Two
Sergei tugged at the stiff red collar around his neck. He and his family were part of a growing procession of people on their way to Mass. The Orthodox cathedral’s church bells rang out, occasionally muffled by the clip-clop of horses drawing carriages full of people.
“I hate wearing these clothes to church,” Sergei complained to his mother. “I don’t think anybody cares what we look like when we pray.”
“You should be grateful you have such nice things to wear,” his mother replied. “Especially at such an important time as Lent.”
“I love dressing up,” said Natalya, grinning at Sergei.
Just before they reached the impressive stone and iron gates leading to the cathedral, they saw men and women in ragged clothes begging for money to buy food. Sergei looked away when he smelled their poverty,fixing his eyes on the three-tiered belfry with its domed roof.
“Please sir, a few coins for our convent?” A gaunt woman in a long black robe held out her hand. Her skin was so white that her eyebrows looked like sticks on snow. Sergei’s father reached into his front pocket, pulled out a few kopecks, and handed them to her.
As he watched, Sergei wished that his father could be generous and kind every day, not just on Sundays.
Entering the pale yellow cathedral, Sergei approached the icons and kissed them, a custom that was entrenched in his Sunday routine. As the crowd filled the cathedral, Sergei was pressed so tightly against other people that he could smell their skin, their smelly sheepskin coats, and their stale breath. Yet when the procession entered, the throng of people divided. The soft murmur of voices stopped instantly when the priest walked through the Royal Door at the back of the building, dressed in full ecclesiastical vestments. The fragrant incense and smoldering odor of burning candles filled the church, creating a soft haze in the air.
“Let us pray,” said the priest in a commanding tone.
After an hour of standing, singing, chanting, and crossing himself, Sergei was ready to go home. He looked down at Natalya, whose head was at people’s waists. She was drooping from the heat and the crowd. Sergei squeezed her warm, sticky hand. She gave him a look of desperation.
“Can we go now?” he asked his mother, wedged in beside him.
“Shh…” she whispered. “The choir is about to sing.”
Sergei listened. The men’s voices, unaccompanied by instruments, sounded simple and pure. People standing near Sergei closed their eyes as the voices soared. He wondered if any of these men and women were responsible for spreading the rumors about Mikhail’s body being sewn shut. But it was impossible to see beyond people’s skin and into their hearts and minds.
When the service ended, Sergei, still holding Natalya’s hand, worked his way through the congregation with his parents. Outside, he saw Mikhail’s grandparents for the first time since the funeral. Looking old and stooped, they walked alone, carefully descending the steps of the church. Sergei remembered how Mikhail used to place his arm around his grandmother when they left the cathedral, so that she appeared upright and proud. Now she looked fragile and defeated.
“Sergei, we must greet Mikhail’s grandparents,” said his mother. “Natalya, you stay here with Papa.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Sergei protested.
“Come.” His mother firmly nudged him toward Mikhail’s grandparents. “Good afternoon,” she said effusively.
Sergei’s voice was dry with apprehension. “Hello.”
His mother continued. “It is so nice to see you. How are you coping? Is there anything we can do for you?” She touched Mikhail’s grandmother lightly on the shoulder.
“We’re as well as can be expected,” said Mikhail’s grandfather. He had the same sharp blue eyes as Mikhail, and brown spots on his pale, almost translucent, face.
Mikhail’s grandmother looked up and smiled wearily. She had white hair and waxy looking skin. Over her black overcoat hung Mikhail’s silver cross, the one he’d worn since his birth. When he saw it, Sergei’s throat constricted. Somehow, seeing Mikhail’s icon on his grandmother made everything that had happened so real and final.
Mikhail’s grandfather gazed at Sergei solemnly. “Excuse us, we must go.”
“Of course,” said Sergei’s mother. “I will pray for you.”
Mikhail’s grandmother’s eyes filled with tears. She took her husband’s arm and started to walk away. As she did, she turned around and stared at Sergei. All he could see was Mikhail’s silver icon sparkling brightly against her coat.
Sergei sat hunched on the bench watching his friends skate. This was the first time he’d been back to the river since he’d come with his father, when blood had stained the ice. Now he felt guilty for being here, as if he was betraying his friend by being alive.
Petya skated in front of the bench. “Come on, Sergei. The ice is going to break in a couple of weeks.”
Grimacing, Sergei stood up, stepped onto the ice, and followed Petya to their group of friends skating toward the bend in the river. When he passed the spot where he last saw Mikhail, he held his breath.
“Sergei’s here,” announced Petya, stopping suddenly on the ice and nodding toward him.
“Good. Let’s race to where the river narrows,” said Theodore. “On the count of three…one, two, three!”
The boys were off in a flurry, commanding the ice as they flew by parents teaching small children to skate, young people practicing turns, and older couples gliding sedately along the frozen river.
Sergei started slowly, swinging his arms from side to side. All he could think about was how Mikhail would never be able to skate again, or do any of the other things he had loved to do. Eventually, the cold air cleared his head, making him feel a little bit better. He picked up speed, but Nikolai, tall and lean, had already arrived, followed by Theodore and Petya.
“Hey, let’s sit over there.” Nikolai skated to the river’s edge where an immense tree trunk had fallen on its side years ago. He pulled himself up to sit on it and gestured to the others to join him.
“I can’t stay for long,” said Sergei. “My father gets mad if I’m out too late.”
“What does The Beard do? Interrogate you?” asked Theodore, with a sly grin. “Isn’t he busy looking for Mikhail’s killer?”
Nikolai undid his skate blades, stood up, and walked gingerly along a thick branch overhanging the river. His hair was shaved so close to his scalp that his head reflected the afternoon sun. “My father says it’s only a matter of time before the guilty Jew is caught.”
“How does your father know it’s a Jew?” asked Petya.
“Petya’s right. It may not be a Jew. Those stories about Jews killing for blood aren’t true.” Sergei watched as Nikolai swayed and almost fell off the branch, then managed to regain his balance. “Why don’t you get off that branch?”
“Who are you? My mother?” Sneering, Nikolai stood on one leg and teetered back and forth, then walked back along the branch toward the boys.
“How do you know those stories aren’t true?” Theodore asked, frowning at Sergei. “I’ve seen the headlines in the newspaper about Jews needing blood to make bread.”
Sergei scowled at Theodore. “Don’t believe everything you read.”
“Did you hear that another Russian—a girl—was killed yesterday?” asked Nikolai, as he picked at the dry bark of the tree with his bare hands.
“What are you talking about?” said Sergei.
“Some girl who worked as a housemaid for a Jewish doctor. There were wounds on her heels and people say she was killed for her blood, like Mikhail.”
“That’s crazy. What people? And how do you know they weren’t making the whole story up?” asked Sergei.
Nikolai stood up and kicked at the bark. “My mother heard people talking about the girl at the market.” He jumped down from the branch. “Why would people make up a story like that?”
“Because—” Sergei took a deep breath. “Rachel told me that their bread turns red when it gets wet or is old, from mold. That’s why people think it’s made with blood.”
“When were you talking to Rachel?” asked Theodore.
“A few days ago.”
“And you believe what she says?” said Nikolai.
“Mikhail would have believed her,” said Petya. “Why shouldn’t Sergei?”
“So now you two are Jew lovers, like Mikhail,” scoffed Theodore. “Look where that got him.”
“We’re not Jew lovers,” argued Petya. “But can you honestly believe that Jews would kill people and make food from their blood? It just seems so… so…”
“Idiotic,” said Sergei.
Petya slipped off the tree trunk and began attaching his skate blades to his boots. “We all believe Jesus rose from the dead, which might seem stupid to them.” He stood and started skating back.
Sergei, Nikolai, and Theodore jumped onto the ground, attached their skate blades, and followed Petya.
“My father says the Jews are going to have a surprise soon. Maybe at Easter,” said Nikolai, rushing to the lead and turning around to skate backwards, facing the others.
“How can he be sure?” asked Sergei.
Nikolai shrugged his shoulders. “He says we need to get rid of a lot of the Jews, that there are more than fifty thousand here in Kishinev now, half of our entire population.” Nikolai turned around again so that he was facing the same direction as everyone else.
“I heard my father tell my uncle that the Jews have helped make Kishinev successful, because they run better businesses than Russians do,” said Petya.
“That’s why my father lost his job,” said Theodore with obvious reproach. “The flour mill he worked for closed down because it couldn’t compete with the Jewish mill.”
“But there’s nothing illegal about running a good business,” argued Sergei.
Petya nodded. “You can’t force Jews to leave just because they’re successful.”
“They’re lashing out at us,” said Theodore. “Look at Mikhail and now this Russian girl. We have to do something to show them we’re not going to sit here and let them destroy us.”
“What does your father say, Sergei?” asked Petya.
“Well, he can’t do anything without proof. He’s been interviewing people—”
“But what does he think?” asked Nikolai.
The three boys stopped skating and looked at Sergei expectantly.
“He thinks a Jew killed Mikhail, but he has no evidence, in fact the medical examiner—”
“You see, even The Beard knows the truth. He doesn’t need proof to know what happened,” Theodore said.
Sergei swallowed and found his throat was scratchy and dry. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“Wait and see,” warned Nikolai. “Something’s going to happen soon.”