“Even your daughter knows better than you today,” said her mother.
He pushed Rachel back firmly and looked into her eyes. “I must go to see what happened last night. The Talanskys live near there.” He cleared his throat. “Don’t you want me to see if they need help?”
Rachel lowered her eyes. “I suppose so… but Father—”
Her father smiled grimly and hugged Rachel. “Nothing’s going to happen to me.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” He walked over to Rachel’s mother, kissed her on the cheek, and held her hand for a moment.
“Do not leave the house today,” he ordered Rachel, before closing the door. “We want to make sure the riots are over before you go outside again. And be good for your mother.”
She kept her eyes on the door after it closed behind her father, hoping he would change his mind and reappear. But the door stayed shut, solid and forbidding.
Rachel picked at her matzah and dates and watched Nucia sweep the floor. “You know you’ve been sweeping the same spot for thirty minutes,” she said to her sister in a listless voice.
“I don’t care.” Nucia gripped the broom tightly in her hands as she swept.
Rachel looked at her mother washing dishes and then at the small clock hanging on the wall beside the door. Almost ten o’clock. “Father’s been gone nearly four hours. When will he be back?”
“How should I know? Am I there? He’ll be home when he’s home. Now eat.”
She put a piece of matzah in her mouth. It tasted extra dry, and the more she chewed, the more there seemed to be in her mouth. An unexpected knock at the door caused the matzah to slip down her throat, making her gag.
Her mother opened the door. The young policeman who had questioned Rachel before stood outside.
“There’s, um, trouble in the New Marketplace. You’d best not go out of your home,” he said. “We don’t, um, want you to get hurt.”
“What’s going on?” cried her mother. “Gofsha, my husband, is there as we speak.”
Rachel ran over to the door. “He went with some other men to help.”
The policeman frowned. “He shouldn’t have gone.” He put his hand to his forehead, gritted his teeth, and exhaled. “I have orders to stay here today, but if I hear anything about the marketplace I’ll, um, let you know.”
“Thank you very much,” said Rachel’s mother. She locked the door and stood perfectly still for a moment. Then she took a deep breath and poured herself another glass of tea.
Nucia fell to the floor and cried softly, still clutching the broom. Rachel’s mother began scouring the walls with a rag, scrubbing as if she was trying to wipe the surface off.
“Father will be all right. He promised me,” Rachel assured them, sounding more confident than she felt. She twisted her braid with her hand as she stood at the window and waited for her father to return.
She could not take her eyes off the courtyard, which was eerily quiet and empty. The old gray-cement courtyard walls looked filthy and shabby against the perfectly clear blue sky. The policeman was pacing back and forth on the street, which made her feel a bit safer. Nobody would dare enter their courtyard and start destroying the houses with a policeman on guard, would they?
“Come, Rachel,” said her mother an hour later. “You must eat something. Nucia and I are having some bread and butter.”
“I’m not hungry,” she said, without turning away from the window. Her stomach was cramped from anxiety. Every minute that passed seemed like an hour. She chewed on her hair to pass the time.
Shadows from trees on the street began to dance on the courtyard walls. The sun was going down without any sign of her father. Rachel turned and looked at her mother and sister. They were sitting in front of the stove knitting, their needles moving rapidly through the red wool.
“How can you sit there as if nothing’s the matter?” Rachel cried.
“Worrying never helps,” her mother answered in a flat voice, hands still flying smoothly through the air. “You have stood by that window all day and what good has it done?”
“But at least…” Rachel stopped speaking when she heard the door creak open. “He’s home! Father’s home!” She threw herself into her father’s arms.
“Gofsha, we were so frightened,” said Rachel’s mother. “How grateful I am that you’re safe.”
A smile spread across Nucia’s face. She dropped her knitting and ran over to give him a big hug.
“The policeman was here, Father,” said Rachel. “He said things were getting worse in town.”
Her father sat down wearily by the stove and stared into the fire. His face and clothing were smeared with dirt. He was breathing heavily and gray pouches hung under his bloodshot eyes.
“It’s… the worst… I’ve ever seen,” he said in a halting, breathless voice. “There must have been about… a hundred of us. We were able… to stop a small group of people… from ruining a store.” He cleared his throat. “But the police arrived… and ordered us home. They even arrested… a couple of men who… wanted to stay and protect their shops from rioters.”
“What are we going to do, Gofsha?” cried Rachel’s mother.
Rachel shrank back from her family, overwrought with guilt. She wished, more than ever, that she had gone to the police right away. Then maybe only she would be in danger, not every Jew in town.
“Now listen to me,” said Rachel’s father, his voice gaining strength with every word. “You must all do exactly as I say.” He stood, marched over to the window, and peered out. Then he closed and latched the wooden shutter. “You’re all going to hide in the outhouse with the Grienschpouns. Until this is over. To be safe.”
Rachel could hardly breathe. “Do you really think they’ll come here?” she asked her father.
“I don’t know. We came home as quickly as we could, but we heard people behind us yelling out, ‘stupid, dirty Yids.’ We must not take any chances.”
“What about Chaia and her family?” asked Rachel.
“They’re going to hide in the shed,” her father replied. “There’s more room for them there.”
“This can’t be happening,” said Nucia in a weak, raspy voice. Her face was ashen gray. “I think I’m going to be sick.” She held her abdomen and groaned.
Rachel’s father bent down, hugged Nucia, and pulled her to her feet. “Hurry—there’s no time to take anything with you. Go now. Before they get here.” He pushed Nucia to the door and gestured for Rachel and her mother to follow.
“What about you? Aren’t you coming too?” asked Rachel, when she saw that her father wasn’t following them. “I don’t want to go anywhere without you, Father.”
“I’ll come as soon as I make sure all the people in our house are safe. Now shut the door before the rioters arrive in our courtyard.”
Rachel entered the crude, weathered outhouse with her mother and sister. Mrs. Grienschpoun, a buxom woman with rosy cheeks, and her two red-haired little boys were already sitting on the bench that ran along one wall. Mr. Grienschpoun was placing a couple of old wood planks over the two holes in the other bench that opened to the ground. His bright red hair and whiskers seemed out of place in the drab outhouse.
Snow had seeped through the edges where the walls and floor met, leaving the ground wet and partially covered with snow. The strong smell was almost overpowering.
“We all need to be absolutely quiet,” whispered Mr. Grienschpoun. “Remember, the door doesn’t lock from the inside.”
“Then why are we hiding here?” asked Rachel.