“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.”
Three
“Why don’t you dress as Esther?” Rachel suggested to Nucia. The girls were standing by the bench they slept on, clothing scattered all over the floor.
“Half the girls from the shul will be Esther.” Nucia held up a faded black skirt. “Look at this rag. You can see where the seams have been let out twice!”
Rachel held the skirt up and frowned. “Maybe you can wear something of Mother’s.”
“This was Mother’s,” replied Nucia. She grabbed the skirt from Rachel and threw it on the floor.
“Nucia, you’ll look beautiful no matter what you wear.”
Nucia scowled at Rachel and held her face in her hands.
“What’s going on in here?” asked their mother. She stood with her hands on her hips surveying the mess.
“I can’t find a costume to wear for Purim,” said Nucia. “We don’t have anything.”
“Enough already.” Rachel’s mother shook her head. “Just choose something. And put this clothing away where it belongs.”
“But I want to look different from everyone else,” said Nucia.
“You should have so many dresses…a different one for every day! You should be so lucky… I should be so lucky.” Rachel’s mother went back behind the curtain, mumbling loudly about craziness.
“Ohh—” groaned Nucia. She threw herself face down, banging her fist on the bench.
Rachel finished buttoning her father’s black shirt and put on his black cap which completed her Haman costume. Haman was the evil character in the story of Esther who tried to have all the Jews in Persia killed. But in the end, Haman was killed and the Jews survived. Every year, Rachel dressed as Haman for Purim because she liked pretending to be evil. Now, she pictured Haman as the policeman who had killed Mikhail.She blinked to get the disturbing image out of her head and thought of another idea for Nucia. “Why don’t you be Vashti? You know, the first queen of Persia who refused to appear before the king’s guests and was banished.”
“There’s no point in choosing costumes this year,” interrupted their father in a flat voice as he walked into the house.
“What do you mean?” asked Rachel. She and Nucia pushed the curtain aside and joined their parents.
Her father cleared his throat and sat down on the bench by the stove. “Rabbi Yitzchak has decided that costumes are not appropriate this year, given the somber mood in Kishinev right now.”
“But you can’t have Purim without costumes,” said Nucia.
Rachel gazed down at her Haman costume. “What do our costumes have to do with the rest of Kishinev? I don’t understand…”
Her father shook his head.
“Come, Rachel, get out of those clothes,” said her mother. “And Nucia help clean up this mess.”
“Father, it won’t seem like Purim with so many people missing,” Rachel whispered when she saw the meager turnout at shul. Rabbi Yitzchak began the service with a special prayer and then carefully took the scroll containing the Book of Esther from the sacred Ark. Flanked by twisted columns, the Ark was in the middle of the synagogue on a raised platform.
When the story of Esther was finished, Rachel began fidgeting in her seat. Her mind drifted to the River Byk; she saw it meander on the north side of Kishinev, frozen and white. Then she spotted a crack right down the middle, dividing the river in half. Rachel closed her eyes and the image of the river grew and grew until she could see the jagged edges of the crack break apart. Blood seeped through the ice and spread across the river until it was an angry red. Rachel jumped, her eyes wide open. Perspiration beaded down her forehead and her hands shook. She turned to her mother, whose gaze was fixed on the Ark below.
“Traditionally, our Purim celebration would begin now,” the rabbi said cautiously. “But—” he sighed. “I’ve decided, in light of the current situation, that such boisterous activities are not suitable this year.”
Rachel saw her mother’s mouth set in a hard line. Nucia gave Rachel an incredulous look and turned back to the rabbi.
“Today,” Rabbi Yitzchak continued in a grave voice, “we are facing a real Haman in Kishinev—Pavolachi Krushevan, editor of the gentile newspaper, the Bessarabetz. His scandalous stories bear no semblance to the truth. He wants to rid Kishinev of Jews, even though we have lived in relative harmony here for twenty-four years.”