“Are you sure?” asked the woman. “I heard there were stab marks on him, but nothing about his eyes or ears.”
“I know what I read. And now the Jews feel guilty about one of their own committing such a vicious crime, so fewer of them are showing their faces,” said the shopkeeper, spitting out the sharp words like poison darts.
Rachel listened in disbelief. The shopkeeper was speaking as if Rachel could not hear his venomous words. She had done nothing, said nothing to provoke this man, yet he despised her as if she were guilty of a crime. She backed up while the shopkeeper leered at her like a snake eyeing its prey. The woman eyed her with pity but said nothing.
“Get on with you,” he shouted at Rachel. “As if you were going to spend money in here anyway. Get out of here, you Jewish pest!”
Rachel walked out of the store, her head held high, tears streaming down her face. As she hurried along the crowded sidewalks, faces blurred and her breathing accelerated. She knew that her black coat and shawl reflected her Jewish faith, her respect for tradition, and she wore them proudly, like a badge of honor. But after the shopkeeper’s hateful words, she felt like one of the animals on display in the market, to be sold and devoured. She stepped up her pace in order to get home before anyone saw the tears in her eyes.
Forging straight ahead, she didn’t see the group of girls lurking in the doorway of a boarded-up store until they were almost upon her. As Rachel walked past, they grabbed hold of her arm and kicked her in the shins.
“Stop… please, stop!” cried Rachel. Her legs were burning, but the girls now had a firm grip on her waist and shoulders. She couldn’t get away or fight back.
“Stupid Yid!” The largest, strongest girl smacked Rachel across the top of her head.
“Let me go… leave me—” A punch in the gut took Rachel’s breath away. She lurched forward.
“What do you think you’re doing? Get away from here,” demanded a familiar, husky voice.
A pair of strong hands broke Rachel’s fall. She turned her head to see who had saved her and was astounded to see Sergei.
Sergei had been on his way home for dinner when he heard a girl scream for help. To his surprise, he saw Rachel, being battered and falling forward. He caught her, stopping her from collapsing onto her face.
“Get away from here,” he yelled at the girls.
“Stupid Yid,” snarled one of them. She spat at Rachel and moved down the street, the rest of the girls following like a herd of sheep.
“Th… thank you,” Rachel whispered, straightening her body slowly. “I think…I’ll be all right now.”
“Are you sure?” Sergei could already see a nasty bump developing on her forehead.
She nodded, smoothed her hair, and wiped her face. Sergei was impressed by her courage, her ability to stand tall and pretend nothing had happened. Remembering the Jews he’d seen harassed in the square, he shuddered. Like Rachel, they’d done nothing to provoke their attackers. He wanted Rachel to know that he was different from these girls, a better person.
“I’ve…” He swallowed and started again. “I’ve been meaning to tell you that I’m sorry about… when I knocked the flour out of your arms. It was an accident, and I should have stopped to help you.”
Rachel’s jaw dropped. “Why didn’t you?”
He took a deep breath and considered his answer. There was no way he could admit to Rachel that he became nervous in her presence, but he couldn’t lie to her either. He decided to avoid the question entirely. “I wanted to, but…let me make it up to you. I’ll walk you home, to make sure you get there safely.”
The corners of Rachel’s lips turned up slightly, making Sergei’s heart skip a beat. “I feel terrible about the way those girls treated you,” he said as they headed south, to lower Kishinev. The sun was going down, tinting the sky a grayish-lavender, and a streetcar rumbled past.
“It’s not your fault,” Rachel replied slowly, her head down. “Ever since Mikhail…people, like those girls, act as if we’re all guilty.”
Sergei stuck his hands in his pockets and felt her shawl. He turned around and walked backwards, facing Rachel, ignoring the rest of the people rushing past. “Can I ask you something?”
She stopped and lifted her head. “I guess so…”
“Why do people say that Jews killed Mikhail for his blood?”
Rachel sighed. “That’s just a stupid rumor. It’s been around forever.”
Sergei locked her in his gaze, waiting for her to continue.
“When matzah is a few days old, or gets wet, a red mold appears.”
“And matzah is…?”
“A bread we make without flour for Passover, when we can’t eat anything with wheat.”
“So that’s it?” Sergei turned and resumed walking with Rachel. “Just because this bread turns red, people think it’s made with blood?”
“Yes, but it’s against our religion to eat anything with blood.” Rachel smiled wanly. “Silly, isn’t it?”
“Ridiculous. And Mikhail would be so angry if he knew such lies were being spread about his murder. Even the newspaper is running stories about Jews crucifying him for his blood.”
Rachel nodded. “I know. I want to be a writer, a journalist perhaps, but now—I don’t trust newspapers anymore.”
Sergei stopped and faced Rachel. “You shouldn’t give up on becoming a writer because of a few crooked journalists. I’m sure there are many honest writers working at good newspapers.”
“You don’t think I’m crazy for wanting to write, even though I’m a girl?”
He shook his head and started walking again. “My sister is smart, like you. I want her to be able to do what she wants, not get stuck cooking and cleaning for a drunken husband.” Sergei blushed, hearing the words that came out of his mouth. He hoped Rachel didn’t realize he was talking about his father.
“You have a sister?”
“Natalya. She’s eight,” said Sergei, relieved Rachel showed interest in his sister only.
“She’s lucky to have a big brother looking out for her.” Rachel stopped and glanced at the walled courtyard behind them.
Sergei realized they were standing in the shabbiest part of town. There were no sidewalks, just a muddy pathway alongside the street. The courtyard walls were gray cement, cracked with age. Through the narrow opening into the courtyard, Sergei caught a glimpse of tiny, sagging houses with low, tiled roofs. They looked tired and worn out, the way Rachel appeared now, standing before him with dishevelled hair, holes in her stockings, and blood on her face. Still, her deep-set green eyes, and high cheekbones overshadowed her injuries. He imagined himself painting her face. He was intrigued by the mystery of Rachel and her culture that was as foreign to him as America. She wasn’t like the other girls he knew, silly and giggling all the time about nothing of importance. Rachel was more thoughtful, more interesting, and much prettier.
“Thank you for walking me home,” she said. “And for coming to my rescue.”
“Any time.” He paused. “But you should be more careful, until all of the anger and lies are gone.”
“That’s what my father told me.”
“He sounds like a smart person.”
“He is, very smart.”
Sergei smiled. “Maybe we can talk again?”
She raised her eyes to meet his. “I’d like that.”
He watched Rachel disappear inside the courtyard and then shuffled home slowly, fingering her shawl, which was still in his pocket. Sergei knew he should have returned it, but he liked having something that reminded him of Rachel, and it gave him a reason to see her again.