Her father stroked his whiskers for a moment, then he put a log in the stove, poured himself a glass of tea, and sat down at the table with his newspaper. “Did his parents know he was friendly with you, Rachel?”
“His parents died a long time ago.” Her voice faltered. “He lived with his grandparents; I don’t know if he told them about me.”
“I don’t want you going anywhere alone for a while. And you as well, Ita. Make sure either Nucia or Rachel is with you when you go beyond lower Kishinev.”
Rachel’s mother put the kugel in the oven and looked at her husband anxiously. “Gofsha, surely you don’t think we’re in danger.”
Rachel’s father put his paper down on the table and scratched his head. “Ech. I just don’t want to take any chances. There is talk that a Jew is to blame for the boy’s murder, and though there’s no proof, Mikhail’s death has certainly added fuel to the fire.”
Later, when she climbed onto her bench to go to sleep, Rachel pictured herself throwing branches on a blazing fire and shook her head to get rid of the image. She sat up for hours writing in her journal under the light from an oil lamp, while the rest of her family slept.
If only I could have stopped Mikhail’s uncle, she wrote in Yiddish. For as long as I live, I will regret my actions, my cowardice. She stopped, dipped her pen in the inkwell and stared off into the darkness before continuing. I regret also my friendship with Mikhail. I see now that it was wrong, that people from two different worlds do not belong together. She blew on the page to dry the ink, closed her journal, and tried to go to sleep. But all night she twisted and turned, consumed by a flame that grew bigger and bigger in her mind until it was out of control.
Four
Rachel rubbed her eyes, underlined in half-moon shadows, and looked out the narrow window of her school, the Kishinev Jewish Gymnazyium. She watched people hurrying along the street, holding their hats to keep them from blowing away. Her head pounded. Another night of frightening sounds and visions had robbed her of much-needed sleep.
At the front of the room, Mr. Dubnow’s bony hand fingered his long white beard as he announced that school was over. “Gut Shabbos my children,” he called out, rising from behind his tall desk.
Rachel followed Chaia and Leah through the crowded hallway to the heavy door that led outside.
“We’re staying home from shul tomorrow because my father doesn’t think it’s safe,” said Chaia as they stepped onto the wooden sidewalk. Her golden hair shimmered in the daylight like neatly tied strands of wheat. “Yoram’s family isn’t going either.”
“Neither are we,” said Leah. “My father saw a stupid article in the newspaper yesterday that said Mikhail may have been killed by a Jew for his blood.” She linked arms with Chaia and they moved briskly ahead of Rachel, the snow crunching beneath their feet.
“That’s crazy,” said Chaia.
“Yes, and there’s more. The writer also said Jews have discovered a way to make wine without grapes and are going to take over the entire industry.”
“You can’t make wine without grapes,” said Rachel, stepping quickly to keep up with her friends. “That would be like saying we’re making cabbage soup without cabbage. It doesn’t make any sense.”
Leah smiled. “Nothing makes sense anymore—the newspaper, what people believe about us, Mikhail’s death. That’s why my father doesn’t want us going to shul. He says we would be as vulnerable as pieces of meat on a plate, especially after Mikhail—” She stopped and looked at Rachel. “I feel terrible about what happened to him.”
“So do I,” said Chaia. “He was a good friend.”
Tears welled up in Rachel’s eyes.
“You were one of the last people to see him,” Chaia continued. “Did he say anything? Was he worried about something?”
Rachel shook her head. “No.” She didn’t tell them about her quarrel with Mikhail. It was personal, and Chaia couldn’t be trusted to keep it to herself.
Chaia linked her arm through Rachel’s and the three girls walked the rest of the way in silence along the narrow, unpaved street, past shanties and crooked two-story dwellings with dingy shops on the main level and cramped flats overhead.
The moment Rachel arrived home, her mother ushered her and Nucia out the door to the community mikveh, the bath used to purify themselves before Shabbos. Rachel and her sister undressed and waited in the outer room because someone was already inside. Only one person at a time could enter the room with the water. After a couple of minutes, Chaia’s mother came out of the bath, her face red and shiny from the heat. She said hello and started to get dressed. Rachel walked into the next room and down the stairs into the hot water. When her cold skin met the heat, she shuddered until her body adjusted to the higher temperature. She closed her eyes and dipped her entire body into the fresh water. Three times for holiness.
Rachel submerged her head and wished the water could wash away the past, erase what had happened to Mikhail so that he would still be alive. When she was finished, she sat on the top step, staring at the water, until she began shivering and her pale skin broke out into little bumps.
“Sholom aleichem!” said Mr. Talansky. “Peace be upon you.”
Rachel looked up from the gefilte fish she was helping her mother stuff with eggs, onions, and pepper to see Mr. Talansky in the doorway. He was a broad man with curly brown hair and eyes that beamed when he spoke. As he marched confidently into their flat, the whole room seemed brighter. Even her mother smiled.
“Aleichem sholom,” said Rachel. Mr. Talansky and his sixteen-year-old son, Sacha, had been friends of their family for as long as Rachel could remember, spending many Shabbos evenings in their home since Mrs. Talansky had died years ago.
“Sholom aleichem, Rachel,” said Sacha, his lively brown eyes focused on her. “I have a quote for you.”
Funny Sacha. He always had a joke or a riddle to amuse her. His laugh reminded her of Mikhail, and how he had tricked her by falling on the ice. Rachel tried to smile, but couldn’t coax her lips to move. A wave of grief and guilt swallowed her up, sucking the air out of her.
“What’s the matter, Rachel?” asked her father. “You look as though you might faint.” He put his arms around her waist, holding her up, until the lightheadedness passed and Rachel was able to breathe normally.
“I’m just hungry and tired,” she said.
“Then we must begin Shabbos,” her father announced. He guided Rachel to the table where her mother lit two white candles. They all said a prayer over wine. One by one, Rachel’s family and the Talanskys washed their hands using the bucket of water near the stove. They said a blessing over the loaves of challah, which were covered with the cloth Rachel had embroidered.
The bread seemed dull and tasteless to Rachel, a dense lump she could barely swallow.
“L’chayim,” said Rachel’s father, raising his glass of wine. “May his great name be blessed forever and for all eternity. Amen.”
“Amen,” said everyone at once, before taking a sip of wine.
Rachel saw Sacha look hungrily at the potato kugel. She knew he didn’t get to eat homemade food since his mother had died, because his father had no idea how to make a kugel or even challah.
“There’s talk of riots at shul, Gofsha,” said Mr. Talansky, after he finished a mouthful of kugel. “The gentile’s newspaper, what’s the name of it again?” He drummed on the table, then snapped his fingers. “The Bessarabetz. That’s it. The editor there is writing all kinds of rubbish, saying Jews are parasites…”