“This is all because people think Jews killed Mikhail. We need to tell the truth about what happened,” Rachel whispered to Nucia.
Nucia shook her head and looked back at the rabbi.
“Fear has taken hold of our community,” he said. “The fear of walking alone, the fear of strangers, and the fear of attending shul. We must remain strong and united, and purge our enemies of their hatred and lust for violence. Only then will we have our freedom, without fear.”
Rachel agonized over the rabbi’s words. One newspaper editor was affecting the lives of all the Jews here today. It was hard to believe that one man’s printed words held such power. Maybe Sergei was right, she thought. Maybe she should try even harder to become a writer, an honest writer, so that the truth could be told one day.
“Would you like my pastry?” asked Sacha. He sat across from Rachel at her family’s table, which was laden with food. “There are no more left and I already had one.”
Rachel looked down at the hamantashen with its sweet seed filling and felt a wave of nausea. She was so full it hurt. She hadn’t eaten this much food in months. In the Purim tradition, neighbors, friends and even strangers, wealthy Jews from north Kishinev, had delivered food to their doorstep that morning. All of it was so good, the potatoes fried with butter and onions, the thick cabbage soup, the black bread layered with extra butter, and the hamantashen—the triangular-shaped pastry that represented Haman’s hat.
“No, thank you. I’m full,” she replied, glancing up and meeting Sacha’s eyes. He’d been staring at her all evening, which made her nervous. She fiddled with her hair and licked her lips, worried that she had food on her face.
Sasha shrugged and ate the hamantashen in two bites. “Your father told me about those girls and what they did to you. Are you feeling all right? You look a little pale.”
“Yes. I’m fine,” said Rachel, managing a weak smile. She twirled her braid with her fingers.
“Do you want to go for a walk? The fresh air might be good for you.”
For some reason, Rachel was suddenly uncomfortable with Sacha. He was paying too much attention to her, and being far too kind. Rachel had never considered Sacha as anything other than a friend, almost family, for they had spent so many holiday dinners together. He was like a brother to her. She could never imagine him as anything else.
“I don’t think so,” she said with a rueful smile. “I’m very tired today.”
Disappointment flickered across Sacha’s face. Rachel felt bad for causing him pain, but thought it was better he knew now that she didn’t return his feelings, rather than later. She turned to her father who was speaking with Sacha’s father.
“How about some more wine, Gofsha?” asked Mr. Talansky.
“Gladly,” said her father. He stood up to pour some dark red wine into Mr. Talansky’s clay cup.
“Did you ever meet with Bishop Iakov?” Mr. Talansky continued.
Rachel’s father took a sip of his wine. “Yes. We hoped he would spread the word that the tale about Mikhail being killed for blood was nothing more than a myth.” He cleared his throat, put his cup on the table, and reached into the pouch he carried around his waist for a cigarette. “The bishop was evasive, unwilling to promise anything, and even said it was useless to deny that Jews use Christian blood for ritual purposes.” He shook his head and lit the cigarette.
“I guess we can’t expect much help from the Orthodox Church then,” said Mr. Talansky.
Rachel’s mother and Nucia started to clear the dishes off the table. Rachel stood and prepared to help. “If we can’t convince a bishop, then how will we ever convince anybody that these rumors are crazy?” she asked.
“With great difficulty. It’s almost like we’re speaking a different language, yet we live and work alongside these people,” said Mr. Talansky. “The problem is that there are so many falsehoods and stories circulating. As soon as one ends another begins.”
“Why doesn’t somebody write an article for the newspaper that explains how these rumors started?” asked Sacha.
“Because the gentiles can’t read our Yiddish paper and they would never have an article written by a Jew in theirs,” said Rachel’s father.
Mr. Talansky grunted, a deep throaty sound that startled Rachel. “Well, we need to find some way to convince gentiles that we’re not savage animals. Before Passover, so that everyone feels safe to attend shul.” He held out his empty cup to Rachel’s father for more wine.
“The best thing would be if Mikhail’s real killer is found.” Rachel piled some plates in the enamel washbasin and stared at Nucia with pleading eyes.
“I’m sure the police are doing all they can,” said Nucia firmly.
Rachel touched the amber necklace around her neck and wondered if she had made a wise decision in revealing her secret to Nucia and then promising to keep it forever. Sometimes she felt the burden was more than she could bear.
I have ruined Purim for all the Jews in Kishinev, she wrote in her journal that evening. Even the rabbi is afraid to honor our traditions because of the bad feelings toward us. I want to go to Mikhail’s grandparents and tell them how sorry I am. They deserve to know how their grandson died, yet I cannot say a word.
If I had not forgotten my shawl that day, then I wouldn’t have Mikhail’s murder embalmed in my brain. I would not have to bear this secret like a scar.
Sergei and his father were on their way to the bathhouse when they ran into Zinaida Ustyug, a scrawny little man who lived in their building. Sergei cringed when his father stopped to talk to him. He had a hoarse, guttural voice, and when he spoke, an oversized lump moved up and down his neck.
“Might be some trouble ahead,” said Zinaida to Sergei’s father.
“What kind of trouble, hmm?” Sergei’s father scratched his head and looked at man.
“Some—” Zinaida broke into a coughing fit that lasted several minutes. “Some Moldavian farmers,” he continued. “I saw them at the tavern a couple of days ago. They were telling anybody who’d listen how they need to fight to protect themselves from the Jews.”
Sergei shook his head in disbelief and looked at his father.
“And just what were these farmers proposing to do?”
“Beat the Jews. That’s what they said. During the Easter holidays. I thought you should know.”
“Have you seen these men since?”
“I saw them walking around the main square yesterday, handing out leaflets, but I didn’t have time to get one for myself. I had to get back to the factory.”
“Very well. I’ll look into it.” Sergei’s father nodded at Zinaida and continued to the bathhouse.
“What are you going to do about those Moldavians Zinaida mentioned?” asked Sergei as they removed their clothes in the change area, a small square room with a wooden bench that ran around the perimeter. A couple of other men were getting ready for their baths as well.
“Nothing. Those men were just talking. Zinaida didn’t even see the leaflet. Everything will pass.”
“But what if Zinaida is right? What if a big fight—”
Sergei’s father grabbed his son’s arm tightly, squeezing until his skin burned. “I told you to stop interfering and I mean it.” He released Sergei’s arm and pulled open the heavy door leading to the steam room.
Sergei clenched his jaw and reluctantly followed his father into the hot-steam area, with its large glass windows, smooth linden-wood benches, and high ceiling. The room smelled of burnt wood and sweat. Sergei lay face down on a bench and let the boiling hot mist envelop his body, releasing sweat and dirt. After a few minutes, the bathhouse worker began beating Sergei’s back vigorously with soapy birch brooms.