Sergei pushed it back. “You need it for yourself and Natalya and Carlotta. I can’t take it.”
His mother fixed her teary eyes on his. “There is still enough money for us, and I have found work as a seamstress. We’ll be fine.”
Sergei stared at the money, which lay heavy in his hand.
“Put it in a safe place where your father won’t find it. He’s squandering everything he has on cards and drink. Go. Make haste. Hide it safely away.”
He hugged his mother tightly. Now he could go away with his mother’s blessing. Still, his throat constricted as he thought about leaving Natalya with his drunken father. And he worried about leaving Menahem all alone in the orphanage. But if he stayed, it would be hard to find work with his father’s tarnished reputation. There was no perfect solution, no easy answer.
Curious eyes peered around the corner as Sergei waited for Menahem. He attempted to smile at the children watching him, but his mouth refused to cooperate.
“Hello, Sergei!” Menahem beamed when he saw him, making Sergei feel even guiltier about the prospect of abandoning the boy.
As Menahem moved closer, Sergei noticed a lump on his forehead. “What happened to you?”
Menahem looked down at the floor. “Nothing. It’s all right. Can we just go?”
Sergei searched for the matron, hoping for an answer, but she was busy tending to a weeping child.
As soon as they were out of the courtyard, Sergei stopped walking and took hold of Menahem. “We’re away from the orphanage. Now, tell me what happened. How did you get that lump?”
“There’s this group of big boys,” Menahem answered slowly, “and when they tell us to do something, we have to do it, or they hit us.” He took a deep breath. “This one, named Ivan, told me to steal the matron’s key so he could go into the kitchen at night for food. I couldn’t do it. If you get in trouble, you have to sleep in a dark room all by yourself. I was afraid of being caught.”
“That’s horrible! When did he hit you?”
“When I was asleep last night. But it doesn’t hurt too much.”
Sergei groaned. “Didn’t the matron punish him?”
“I didn’t tell her. If I did, Ivan would keep hitting me.”
“But…your head?”
“She’s too busy to notice.” Menahem looked up at Sergei. “Don’t tell her. It’ll be worse for me if you do.”
Sergei sighed. “I promise. Come. Let’s get something to eat.” How could he ever say good-bye to Menahem, when the people who were supposed to be looking after him didn’t care about him.
“You look sad today,” said Menahem as they waited in line at a street vendor.
Sergei forced a smile. “I might have to go away.”
“From Kishinev?”
Sergei nodded. “I need to find a job. There’s nothing here.”
Menahem’s eyes brimmed with tears.
Sergei averted his eyes to keep from changing his mind. “What would you like to eat?” he asked.
“I’m not hungry.” Menahem turned and walked away.
Sergei followed. “I know that’s not true. You get barely enough to survive at the orphanage.” Menahem kept walking. Sergei grabbed his shirtsleeve and stopped him. “Talk to me, Menahem.”
“What do you care about what I eat? You’re leaving.” Menahem pulled away from Sergei.
Sergei pictured him covered in bumps and bruises from boys at the orphanage and flinched. “Don’t be mad,” he said. “I’m not leaving yet.”
Menahem peered at him. “Do you mean it? You’re really not going away?”
Sergei bit his bottom lip and nodded. “Not right away,” he said. He would keep trying to get work in Kishinev so he could watch over Menahem, and take care of his mother and sister. It was crazy, thinking he could just leave as if this boy meant nothing to him.
Sergei woke abruptly to the sound of breaking glass. He shook his head and touched his money pouch to make sure it was still there. Running his hand through his messy hair, he stood up and stretched. Outside his window the night was heavy and black.
Sergei heard a loud smash in the front room. Afraid that his family was being robbed, he walked cautiously from his bedroom, grabbing the heavy drinking cup from his bedside table to throw at an intruder if necessary. But the only person in the living area was his father, who gazed at him with hollow eyes from the sofa. Sergei entered the room and just missed stepping on a broken vodka bottle.
His father belched and kicked a glass tumbler lying at his feet.
“When are you going to stop drinking and get a job?” he asked his father. “How can you expect Mama, Natalya, and Carlotta to put up with this?”
“Do you have a cigarette?” his father asked, searching the room to find one. Sergei saw despair in his eyes, which frightened him. He hardly recognized his father anymore. It was as if a stranger had taken over his body and mind—a curse for not helping the Jews during the riots. Sergei trudged back to bed, where he lay awake for the rest of the night.
Rachel smiled when she saw Sergei waiting for her in the crowded hospital courtyard. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
He grinned and handed her a leather-bound journal full of empty pages. “If you’re going to write about Kishinev, you’ll need lots of paper.”
She looked down at the journal and cradled it in her arms, against her chest. “Thank you. This is a wonderful gift.” Her eyes glistened.
Sergei nodded and glanced at the entry to the courtyard. “I’ve been turned down for jobs at three cabinet makers, four shopkeepers, and a wax chandler today.” He paused. “So I’m hoping you can go for a walk and cheer me up.”
Rachel fell in step with him. “I know what you’re feeling. If you watched me sew, you’d be laughing in no time,” she said as they strolled out of the courtyard. “I spend more time getting rid of knots in the thread, and then re-threading the needle, than I do sewing. Fortunately, my mother and sister are making much better progress, or we’d never make enough money for our passage.”
“I know you’ll be safer in America, but I wish you weren’t leaving.”
Rachel blushed. “Maybe you’ll come to America one day and visit me.” She twisted her braid. “I hope you come.”
He stopped and touched her shoulder while people rushed by, jostling them as they stood in the middle of the sidewalk. In the distance, she heard the sweet sound of a balalaika. Her heart fluttered with the music.
“It’s too crowded here. Where do you want to go?” he asked.
“I don’t know. The river?”
“A group of my friends are there.” He lowered his eyes. “It might not be such a good idea.”
“You’re right…wait a minute! There’s another section of the river that hardly anybody knows about,” Rachel said. “Your friends won’t be anywhere near us. Come on.”
Rachel led Sergei past deserted makeshift shanties into a forest of towering spruce trees.
“We’re almost there,” she said, breathing in the savory aroma of wild mushrooms that lined their path. The ground was flat, wet, and green as they approached the river.
“I can’t believe how narrow the river is here,” Sergei said.
Rachel shaded her eyes and squinted. “You can hop to the other side. I haven’t been here in ages.” She pointed to a spot at the river’s edge. “Look, the ground is pretty dry over there.”
She ran to the spot and sat down. Sergei did the same, sitting close so that their arms touched. Rachel gazed ahead dreamily. “Sometimes I wish I could just live in a place like this, with no other people around to tell me what to do or say.”
She turned and met his eyes. Chills ran up her spine as his face moved closer and his lips met hers. They were warm and his breath smelled of tobacco and mint, whic
h reminded her of Mikhail. Rachel pulled away. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m Jewish, and you’re not. Because if anyone saw you with me, they’d kill me, and maybe even you. I think that’s why Mikhail’s uncle killed him—”
“Because you were friends? You think his uncle killed him because of you?”
She nodded and looked away.
“That’s not true, Rachel. His uncle had just lost his job as a policeman. Mikhail’s grandfather believes he wanted to inherit his business—for the money. The indictment against Mikhail’s uncle was published in the newspaper today. The trial is tomorrow. Here,” he said, pulling a square piece of paper out of his coat pocket, “this pass will allow you to attend the trial. I would go, but I have to look for a job.”
Rachel stared at Sergei as she tried to make sense of his words. “You mean…it wasn’t my fault?” She took the pass and studied it carefully.
“That’s exactly what I mean.” He moved closer, so that their noses were almost touching. “Would it be all right if I kissed you again?”
Rachel held her breath and considered this. She felt a twinge of guilt for betraying Mikhail, but he was gone, and she’d never had deep feelings for him, not like these feelings she had for Sergei. Besides, she would be leaving soon. What harm could a kiss do?
She nodded, unable to tear her gaze from his. Sergei brushed a stray hair from her eyes and cupped her face in his hands. Their lips met, and he pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her.
She trembled and pressed against him so tightly she could feel his heart beating. “I guess Rena was right. I do need to start trusting people again,” she said when they drew apart.
“Who’s Rena?” He sounded out of breath.
“A very smart lady at the hospital.” Rachel kissed him on the lips and smiled as he ran his fingers down her cheek. She felt his strong arms around her and wished she could hold onto this moment forever. Sergei had been so good to her, and to Menahem, which she knew would have impressed her father. It was going to be hard leaving him, but even if she stayed, they had no future. A Jew and a gentile could never be together.
A magpie began chattering noisily overhead, breaking the silence. They started back toward the hospital, hands by their sides so that their deepening relationship would remain a secret.
“Rachel…a letter came for you today.” Rena held up an envelope as Rachel walked past her office.
“Who would write to me?” Rachel entered Rena’s office reluctantly. She wanted to be alone to think about every moment she’d just spent with Sergei, to close her eyes and remember the way his hand felt on her face.
“Why don’t you open it and see.” Rena handed her the envelope and smiled.
Rachel unfolded the letter.
Dear Rachel,
Sholom aleichem! I hope this letter finds you well. We arrived in Petersburg a few days ago. It was a long, uneventful journey, and we are grateful to have a place to stay. My aunt has been splendid, stuffing us with bread and fish and stew until we feel as if we might burst. My father looks much better now and is searching for a position.
You would love this city. There is so much to see, I feel a bit overwhelmed. You must keep your wits about you, for people are always in a hurry and travel quickly by carriage. I discovered these carriages take precedence on the streets when a horse almost took a bite of my overcoat!
My favorite place is the bookseller, where the books are stacked from the floor to the ceiling! I’ve never seen so many books in one place before! I have to be careful, because I don’t have money to pay for one. So I browse as if I am going to buy, and then leave when the shopkeeper is helping someone else. Someday I’ll be able to buy as many books as I like.
I want to attend the University of Petersburg, but Jews are not welcome, so all I can do is hope for a miracle. It’s just as Tevye says, “a cow can sooner jump over a roof than a Jew get into a Russian university!”
Please record my address and write to me when you can.
—Sacha
Rachel folded the letter in half. Life would be so much easier if she cared for Sacha the way she cared for Sergei. She pictured herself kissing Sacha and chuckled. There was no way she could ever think of him as anything other than a good friend, and pretending would be wrong. Now that Sacha knew how she felt, he could meet someone who returned his feelings.
She sighed and made her way down the hall toward to the stairs. It disappointed Rachel that Sacha wasn’t able to attend the university. She hoped it would be different in America, that Jews would not be banned from education and jobs, and that the long journey ahead would be worth the trouble and expense.
“Good afternoon Rachel.” Mrs. Berlatsky was walking toward her.
“Good afternoon,” said Rachel. “How is Chaia?”
A shadow crossed Mrs. Berlatsky’s face. “The same. Her bones are mending well but her mind is somewhere else. We must remain here until she is better.”
Tears welled up in Rachel’s eyes. “I miss her. There is so much I need to tell her…” Mrs. Berlatsky patted her on the arm. “I’m sure your visits are helping her. One of these days she will be strong enough to come out of the world she’s locked in now.”
Chaia is still a prisoner in her own body, which makes me feel guilty for surviving the massacre without injury. What she saw must have been a great shock for her eyes and her heart, but I know Chaia. She is strong and will wake up one day. I just hope that I am still here when she does, and not on my way to America.
Rachel stopped writing and frowned. This was her first entry in the journal she’d received from Sergei, and she was nervous about pouring her thoughts out again, taking the risk that they might be found and read. She looked down at what she had written. This was a chance she had to take.
The unfairness of life disturbs me. It makes no sense, how some are lucky and others, people like Chaia who are so good, have such bad luck.
Rachel pushed her way through the dense crowd at the courtroom doors and showed her pass to the guard. She entered the building where the trial would be held, and found herself in a large square hall between two lines of guards. Seeing all the people—Jews and gentiles—in one large room, made her want to turn around and run back to the safety of the hospital. But she had to do this for Mikhail and for her father. She had to see justice done before she could start a new life without the anger that rumbled inside of her.
She took a seat at the end of a bench in the third row of the room. It was so crowded that only half of her bottom fit on the bench. Using her left leg, Rachel supported herself and waited for the trial to begin.
At ten o’clock, she heard a deep voice cry out, “Court is in session.” A side door opened and twelve elderly senators walked in, boasting medals on their chests that reflected their many years of service to the Tsar. They took their seats in armchairs and a second side door opened.
Rachel gasped when she saw Mikhail’s uncle and cousin enter, escorted by police officers. Both were well dressed and clean-shaven, which made them appear less threatening than on that fateful day when she had seen them with Mikhail. As her eyes grazed the rest of the spectators, she saw Mikhail’s grandparents sitting directly behind the barrier. Though she’d never met them, the similarity between Mikhail and his grandfather was unmistakable. She studied their lined faces and thought sadly that Mikhail would never be a father or grandfather, nor reach old age.
The prosecutor read the indictment accusing Vasily and Philip Rybachenko of murder. Father and son remained stoic as the charge was read aloud. For the next hour, the prosecutor described in detail Mikhail’s relationship to the accused, and how cards and drink led up to the murder. He spoke poignantly about how Mikhail’s murder had altered his grandparents’ lives, and stated that justice must be done to
fully honor Mikhail’s memory. He finished his speech recommending that the uncle be punished with the full force of the law and that Philip be given a lesser punishment because of his age.
Rachel’s eyes moved to Mikhail’s grandparents, who sat stone-faced. The administrator of the Kishinev Circuit Court, Goremykin, was a large man with dark whiskers. He announced that there would be an hour’s recess before the defense spoke. Most people filed out for the break, but Rachel was content to remain in the hall to ensure she missed nothing. She felt a faint hunger pang but put it out of her mind by imagining herself on a ship to America, surrounded by clear water and a brilliant blue sky.
The courtroom filled up quickly after the break, and Rachel had been able to secure a better spot on the bench, closer to the middle. The tall, angular defense lawyer wasted no time, standing and making a case for his clients. He began by describing Vasily’s childhood, how his father had clearly favored Mikhail’s father. This feeling of inadequacy and rejection had followed him all his life, the lawyer emphasized, causing him to overindulge in spirits and cards. Not being asked to help run the family tobacco processing business was devastating, he continued, but he found solace in his position as a police officer and had only just been relieved of his duties two days before the murder. He was not desperate, and he had no animosity toward his young nephew, Mikhail. Furthermore, there were no witnesses to corroborate the prosecution’s story, only hearsay, which was why he asked that the charges against his clients be dismissed.
The court broke into an agitated roar of disapproval. Rachel cowered in her seat as she listened to people shout out, “They’re innocent,” and “Why is there a trial without witnesses?” She looked over at the senators to see their reaction, but their faces remained passive, even bored.
She peered at Goremykin, pleading silently with him to put an end to the commotion, but he sat perfectly still for a number of minutes before he called for order. Then he asked the prosecutor if, in fact, he had a witness.
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