As the black night darkened the outhouse, the noise subsided. Rachel listened as the crowd dispersed, a low murmur fading away. Her eyes met Nucia’s, then her mother’s. Nobody in the outhouse moved or spoke. The Grienschpoun boys had fallen into a restless sleep, cradled in their mother’s arms. Rachel sank back against the wall, afraid to make a sound, afraid of what awaited all of them outside.
Sergei rushed into his father’s office and found him busy receiving a telegraph. He watched impatiently as his father tapped a reply, tugging at his whiskers as he sent the message. He glanced up at Sergei when he was finished and frowned.
“Papa, have you seen what’s going on? A mob of people has descended on lower Kishinev and is attacking Jews, and the police are doing nothing.”
His father stared at him. “Why are you so concerned about lower Kishinev, hmm?”
“I know someone there. A friend. She was Mikhail’s friend too. I know he would want me to help her.” His father’s face tightened as Sergei continued speaking. “You have to order the officers to stop the attacks.”
Sergei’s father narrowed his eyes so that his brows came together in a V. “I can’t give special treatment to someone, just because she’s your friend. There are three infantry companies and two cavalry squadrons in place, and I will have extra officers on duty all night.”
“All night! You think this violence will be going on all night?”
“It’s possible.”
Sergei smelled alcohol on his breath. “But you can stop it now. You have enough officers.”
“We have to wait for orders from the governor.” Sergei’s father put on his cap and buttoned up his coat.
“What are you talking about?”
“I have to leave now. You’re to go home and stay there with your mother and sister. Do you hear me?” He waved his finger in Sergei’s face.
“But why do you have to wait for orders?”
“Did you hear me?”
“But—”
“Go. Now!” Sergei’s father pointed to the door.
Sergei left, but he didn’t go home. Intent on finding Rachel, he started back to lower Kishinev.
By the time Sergei reached Gostinnii Street, he felt as if he was in a completely different city, the damage was so extensive. The Jewish tobacco store was destroyed. The front wall had collapsed, revealing the skeletal remains of the building. Shelves were torn from the walls and cartons had tipped over. Sergei swallowed and moved to the next store, the shoemaker’s shop with broken windows and doors beaten until they’d collapsed. Everything inside was gone or vandalized. It got worse as he continued walking. Homes and apartments ransacked. Furniture sitting in the streets, torn apart, broken beyond recognition.
The air reeked of wine, beer, and decay. Sergei stood motionless in front of a wine shop where broken bottles lay strewn across the pavement. He resumed walking, but a minute later stopped again when he saw dead, twisted bodies piled on top of one another in front of a Jewish bookstore. At the very top of the pile was a small boy, his head hanging over the edge, his clothing ripped, his skin a lifeless fish-gray.
Sergei gagged at the putrid stench of burnt flesh and blood, dirt and feathers, which were smeared over the bodies. Covering his mouth, he dashed to the edge of the sidewalk, where he crouched and vomited; he didn’t get up until the retching pain in his gut had eased and his legs felt steady.
When Sergei came to a residential street, his heart plummeted. There was no way people could have survived so much destruction. Feathers from pillows covered the ground like a blanket of snow. Pieces of tables, beds, and sofas littered the street.
“Bubbe… Bubbe…”
As Sergei stared at the devastation, he heard a small voice in one of the vandalized houses. Moving closer, he realized there was no longer a door, just a narrow, murky hole. He entered cautiously, following the sound. Sitting behind a wide trunk, which had miraculously survived, was a small boy with messy blond hair and swollen amber eyes sunk back in his face.
The boy stared anxiously at Sergei, trying to press his body against the wall.
“I won’t hurt you.” Sergei kneeled down to the boy’s level. “I’m Sergei. Can you tell me your name?”
The boy sniffed back some tears and wrapped his arms around his knees. “Menahem Katsap.”
“How old are you?”
Menahem sniffed. “Seven.”
Sergei’s brow furrowed. He didn’t look more than four or five. “Where’s the rest of your family?”
Menahem started sobbing.
“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.” Sergei reached out and gently touched the boy’s shoulder.
“My grandmother… was beat up.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“And you lived with her?”
Menahem nodded. Gray mucus dripped from his nose.
“Come with me.” Sergei held out his hand. Menahem carefully searched Sergei’s face before taking his hand.
“Where are we going?”
“To the hospital. To make sure you’re all right. They’ll take care of you and we’ll see if your grandmother is there.”
“Will she be all right?” The little boy trembled as he looked up at Sergei.
“I don’t know.” Sergei, fearing the worst, couldn’t look Menahem in the eye. “Maybe they’ll know more at the hospital.”
The Jewish Hospital was located along the slope of Nicolayevskaya Street. It was a substantial two-story building enclosed within a courtyard now crammed with injured people—standing, sitting, and lying unconscious on the muddy ground. As they approached the steps leading inside, Sergei felt Menahem’s cold, skinny fingers clutch his hand tighter. Sergei held his breath as he pushed open the hospital’s heavy door. Inside, the waiting area, too, was packed with wounded people. Their raw, open sores and grief-stricken eyes made Sergei look away, but he couldn’t escape their moaning and the horrid smell of urine, blood, and despair.
“Can I help you?” A nurse greeted Sergei and Menahem in a harried voice. She spoke loudly to be heard above the background commotion. “Just a minute,” she said to a man with a bandaged head standing behind her. She looked at Sergei expectantly.
“I found this boy all alone. His name is Menahem Katsap. He says his grandmother was beaten. Maybe she’s here waiting for him.”
The nurse bent down and spoke gently to Menahem. “Did anybody hurt you?”
Menahem shook his head.
“Would you like to come with me? Perhaps we can take a look at you and find out what happened to your grandmother.”
Menahem looked at Sergei, who nodded, then took the nurse’s hand.
“Do you know if anyone from the Paskar family is here?” asked Sergei.
The nurse gave him a curious look and examined the chart in her hand. “No, I don’t have anyone here with that name, but they could arrive later…”
Sergei nodded and looked down at his shoes, which were covered with mud.
“Thank you,” the nurse said, her voice softer and kinder. “For bringing Menahem here.”
Sergei put his hand on Menahem’s shoulder, then watched them walk down the hall until he couldn’t see them anymore. He left, more determined than ever to find Rachel.
Out on the street, Sergei was swept up in a sea of people, mostly men and teenage boys, waving clubs and canes wildly in the air, wearing the same long, red blouses and tall boots he had seen on the men in the square yesterday. The uniform of mass hatred.
A nervous energy ignited the mob when they reached house No. 33 on Gostinnii Street. They surged and attacked, breaking windows and pushing in the door. A few leaders barged into the home, found the residents hiding in the attic, and beat them mercilessly. One man dragged a young boy outside and beat him to death with a crowbar, while the child’s father begged for mercy.