“Umm. I see that arithmetic is not on your agenda today. Have you become an expert at mathematics overnight?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you feel that rubbish such as this is a better use of your time than the arithmetic I teach?”
“No, sir.”
“Then why are you wasting my time and the class’s time?” Mr. Bogdanov crushed Sergei’s drawing in his hands and threw it in the bin.
“I don’t know.” Sergei hung his head.
“Well, since you can’t be trusted to do your work on your own, you will now sit up at the front with me so I can keep an eye on you. And I will inform your parents of your insolence.”
Sergei bit his lips and clenched his fists. His father was going to be furious when he found out that Sergei had been disrespectful. As he dropped into the chair beside his teacher, Sergei started to devise a plan to get away from Kishinev.
“We can’t wait any longer to eat,” said Sergei’s mother. “I don’t know where your father is. More than likely police business has kept him. Come, Sergei, Natalya. Come Carlotta. Make haste to the table.”
“Mama, how many more days of Lent are there?” asked Natalya when they sat down to their dinner of halibut and boiled potatoes.
“It hasn’t even been a week, child,” answered her mother. “There are still six weeks to go.”
“Oh,” groaned Natalya. “I miss eating eggs and meat and sweets. And I am so tired of fish.”
Carlotta piled her plate with halibut and passed the fish to Sergei. “Any fish is good if it is on a hook.”
Sergei raised his brow and smiled at Natalya, who had both hands over her mouth, giggling over Carlotta’s words.
“Sergei, put more on your plate. Eat. Come now. Eat,” his mother said when he took only one small piece.
“I’m not very hungry, Mama.”
“Are you in love?” Natalya asked him.
“Natalya!” said Sergei’s mother.
“Maria says that when people fall in love they can’t eat or sleep. How do they stay alive without food or sleep? Is that what happened to you, Mama?”
Carlotta belched and put her hand to her mouth. Both Sergei and Natalya snickered at their aunt’s table manners.
“Good heavens! The words that come out of your mouth Natalya,” said Sergei’s mother, ignoring Carlotta. “It’s a good thing your father’s not here. Now, enough of your chatter. Eat. Both of you.”
Sergei’s father sauntered in just as they finished, bringing a waft of cold air, tobacco, and alcohol into the room. “What the devil…have I missed supper? I was tied up with the second autopsy of that Rybachenko boy.” He stomped his feet, hung up his coat, and crossed himself. “Another idiot concluded there was no sign of a blood sacrifice. But I don’t believe this man any more than the Jew who did the first examination.” He turned to face Sergei directly. “I ran into Mr. Bogdanov at the tavern. He told me you’ve been wasting your time drawing pictures instead of doing the required lesson.”
“The tavern? But it’s Lent, Aleksandr,” said Sergei’s mother.
Sergei slumped in his chair, knowing what was about to come. His father waved his mother away and stood on the other side of the table, glaring at Sergei.
“It was a review class, and I was tired of doing the same problems over and over,” said Sergei.
“You were tired,” said his father in a mocking tone. “So you decided to do what you wanted rather than what you were told to do.”
“I’m sorry.”
“And why the silly pictures?” asked his father. He poured himself a large glass of vodka, held his head back, and took a big drink.
“They’re not silly. I like to draw. It’s not a crime, is it?” Sergei wanted to yell out that he wanted to become an artist, but his father was already full of vodka and rage. Sergei finished his dinner and went to bed, feeling as worthless as the crumpled piece of paper his teacher had thrown away.
MARCH
As Easter approaches, we need to come together, fellow Christians, to purge our town of Jews.
One
Rachel wrapped herself in her threadbare coat and walked out to the courtyard past the Berlatsky children getting ready for a snowball fight. Though it was late in the afternoon, the air was still warm, hinting of spring.
“Rachel!” Chaia’s little brother, Jacob, waved at her, his curly blond hair hanging in his face.
Rachel waved back and saw they’d divided themselves into teams. Jacob and Chaia were behind a shed, and had only a few snowballs compared to their older sisters, Elena and Esther, who had a pyramid of them stacked next to the ice cellar.
“Come play with us, Rachel,” Chaia shouted.
Rachel was relieved that she had a reason to say no. She couldn’t imagine taking part in a silly snowball fight when Mikhail’s murder still haunted her day and night. “I was supposed to buy some thread on the way home from school today,” she said in the most apologetic tone she could muster, “but I forgot. Mother will be angry if I don’t have it.”
Chaia laughed. “You’re the most forgetful person I know!”
Rachel tightened the belt around her coat and walked briskly out of the courtyard.
“Wait, Rachel!” cried Chaia. “We’re not supposed to leave the courtyard alone—”
“I’ll be fine,” Rachel called over her shoulder. She wanted to be by herself; since Mikhail’s murder, she had not been alone for a single moment.
Rachel came out of the courtyard onto Stavrisky Street, the winding dirt road that led to upper Kishinev. Narrow branches wrapped with fresh snow were like larks’ claws perched above the road. The street seemed much quieter than usual; only a small group of boys smoking and laughing on the sidewalk, and a couple of women strolling toward a house in the distance.
As she approached the market, Rachel stopped and glanced around, suddenly feeling guilty for not heeding her father’s warning to stay in lower Kishinev. But she’d been coming to this market all of her life without a problem. Surely no harm could come from going directly to the shop. Feeling bold and somewhat courageous, Rachel marched forward, immediately passing pigs, quails, grouse, partridges chickens, and sheep standing on frozen legs, all covered in frost, all waiting patiently to be sold. Next to them rose neat piles of milk in icy brick shapes.
“It boils! It boils! Will nobody drink?”
An elderly tea seller was trying to make a few more sales before the end of the day. Around his waist was a leather case filled with glasses; a bag of cakes and lemons was slung over his shoulder. The steam from his samovar rose in delicate swirls and then disappeared into the air. A few peddlers stood warming their hands over a nearby bonfire.
Makovsky’s was a gray brick store with a red door and window frame, squeezed between a tavern and a restaurant. Inside, one entire wall was devoted to threads and wool, arranged by color from lightest to darkest, so that it looked like a brilliant rainbow. This large selection was the reason Rachel’s mother preferred this shop to the Jewish one near their house. Rachel looked around in silent delight. She didn’t like to use a needle and thread, but the wonderful colors brightened her mood.
“Hurry up, child. Make up your mind.” The shopkeeper glared at her over the counter. He began to complain loudly to the other person in the store, a well-dressed woman with a fancy embroidered headpiece and an overcoat trimmed in fur.
“They’re all the same, abominations and parasites, like it says in the newspaper,” he grumbled. “They come in here, take their time looking, and then buy one or two of my cheapest items, even though they have more money than the rest of us. And it’s worse since they killed that poor boy.” He leaned forward. “Why, I read that his eyes, ears, and mouth were sewn shut. And he had no blood left in his body.” He handed the woman’s purchases to her in a basket.