Zeyde and Bubbe, Sholom aleichem, she wrote neatly at the top of the page. We hope you are well. We are sorry to bring you bad news. Rachel paused to take a deep breath. When she continued, her hand shook, causing drops of ink to pool on the paper. Father was killed during a big fight that took place in Kishinev at the end of Passover. Our house was destroyed. Now we’re staying in the hospital but have to find a new place to live.
Rachel read over what she had written but was unsure of how to continue. “Rena… do you think it’s a good idea to write my grandparents and ask if we can live with them, when we’ve never even met them?”
Rena set her pen in its stand and sat back with a thoughtful look on her face. “I think it’s an excellent idea. I’m sure your grandparents have wanted to meet you for a long time…”
“You don’t understand,” said Rachel. “My father had a quarrel with his parents years ago, and they never saw each other again.”
Rena leaned forward and rested her elbows on the desk. “I don’t know your grandparents, but I am quite sure they deeply regret the argument that came between them and your father. Because of it, they don’t know you and your sister, and worse, their son has died before they could resolve their differences.” She looked intently at Rachel. “They won’t want the same thing to happen again.”
Rachel nodded, encouraged by Rena’s sensible words. With renewed determination, she continued writing. Mother has hardly spoken since the massacre. She won’t be able to work for some time. We would be very grateful if we could come and stay with you until Mother feels better. We promise we won’t cause any trouble, and we have always wanted to meet you both very much. Please send your reply to the Kishinev Jewish Hospital. Your loving granddaughter, Rachel.
She finished writing and set the pen in the inkwell. “I don’t have a stamp. How am I going to get it to them?”
“Don’t worry,” said Rena. “Since the riot, the hospital has been receiving donations to help pay for food, clothing, and medical care. I’ll get the money from this fund.”
Rachel stared at the envelope addressed to her grandparents, then handed it carefully to Rena. “This is our only hope. The only family we have.”
“What the devil! This is rubbish… absolute rubbish.” Sergei’s father stared at the document in his hands. “I did what I could with the men I had.”
Sergei looked up from the game of backgammon he was playing with Natalya. His father had just received a telegraph from his office and had been shouting at it for the last five minutes.
“It’s your turn, Sergei.” Natalya prodded him to pay attention.
“Oh no! You put me on the bar. Now I have to start all over again.” Sergei pretended to be upset that his sister was making him start from the beginning.
Natalya grinned. “I’m going to beat you! I’m going to win!”
He smiled wanly, envious of his sister’s youth, of her inability to fully understand the gravity of the situation in Kishinev.
Sergei’s father ripped the telegraph message into pieces and threw them on the floor. Since his admission to the mayor and the governor, Sergei had seen his father fly into a rage every day, as he received such documents from his superiors.
“What’s wrong, Aleksandr?” Sergei’s mother turned from the dishes she’d been washing.
His father began pacing. “They’re all idiots! Idiots, I tell you! Saying I didn’t do my job…I’d like to see them do better. There were thousands of rioters. What could I do?” He waved his arm in the air as he raged. “Besides, Mikhail’s uncle and cousin were arrested at their home last night. There will be a trial. Justice will be done. What more do they want?”
“I’m sure you did everything you could, Aleksandr.” Sergei’s mother tried to put her arms around him, but he pushed her away.
Sergei frowned; his mother had no idea that his father could have averted the riots entirely.
Carlotta sat by the stove, knitting a yellow shawl. She cleared her throat loudly. “You cannot pull a fish out of a pond without labor,” she said.
“Be quiet!” Sergei’s father barked at Carlotta. “If you want to keep a roof overhead and food in your belly, be quiet for heaven’s sake!”
“Is someone mad at you, Papa?” asked Natalya.
Sergei’s father stood still and stared at Natalya. “Sergei, take your sister outside. To the square. The merry-go-round should be working again. Take her there.”
“But we haven’t finished our game yet, Papa,” cried Natalya. “And I’m going to beat Sergei!”
“Do as you’re told, Natalya.” Their mother looked at her and Sergei with an expression that left little room for argument.
Sergei stood up and faced his father. “You waited until after the riots to arrest Mikhail’s uncle. You wanted to see the Jews ruined; and you don’t really feel bad about not coming forward earlier, you’re only upset because people blame you for what happened.”
His father glared at him, his eyes boring into Sergei like knives. Sergei’s knees started to buckle. Before he knew what was happening, his father slapped him across the face. “You’re too mouthy for your own good! Get out of here before I hit you again. Harder.”
“No! Papa, don’t,” cried Natalya. She ran to her mother who turned to face her husband.
“Aleksandr! Stop this right now.”
Sergei ran to the door and bolted down the stairs. His face burned from his father’s hand.
“Are you all right?” Natalya’s voice startled him. Sergei had not realized she was behind him. Natalya peered anxiously at his face.
“Is there a red mark there?” he asked her, feeling the sore area with his hand.
“Yes, but I’m sure it will go away soon, Sergei.” She paused. “What’s wrong with Papa? He’s been really mad lately.”
They reached the ground floor and walked out to the street. “Well…when you do something wrong and people find out about it, you don’t feel very good,” he said.
“Like the time I took the new pink ribbon from Maria’s doll for my doll, and put my old pink ribbon on hers?”
Sergei gave his sister a half smile. “I think Papa has more at stake than a ribbon, but yes, it’s sort of the same thing.”
“When will Papa be happy again?”
She looked so innocent that Sergei hoped she’d never find out what their father was really like. “I don’t know.”
“Will you promise not to make him so upset, Sergei? I don’t like seeing him hit you.”
“I’ll try. I really will. But I can’t promise. Sometimes he makes me so angry, I can’t help it.”
“I wish you’d promise,” she said, putting her small hand in his.
Sergei looked at her upturned face. “I’ll do my best.”
“You’ve got to believe me. I won’t hurt Menahem. I just want to talk to him. He was moved from the hospital before I had a chance to see him,” Sergei pleaded with a woman wearing a black kerchief on her head. Her expression was hard to gauge in the dim light.
“My father is the chief of police, remember? And you told me yesterday that I’d be able to see Menahem today.” Sergei tried to imitate his father’s authoritative voice.
The woman put down her pen and regarded him for a moment. “You have to be eighteen in order to sign a child out from the orphanage.”
“I am eighteen,” Sergei lied. He would be fifteen in one month, so it wasn’t a horrible lie.
She looked him up and down. “You don’t look eighteen.”
“You should see my father. He looks even younger than I do.”
She gave him a skeptical look and sighed. “All right. You can take him for two hours. But first I need some information.” She rifled through the papers on her desk and handed one to Sergei.