As his body was joggled over and over, Sergei wished he could be a bathhouse worker for a few minutes and strike his father’s back. He would hit him so hard, he wouldn’t be able to get up.
Just when he could stand it no more, the beating stopped, and Sergei sat up. His pewter icon burned his chest, reminding him of the Sabbath the next day. On the bench across from him, his father was receiving the cupping treatment. The masseur ignited cotton and inserted heat into glass cups, which were then stuck to his father’s back. This treatment was supposed to cure nagging back problems.
Sergei headed to the other end of the large room where there was a cold-water shower. He turned the knob and gritted his teeth as the cold water collided with his hot skin producing a stinging sensation. When his body temperature cooled, the burning subsided. After a couple of minutes, Sergei left the shower and returned to the heat.
“Any progress on that boy’s murder, Aleksandr?” said Mr. Ulrich, who was lying across from Sergei’s father, his withered skin sagging from protruding bones.
Sergei scowled. Although he wanted nothing more than to find Mikhail’s killer, he was tired of listening to people prying his father for information.
“Not yet,” said Sergei’s father.
“I think Jews killed that Rybachenko boy and that housemaid. For blood. Like it says in the papers.”
Sergei glowered at Mr. Ulrich, disgusted by idiots like him who believed in such rubbish without any proof.
“I’m not sure anymore,” disagreed Dmitry Chesnokov, a young man who was being cupped as he spoke. “There was an article in the newspaper this morning that said the previous stories about the boy’s murder were not based on any proof. An autopsy found that he died from stab wounds, not some ritual killing.”
“That’s a cover-up because Jews have pressured the editors to stop the rumors,” Mr. Ulrich argued. “The Jews are getting scared about what people will do to them if their secret, barbaric rituals are exposed.”
“I agree,” said Sergei’s father. He sat up on his bench with his hands on his thick, hairy knees. “The sooner the Jews are exposed as animals, the better.”
Sergei clenched his fists.
“So you still think the murderer was a Jew?” asked Dmitry.
“Probably—”
“But you don’t know for sure, Papa,” Sergei argued. “You don’t have any information about Mikhail’s killer.” He flinched under his father’s withering glare, knowing he should have kept his mouth shut. But he wanted to defend the Jews, for Rachel and the other innocent people he had seen being attacked.
“How dare you contradict me,” his father hissed under his breath. “Get out of here right now.”
Sergei stomped out of the steam area, pulled his clothes over his perspiring body, and left. All he could think about was Rachel, and how she and the rest of the Jews in Kishinev had no chance against people like his father who drew horrible conclusions without any proof.
“I can’t wait to eat lots of cakes, anything sweet,” said Petya to Nikolai and Sergei. They were walking on the slushy sidewalks with a large crowd of boys from their school to Chuflinskii Square where they often gathered. The street was littered with horse excrement and rubbish that had been hidden for months by the snow.
“Me too, but there’s still another week and a half to go until Easter and the end of Lent,” said Nikolai. His voice cracked as he spoke. It was changing from a high-pitched boy’s voice to a young man’s.
Sergei stomped his feet as he walked, splashing the slush onto his leather boots. “I want to eat meat again and drink milk.”
Nikolai pointed ahead. “Look, Jews in the square.”
Sergei’s heart sank when he saw a Jewish woman and two children walking through the middle of the square. The woman looked up with fear in her eyes when she heard the boys talking and laughing. Sergei figured there were at least twenty boys now focused on the woman and children, two girls who appeared to be around six and eight years old.
“Let’s go to the tobacco shop,” said Sergei loudly, to distract everyone from the Jews.
“Later,” said Nikolai. He and some other boys were already moving swiftly toward the woman and girls.
“Come on. Now.” Sergei panicked when he remembered what a small number of girls had done to Rachel. With a crowd of boys, these people could be badly hurt. He looked around and saw eyes filled with rage directed at the Jews. Only he and Petya stood back as the rest of the boys advanced like a pack of wolves ready to attack a deer.
“Nikolai, Orest, Ivan, Dmitry…stop. Please,” called Sergei to the boys leading the crowd. “They’re not harming you…leave them alone.”
“Quiet, Sergei,” hissed Petya. “You’re going to be next if you don’t keep your mouth shut.”
“But this is wrong. You know this is horrible. It’s a woman and her children. They can’t defend themselves.”
“I know, but there’s nothing we can do. And if you keep yelling at them to stop, they’ll think you’re betraying them and go after you.”
“How can you just stand there and do nothing, Petya? You live beside Jews, you have a sister and a mother. Would you want them to be struck by a mob like this?”
Petya looked away.
“Don’t hurt my children!” The woman’s frightened voice rose above the loud, cheerful carousel music.
Sergei looked toward the carousel, watching the colorful carved horses revolving around the mirror, immune to the tension that was growing like a winter storm. He heard shouts and saw his friends kicking the woman and her children, throwing the vegetables and fruit she had purchased onto the ground. He looked frantically around the square for a policeman but saw nobody. “Damm! Come with me to stop them,” he said to Petya. “I can’t take them on by myself.”
“I won’t join our friends, but I can’t turn on them either,” said Petya. He started to drift away from the woman and children who lay groaning and crying on the muddy ground.
Sergei, repulsed by what he’d witnessed, disappointed by Petya, and disgusted by his inability to help, raced out of the square.
Sergei heard his sister’s voice chatting happily before he opened the door to their flat. She was perched on a chair at the table cutting leaves out of paper. His mother was stirring cabbage soup on the stove, and Carlotta was setting the table, humming as she worked. Though he was only a few blocks from the square, it felt like a completely different world.
“Papa…” Sergei strode toward his father who was adding some logs to the stove. “You have to send officers to the square. Some boys there are hurting a Jewish woman and her children.”
His father stood up and wiped his hands.
“One of the girls is about Natalya’s age.”
“Why tell me? Why not tell an officer in the square?”
“There were no officers in sight.”
Sergei’s father sighed. “I will put extra men in the square tomorrow. It’s too late to do anything now.” He poured himself a glass of brandy and sat down on the sofa.
“Too late, but—”
“That’s enough,” growled his father. “I don’t want to hear any more about this.”
Sergei stared at him, unable and unwilling to believe he could be so casual about the safety of the woman and her children. “But Papa—”
“Sergei,” said his mother. “Please don’t get into an argument with Papa right now. He’s had a very long day.”
Sergei looked at his mother. Even she didn’t care or didn’t understand that a mother, like her, and her children were in danger.