“That’s not true, Rachel. You’re beautiful and fun… I know you miss Mikhail, but you could never have married him. There will be lots of other boys—nice Jewish boys like Yoram—who will want to marry you. You can’t leave Kishinev! What would I do without you?”
“It’s not like I’m going tomorrow,” Rachel said as they entered their courtyard. “Maybe I’ll never go. Maybe we’ll grow old together here.”
Rachel was in checkmate. Her father had his black bishops headed for her white king on one side, and his rook was facing her king on the other side.
“There’s nothing I can do.” She ran her fingers back and forth over her forehead. “You win.”
He scrutinized her and cleared his throat. “Your face has healed well, thank goodness.”
“If Sergei hadn’t come along, I’d be a real mess.” Rachel shivered when she recalled those girls, so brutal and rough. “I wish I had listened to you and not gone to upper Kishinev by myself.”
Her father shook his head and sighed. “You certainly paid a high price for being disobedient, my child. I’m just grateful Sergei was there to help you. He is a good person.”
Rachel nodded and cast her gaze down at the chessboard. She couldn’t stop thinking about Sergei, how he had intervened and protected her from those awful girls, and how attentively he had listened to her.
“I don’t think your mind was on the game today,” her father said. “You have to pay more attention next time.”
“But you always beat me. I’ll never be as good as you.”
“Come now. I used to say the very same thing to my father, and then one day, I won. Just like that.”
Rachel watched her father put the chess set carefully into its wooden box. He never let anyone else take it out or put it away. Zeyde had carved the wooden set for her father when he was a boy. “Why have we never met Zeyde? Whenever I ask about him and Bubbe, you tell me we will go to see them, but we never do. Do they live too far from here?”
Her father ran his hand over the box. “They live in Mohileff in the Gomel province, which is a good distance, but that’s not why we haven’t gone.” He hesitated. “Zeyde and I had a disagreement years ago, and we haven’t spoken since then.”
From the corner of her eye, Rachel saw that Nucia had stopped embroidering her father’s prayer shawl and had turned her head in their direction to listen. Her mother’s head was still bent down as she sewed, as though she wanted no part of this conversation.
“What kind of disagreement?” asked Rachel carefully. Her father didn’t mention his parents often.
He cleared his throat before answering in a slow, measured voice. “Zeyde worked in a sweltering brick factory twelve hours a day for wages that barely put food on our plates, and he had this cough—a dry cough that would never go away.” He cleared his throat again. “I wanted a different life, a better life away from Gomel, but my father, he wanted me to stay and fight with him for better working conditions. He’s never forgiven me for leaving.”
Rachel considered this for a moment. “Is Zeyde still working in the brick factory?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do Zeyde and Bubbe know about Mother, and me and Nucia?”
Her father nodded wearily. “I write them twice a year to let them know how you are.”
“You do?” Rachel was surprised and pleased to hear this.
“Yes, but they’ve never written back to me.”
“Oh.” Rachel’s face fell.
“That’s horrible, Father,” said Nucia. “I don’t think you should write them anymore.”
His eyes moved from Rachel to Nucia. “I will not stop writing,” he said. “I cannot give up hope that one day they’ll forgive me and want to meet all of you. It is my dream for all of us to be together.”
Rachel stood and moved around the table to her father. “I’m sure they’ll forgive you soon,” she said, though she wasn’t sure of anything anymore. “You must keep writing.”
He pressed his lips together, nodded at Rachel, and gazed out the window.
Rachel moved from the sofa to the samovar, poured herself a glass of tea, and stood beside her father. It was a gray day, with all the color washed out of the sky. In the courtyard, Mr. Berlatsky, Mr. Grienschpoun, and Mr. Nissenson huddled together, smoking and gesturing excitedly with their hands. A halo of smoke hung overhead.
“I think I’ll go and join the other men,” said her father.
“Can I come?” asked Rachel.
“You stay here with your sister and mother. We’ll be talking about grown-up things, not for a young girl’s ears.” He grabbed his tobacco pouch, put on his coat, and tied the sash.
“Father, I’m not a young girl. I’m almost fifteen, you know!”
Her father turned and smiled at Rachel.
“I know you’re a young lady, but you must remain inside.” He placed his hand gently on her cheek for a moment and smiled.
When the door shut behind her father, the room seemed to grow colder. Rachel turned and looked at her mother and Nucia. They were absorbed in their sewing and embroidering, their needles moving swiftly through muslin. Rachel quietly picked her black shawl off the hook, slipped on her boots, and opened the door.
Outside the air was brisk and refreshing, like ice-cold tea in the summer. Spying a nearby snow fort built by the Berlatsky children, Rachel waited in the lengthening shadows until she was sure none of the men were looking in her direction. Then she crept over to the fort as quietly as she could and tilted her head in the direction of the men.
“What do you make of the latest article, Gofsha?” said Mr. Nissenson, a tall man with dark black whiskers. “The one in the Bessarabetz that says the Rybachenko boy’s death was not a ritual murder.”
Rachel’s father lit his pipe. “Krushevan’s words are too late. The damage is done. Fear is rampant among gentiles.” He spoke confidently, with authority, so that the other men hung on his words.
Rachel watched her breath spin and disappear into the air. She wiggled her toes and fingers to keep warm.
“This is a curse,” said Mr. Nissenson. “And it’s bringing shame to all of us here in Kishinev.”
“I have more bad news for you,” said her father. “These rumors have spread beyond our city. The Petersburg newspaper, Novoe Vremia, not only had a story about this killing, but it also falsely reported that the Jew who killed Mikhail has already been found.”
“We’re the chosen people,” said Mr. Nissenson. “It’s no wonder the whole world is out to get Jews. They envy us.”
“How can you believe in such rubbish?” said Rachel’s father. “That kind of talk will only lead to more trouble.”
“I agree, Gofsha,” said Mr. Berlatsky. “But it’s hard not to feel like pawns up against a field of kings and queens. The Moldavians hate us for settling on their land, and the peasants hate us for doing better than them.”
“That’s true. And the newspaper has helped their cause, publishing lie upon lie about us,” said Mr. Nissenson.
“That Krushevan is a lowdown good for nothing,” said Mr. Grienschpoun in a fierce voice. “I’d like to burn his printing press, and him along with it.”
Rachel cowered in fear behind the fort. She had never heard Mr. Grienschpoun speak so angrily. He sounded like he wanted to go to war against this Krushevan person. She shivered and hugged herself to stay warm.
“That would prove we’re as bad as he says,” said her father. “We must keep to ourselves and show that we are honorable, law-abiding citizens.”