“We will help you, won’t we Rachel?” said Nucia.
“Yes, of course… only…”
“What is it?” asked her mother.
Rachel sighed. “You know I’m hopeless with a needle and thread. I’m worried about sewing well enough for other people.”
Her mother and Nucia shared a smile.
“You will be fine,” Nucia promised. “I’ll help you.”
Rachel smiled, feeling closer to her sister than she’d ever been before.
Rachel and Leah waited for Yoram to say good-bye to Chaia and then stood on each side of her bed. She was still bandaged from head to foot and hadn’t spoken a word since the riots.
“Look Chaia,” said Rachel. “I brought Leah to see you. She’s had her hair cut, like you.”
Leah’s eyes darted from Rachel to Chaia. “So? How are you Chaia?” She scratched the back of her neck and continued in a shaky voice. “You should see me now.” She laughed nervously. “I’m practically bald with a big scar on my face. I don’t think any boys are going to want to marry me but that’s all right…” She choked back tears and looked at Rachel.
“Don’t worry about Leah,” Rachel said, struggling to keep her voice from faltering. “She doesn’t look so bad. The doctor told her the scar will eventually fade so you’ll hardly notice it.”
Chaia’s eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, blinking occasionally but showing no sign that she heard them.
“You’re looking much better, Chaia,” said Rachel. “You have more color in your face and your bruises are almost gone.” She took Chaia’s hand, which was cold and limp. “It’s not so bad in here. A bit crowded but it’s clean.” She inhaled. “Tomorrow I’m going with my mother and sister to start sewing clothes for…for people. You really have to wake up to see me with a needle and thread. I’ll be lucky if I don’t sew my hands together.”
Leah laughed gently. “I will definitely come and watch you, Rachel. And I feel sorry for the people who get your clothes. They will likely fall apart.”
Rachel peered at Chaia’s face to see if her lips moved at all, maybe a hint of a smile. She shook her head at Leah.
Leah frowned. “Yoram really misses you. He was just here, do you know that?” She and Rachel stared at Chaia’s face but saw no response.
“I miss you so much, Chaia,” said Rachel. “So does Leah. And your mother, she is so sad that you aren’t talking. We know you need time. I just hope that soon you’ll come back to us.” She let go of Chaia’s hand and backed up, watching intently for any change in her expression. Nothing. She stifled a cry, then trudged out of the room with Leah.
The gaslights cast an eerie fog onto the black streets. An afternoon rain had left the night air warm and moist. Sergei spied two officers down the street and hurried toward them. “Have you seen Chief Khanzhenkov?”
The officers eyed Sergei suspiciously. “Who wants to know?” one of them croaked.
“He’s my father. He left for work early this morning and hasn’t come home.”
“Have you checked the station?” asked the other officer.
“I’ve already been there. Nobody’s seen him all day.” Sergei saw the two men exchange glances. “I know he’s drinking somewhere. But there are a lot of taverns in town.”
“Try the Moscow,” the first officer replied. “If he’s not there, try the Bear. Yes—that’s what I’d do.”
Sergei nodded in reply and headed down the street, anger churning his stomach. “Why does my father have to make such a fool of himself?” he muttered, his fists clenched.
Lights from the taverns, gambling dens, and restaurants glowed hazily as Sergei walked past open doors. The smell of alcohol and smoke assaulted his nose. Taking a deep breath, he entered the Moscow and found himself in the reddest room he’d ever seen. Lit sconces against crimson walls infused the floor with a ruby tinge. Thick red stripes ran along the edges of the tablecloths.
Tables of six were filled with men talking and laughing loudly over their drinks. A large archway led to another room, where the atmosphere was more subdued. At one table, the men were passed out, their heads on the table.
Tucked back in the darkest corner, he saw his father hunched over a table with men Sergei didn’t recognize. A gray cloud of smoke hovered above their heads.
“Papa…” Sergei glared at his father as he approached. “Papa!” he repeated in a louder voice.
Sergei’s father raised his head and tried to focus his eyes on the source of the voice. “What…what the devil’re you doing here?” His voice slurred.
“Mama is worried about you. She sent me to find you,” Sergei replied tersely.
The other men peered at Sergei, their drunken eyes mere slits in their ruddy faces.
“Oh, for goodness sake. Can’t a man have some time to himself?” Sergei’s father grinned, raised his glass and proposed a toast. “Here’s to…time with friends!”
He and the other men roared with laughter, and reached for their glasses.
“Are you coming home or not?” Sergei asked.
“When I’m good and ready.”
“Hear, hear!” yelled one of his cronies. The three men clanged their glasses together in a toast. Sergei noticed his father’s hand shake as he held his glass. Scowling, Sergei turned and left, sighing with relief when he was back outside. He savored the cool, clean air, but couldn’t rid his mind of his father’s drunken condition. He glanced back at the tavern, then walked toward lower Kishinev, with thoughts of Rachel crowding out the ugly images of his father.
Under the cloak of darkness, it was easy to forget about the massacre. Desecrated buildings were blotted out, hidden, unseen. The gaslights shining brightly in the night made the town appear picturesque, almost holy. Looming in front of him was the Jewish hospital. The stark building rose from the ground like a shadow.
“Sergei?”
Sergei turned and saw Rachel standing under a gaslight, her face partially concealed in the night’s shadows.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “When I closed my eyes, I saw… anyway, the lights shone through my window. At night I can pretend Kishinev is the same as it was. That it wasn’t destroyed.”
“I was thinking the same thing. But you shouldn’t be out here alone. You could get hurt.”
“I’m not afraid. Besides, I’m only a few steps from the hospital.” She spoke matter-of-factly, with no emotion. “Have you seen Menahem since he was sent to the orphanage?”
“A couple of times. He’s miserable. He spends most of his time doing chores, and there are fights. When I leave I feel terrible.”
Rachel nodded. “When I’m sad about losing my father, I think of Menahem and how much worse off he is. I feel bad for feeling sorry for myself when I know there are so many children like him out there.”
“I wish I could do more for him.” Despair and anger flooded through Sergei. “I lie awake at night trying to make sense of everything.” He grimaced and his voice rose. “Yet my father, who could have stopped the riots but didn’t, sits in a tavern as we speak,drinking himself into a stupor as if nothing happened.”
“It doesn’t pay to be good.”
“You’re right.”
“I should get back now, before my mother notices I’m gone.” She waved and moved out of the light.
“Wait! Let me walk with you,” Sergei called.
“It’s all right,” Rachel replied. “I’ll be fine.”
Sergei kept an eye on her until she disappeared into the misty night. After one last glance at the hospital, he went home.
A group of children hovered near Sergei as he stood in the entry hall of the orphanage with Menahem. Like Menahem, they all had sad eyes and protruding cheekbones. Although Sergei knew there were lots of children in the orphanage, actually seeing their faces made him feel guilty for befriending just one.