Sergei was sick to his stomach again—this time on the sidewalk. He looked around for a policeman but saw none. Breaking away from the boisterous crowd, he ran further south to find help.
Down the street, at house No. 66, another gang of rioters was ambushing a troika driver.
“Can you believe it?” a woman said to Sergei when he stopped beside her. “That idiot Jew driver refused to take that poor boy to the hospital. He died. It’s terrible. Just terrible.”
Sergei watched, transfixed, as the driver was murdered right in front of him. Clubbed to death. Sergei looked around again for a policeman. Instead, he saw two more men and a young woman being brutally beaten and kicked in the courtyard. Both of the men were unconscious, and the woman was groaning. The crowd was cheering the attackers on.
Sergei ran toward Asia Street and passed the New Bessarabia Hotel, which an angry throng was busy destroying. Grocery stores, bakeries, a wine shop, a jewelry store, and a tavern were all being demolished. Furniture was scattered across the pavement. People were taking whatever they could carry from the ruined stores.
“Stop… you must stop,” cried Father Petrov, a young priest. He stood in front of a small house, his black cassock splattered with mud, and pressed his palms out toward the angry rioters. “We must not attack our Jewish neighbors. They are good, honest people.”
“How can you defend them, with their crazy blood rituals?” yelled a man waving a crowbar in the air.
“You’re wrong,” cried Father Petrov fervently. “Jewish people don’t eat any meat that has blood in it. This is part of their culture. This idea of consuming blood directly contradicts their religion.”
A few people stopped and listened to the priest, their eyebrows rising with comprehension as he spoke. They moved slowly back from the house and the mob. But more of them, Sergei noted, kept going, ignoring the priest’s words.
Sergei walked aimlessly, his mind reeling with the horrific sights, smells, and sounds he had experienced. Kishinev had become derelict, dirty, and ravaged overnight. On one corner, three bodies lay together—a woman, man, and boy. He prayed the little boy never felt any pain.
The boy reminded Sergei of Menahem, who had seen his own grandmother beaten, and Natalya, who was so close in age, so vulnerable. Suddenly, he needed to see his sister and his mother, to make sure they were safe. He took off toward upper Kishinev where the streets were cleaner, the violence less apparent. Police seemed to be everywhere. As he passed his school, he noticed clusters of students surrounding the limestone building, discussing the chaos they’d witnessed. Sergei nodded at boys he knew, many of whom looked exhausted and tense.
“Sergei.” He heard his name and saw Nikolai striding toward him. “Have you seen the center of Kishinev? The whole city looks like it’s been in a war.”
Sergei nodded. “I don’t think I’ll ever forgive my father. He did nothing to stop the fighting.”
“My father saw him insulting a bunch of Jews.”
“Damm! Where was your father at the time?”
“He was watching the riots.”
“Then he’s guilty too.”
“Of what?”
“Of not stopping the fighting.”
“But there were hundreds of people, and he’s only one.” Nikolai glanced at the group of boys surrounding them. He spotted Petya and spoke to him. “What did your father do last night?”
Petya came forward slowly, his face so pale that his freckles appeared darker than usual. “Well, we were, uh, having dinner… at a friend’s house. Then the windows were smashed so we rushed home where we found some peasants about to throw rocks at our windows. My father told them he was the mayor, that it was his house.” Petya swallowed. He looked as if he was going to be sick. “So… so they threw rocks at our neighbor’s house, the Grossmans. Almost every window was smashed. I could hear Mrs. Grossman scream. She had just brought over a big plate of pastries a day earlier.” His eyes were heavy with regret.
Even Petya’s father, the mayor, thought Sergei, had been nothing more than a coward in the face of danger. Instead of standing up for what was right, for his own neighbors, he’d led a mob of angry people to their door for certain vandalism…and worse. Sergei now understood what Rachel had meant about trust. If he couldn’t depend on his father, or the mayor, or his friends, then who could he trust?
Rachel’s neck was stiff and her head ached. She’d spent the night sitting on the floor of the outhouse, lapsing into brief periods of sleep, then waking suddenly with fear slicing her heart. Nucia’s head rested on her sister’s shoulder. Her mother sat beside them, dark shadows under her puffy eyes. On the opposite wall, Mrs. Grienschpoun stared blankly at Rachel. Her boys had their arms wrapped around her, and their small faces were stained with dry tears and dirt.
Rachel touched her sister on the shoulder. “Nucia, are you awake?”
“I guess so.” Nucia lifted her head and yawned.
The two little boys began squirming when they heard Rachel and Nucia.
“Nucia… Rachel… are you all right?” said their mother.
“Yes,” answered Nucia.
“What about Father? Why didn’t he come back?” asked Rachel.
There were a few seconds of silence before her mother answered: “I wish I knew.”
A chill ran through Rachel’s body when she recalled the previous night. The sound of hatred. The smell of death.
“I think we should go outside now,” said her mother in a shaky voice. “There’s no sense in putting off what must come.”
Mrs. Grienschpoun got to her feet, holding her boys close to her. Rachel could not look at the boys’ faces. She was afraid they would see her fear.
Clinging tightly to her mother’s waist, Rachel opened the door and walked outside; the others followed.
Their courtyard was filled with broken glass and furniture, ripped bedding, torn clothing, and enamel basins. The ground was tarnished with bloody spots that had darkened around the edges. Pages of scripture were scattered everywhere. Feathers from pillows and coverlets draped the trees and ground like a winter’s frost. Rachel turned in a full circle and gasped when she saw a man lying dead at the side of the outhouse. It was Mr. Grienschpoun. She could tell by his red hair. His face was unrecognizable, bashed in and covered in blood. His coat was torn, dirty, and stained crimson.
“No!” Rachel screamed and pointed to Mr. Grienschpoun. “Help!”
Mrs. Grienschpoun collapsed on the ground weeping. Her boys clutched at her and cried. Nucia and Rachel’s mother knelt down and put their arms around Mrs. Grienschpoun and her sons.
Rachel burst into tears at the sight of the Grienschpouns mourning their dead husband and father. “Where’s Father?” she cried. “I want to see Father!” She ran toward her house. Ignoring the destruction, Rachel kept her eyes straight ahead as she ran, stopping only when she came to her house—what remained of her house. Feeling as if she were caught in the middle of one of her bad dreams, she rubbed her eyes to wake up and escape. But this was real, all of it: the terrifying night in the outhouse, Mr. Grienschpoun, and now her decimated home. Though she was trembling, afraid of what she might find, Rachel stepped forward to survey the damage. The window was smashed and the door was gone. Inside, the rioters had poured wine over everything. Furniture was broken, shutters were torn off the walls, ripped clothing was scattered all over the floor, and the remains of her father’s precious chess board looked like it had been pounded with a mallet. And Snegurochka was smashed into pieces—only the head was intact. Her journal had been ripped apart, the pages scattered on the ground, exposing her private thoughts for all to see. Although Rachel knew that the Russians who’d destroyed her diary couldn’t read Yiddish, she still felt as if she’d been beaten and stripped of her dignity; she knelt down to pick up the pages.