“Look where that’s gotten us,” scoffed Mr. Berlatsky. “I think we need to do something to protect our children and ourselves.”
“What can we do? We have no power in Kishinev, nobody in government on our side,” said Mr. Nissenson in a voice that rose with every word. “The gentiles have occupied all of Russia for years. We are exiles in our own country.”
Mr. Berlatsky threw his cigarette butt in Rachel’s direction. She hid further back behind the fort and held her breath.
“Who is telling Krushevan these lies?” asked Mr. Berlatsky.
Her father removed his pipe from his mouth. “In the article I read in the Bessarabetz, the reporter talked to the man who runs the postal station, and then he paid Mikhail Rybachenko’s grandfather to talk about the boy’s disappearance.”
“But this is crazy! What does the postal man know about what happened to the boy?” Mr. Grienschpoun was practically screaming at Rachel’s father.
“How do I know? I’m just telling you what I read.”
“I feel bad for the Rybachenkos, but how can they possibly know their grandson’s fate?” said Mr. Berlatsky.
“I’ve heard that a group of rabbis and doctors is going to approach Governor von Raben,” said Rachel’s father. “Perhaps they’ll have some luck in stopping these rumors.”
“I wouldn’t bet my life on it. I’ve heard that von Raben prefers gambling to governing,” said Mr. Berlatsky. “I’m going in now. I need a glass of vodka to warm my insides.”
“Be quiet, unobtrusive, blend into the background, and the worst will pass,” warned Rachel’s father. “We have a large community here, a strong police force, and almost ten thousand soldiers in the province. I’m sure this will all blow over as soon as the murderer is found.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Mr. Nissenson. “But I’m not counting on it.”
Rachel remained in her hiding place as the men said good-bye to one another. She had to wait until her father went inside and then she would pretend she was returning from a visit to the outhouse.
“Are you coming?”
Rachel looked up at the sound of her father’s voice. He was leaning over the fort with a bemused expression on his face.
“Are you coming inside?” he asked again. “We’re finished out here. There’s no more for you to hear.”
“I’m sorry Father, I just… I didn’t want to embroider with Mother and Nucia, and I didn’t want to read, so I…” Her cheeks blazed with embarrassment at being caught.
“You shouldn’t have disobeyed me,” he said. “Our discussion was not for you to hear.”
“Why? Aren’t I affected by these rumors? Isn’t that what you said? Why shouldn’t I hear what’s going on?”
“Because I don’t want you to worry needlessly. Hopefully, nothing more will happen and we can go back to living on friendly terms with the gentiles. Come, let’s go in. Mother will need your help with supper.”
Rachel took her father’s hand. She glanced at his face as he opened the door. He looked older than usual, and exhausted. New lines cut across his face, wrinkling his skin, and his hair was grayer around the temple. It was as if he had aged overnight, edging one step closer to the end of his life.
“Ooohh!” Sergei groaned when something fell onto his chest. He opened his eyes gradually, not wanting to let go of slumber.
“Wake up, Sergei. Don’t be a lazy slugabed!” Natalya sat on top of him, beating his face playfully with the branch she’d decorated. “The rod beats, beats to tears. I beat thee not, the rod beats!” She sang the traditional Palm Sunday words out, loud and clear.
“It’s still dark. I’m tired. Leave me alone.” Sergei turned over, jostling his sister, and closed his eyes again.
“But it’s Palm Sunday! You can’t stay asleep! Only one more week until Easter and the end of Lent. And we get to decorate eggs today. Come! Let’s go wake Mama and Papa.”
Sergei groaned and pushed Natalya off him. He yawned and slowly sat up, his eyes heavy, his mouth dry and sour from sleep.
“I can hardly wait until you’re older and sleep in later,” he said.
“Papa told me you once woke him up at four o’clock in the morning on Palm Sunday. I’ve never gotten up that early.”
The cold, hard floor on his bare feet jolted Sergei awake. Natalya grabbed his hand and pulled him to their parents’ small bedroom adjacent to the living area. They were sound asleep under their feather-filled cover.
“It’s Palm Sunday!” Natalya shouted. She threw Sergei her branch and jumped onto their father.
“Oooof.” Sergei’s father grunted and opened one eye under his bushy brow.
“Beat Papa with the branch! Come on Sergei!” cried Natalya.
“Mercy!” Sergei’s mother sat up and looked at them with a startled expression. Her hair, usually pulled back neatly in a braid, fell in every direction, partially covering her plump face. “What’s going on? What time is it?”
Sergei, standing at the foot of his parent’s bed, squinted to see the time on the wall clock. “Five thirty.”
“Good heavens! It’s still the middle of the night.” His mother brushed the hair out of her half-opened eyes with her hand.
“But it’s Palm Sunday, Mama!” Natalya sat on her father’s stomach, her eyes shining.
Sergei’s father put his arms around Natalya and sat up. “Shall I put wood in the stove and fire up the samovar?” He gave her an affectionate smile that made Sergei stiffen with jealousy.
“Yes!” Natalya clapped her hands, scrambling down from the bed.
Sergei dragged his feet along as he followed his family to the cathedral. In his pocket, he wrapped his hand around the egg Natalya had dyed red. He hoped it wouldn’t crack or break before he gave it to the priest. As he felt the smooth, delicate egg, he wondered what the priest did with the hundreds of eggs he’d receive from families today.
“Tomorrow the whole market will be filled with people selling eggs,” said Natalya. “Mama, how many eggs can we buy this year?”
“Well, I suppose we’ll need some for our Easter dinner, some to give away to people we know…four dozen would probably do.”
“How about six or seven dozen?”
“Why do we need so many eggs?” asked Sergei. “We don’t even have six dozen friends.”
“I want to dye hundreds of eggs and give one to every person I see!” Natalya clapped her hands joyfully.
“That’s very generous of you, Natalya.” Sergei’s father smiled. “But I think four dozen will be enough.”
Sergei and his family joined the massive crowd making its way through the door to the Palm Sunday service. As his body was thrust forward, Sergei wiped perspiration from his brow and pulled at his collar.
“Welcome, one and all, to our community, our sobornost.” The priest stood with his back to the congregation and spoke in a voice as deep as rumbling thunder. “It’s Branch Sunday, a special day for our children, but also for our entire congregation. Today we start gathering eggs for Easter Sunday. These eggs symbolize Christ’s Resurrection, the most important event in our history, which we’ll celebrate in one week. Let us pray.”
As he bowed his head, Sergei thought about Mikhail and wondered if he was in heaven with his parents. He tried to imagine another world for people when they died, but he couldn’t picture it. It all seemed so unreal, like a place out of the fairy tales he’d heard when he was younger, where animals talked and snow maidens lived in ice castles.
The priest’s words fell around him, meaningless and empty, like rain on a hot summer’s day that dried as soon as it landed. As he listened, Sergei had trouble breathing and his head pounded. He needed to get out of the crowd before he suffocated. He turned around and used his shoulders to push his way through the people.