have a few books somewhere.” Rena rummaged through a wooden box and pulled out a couple of books covered in dust. “Here we are. And since Leah still gets headaches when she reads, she can listen too.”

  Before she could protest, Rachel found herself sitting on the courtyard steps surrounded by at least one hundred children of all ages. She cleared her throat, looked at Leah sitting off to the side, and held out the book so the children could see the cover. “Russian Fairy Tales by Verra Xenophontovna,” she began in a feeble voice.

  “Louder,” said Leah.

  Rachel nodded and opened the book. The crisp pages were like long-lost friends. She cherished their smoothness, the smart way they sounded when she turned them, and the delightful smell of words made of ink.

  “Baba Yaga.” Rachel showed the children the picture, then started to read from the first page. Suddenly she remembered that the story was about two children whose mother had died.

  “Ei! Maybe this is not such a good choice,” she said, leafing through the pages. “Here’s another—Woe Bogotir.”

  Rachel began to read. “In a small village—do not ask me where; in Russia, anyway—there lived two brothers; one of them was rich, the other poor. The rich brother had good luck in everything he undertook, was always successful, and had a profit out of every venture. The poor brother, in spite of all his trouble and all his work, had none whatever.”

  Rachel looked up and saw the children’s eyes fastened on her. She continued reading, pausing once in a while to clear her throat. Just as she was about to start the last page, she sensed someone watching her from behind. Turning around, she saw the journalist, Korolenko, regarding her with serious, dark brown eyes. Rachel felt awkward under his gaze, and tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore him as she finished the story. She stuttered, tripping on words, gratefully closing the book when the story was finished.

  “So you see, the lesson in this story is if you treat people kindly, you can expect good luck to follow,” she told the children.

  “Rachel, the rich brother treated people badly and ended up with bad luck. Isn’t that right?” asked a young girl. She was about ten or eleven years old and had sat with her hands clasped together the entire time Rachel had been reading.

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” the girl continued, “will the people who hurt us end up with bad luck?”

  “Yes.” A tall, thin boy with freckles spoke up. “My father says they’re going to jail.”

  Rachel glanced over at Korolenko and saw him writing furiously on his notepad, while Dr. Slutskii stood nearby with his arms crossed. “That’s right. They will be punished.”

  “But most of us didn’t do anything bad,” said another boy, who looked older than the rest of the children, “so how come we’ve had such bad luck?”

  A little girl nodded and added, “My mother told me it doesn’t pay to be good.”

  Rachel shuddered, recalling her conversation with Sergei when she had said the exact same words.

  The children started arguing amongst themselves, their voices getting louder and louder.

  “If my father was here, he’d remind me about one of Sholem Aleichem’s stories,” said Rachel loudly enough to be heard over the children. “When the character Tevye discovers his daughter loves a gentile, he thinks about the differences between Jews and gentiles. He wonders why there are Jews and non-Jews. Why should one be so cut off from the other? And why should they be unable to look at one another, when they are from the same place?”

  “What did Tevye decide?” asked Leah.

  “He realized he didn’t know the answer,” said Rachel. “And I suppose nobody really does. If they did, maybe we all wouldn’t be here right now.” She glanced back at Korolenko. He was writing quickly, his pen moving fluidly across the paper. Rachel glanced up and met his dark eyes. She wondered what he was thinking and what he would end up writing. Even though Rena was sure this man was honorable, Rachel was not convinced.

  Rachel heard Chaia’s laughter. It was coming from behind her but when she turned around, nobody was there. Everything was green. The trees, the grass. Spring was everywhere. There was the laughter again. Rachel turned in a circle. Her father’s violin played a haunting melody she’d never heard before.

  “Sholom aleichem.”

  “Sacha! Sacha Talinsky, where are you?” she called. Her voice echoed.

  “It serves you right,” said Nucia’s voice, which seemed to float above her like a cloud.

  Rachel looked up, but the sky was clear and bluer than she’d ever seen.

  “Where is everyone? Why are you hiding?” Rachel cried. “Come out, let me see you.”

  She walked and the green started to become a murky yellow. The trees lost their leaves and the wind began whistling by. Rachel crossed her arms and shivered.

  Mikhail’s voice suddenly interrupted the silence. “Stop! Please don’t!”

  Rachel covered her ears to keep Mikhail’s words out of her head. She began running until the sky was gray and snow was falling. Chaia’s face appeared before her, staring at her with blank eyes.

  She stopped running and looked around. A path led to the right, where an arch of barren trees seemed to be waiting for her. Rachel began walking, but stopped when she heard wolves howling in the distance.

  “Help!” she cried. “Help! Please, someone help me.”

  A crashing noise sounded from in front of her. Rachel froze in place. There was a river, with three large objects floating in it. Rachel tiptoed closer until she could see they were heads. She screamed. The heads turned in the water, revealing the faces of Mikhail, her father, and Mr. Berlatsky. All three faces smiled at her.

  “No!” screamed Rachel. “No!”

  “Wake up! Wake up, Rachel, you’re having a nightmare.”

  Rachel opened her eyes when she heard her mother’s voice. She pulled the cover over her face, expecting to see her mother’s head bobbing in the river.

  Her mother pulled the cover down. “It’s all right. You were having a bad nightmare.”

  Wearily, she turned her head away, but when she closed her eyes, she saw the river again, with the heads floating on its surface. The rest of the night Rachel lay awake with her eyes wide open, waiting for daylight to obscure her nightmare.

  Three

>   A soft cry woke Sergei. The flat was bathed in early morning light. He sat up slowly and remained sitting on the side of his bed until the grogginess subsided.

  His mother sat at the kitchen table staring blankly out the window. As his eyes cleared, he saw that she was still wearing the clothes she had on the previous day. She looked exhausted. Rachel was right. His mother needed money right now. He tiptoed over to the coffer and replaced the money he’d taken.

  “Mama, didn’t you sleep?” Sergei sat down beside her and tapped her lightly on the shoulder. “Mama?”

  “Your father didn’t come home last night,” she said. Only her lips moved as she spoke, and she looked old and tired, her skin ashen gray.

  “He probably lost track of time at the tavern, Mama. He’ll be home soon.” Sergei wrapped his right arm loosely around her shoulder.

  She patted his hand. “You’re a good boy, Sergei. A good boy.”

  He flushed with embarrassment.

  “Your father…he used to be good also. Honest. Smart. But somehow he lost his way. I don’t know how it happened, or when.”

  “It’s all right Mama. You don’t have to talk about—”

  “Hush.” His mother interrupted with an urgency that surprised him. “I must talk. I don’t want you to lose your way.”

  “I’ll stay with you, Mama, so that I don’t lose my way.” He was surprised by the words that had slipped so easily from his lips.

  “No! That’s not what I mean. You must go far away from here—where you can escape your father’s reputation, where you can start fresh.”

  A few months ago, this was exactly what he had wanted, but now he wasn’t so sure. He didn’t want to leave his mother and sister behind.

  “I have something for you.” His mother stood up, walked to the cupboard, and took out the coffer.

  Sergei held his breath as she pulled off the lid and took out the money he had just returned.“Here. Take this.” She pushed the rubles and kopecks into his hand.