Shelly Sanders - Rachel's Secret

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.

“Do you promise not to fill his head with dreams about the future?” She glanced at Sergei and began writing something. “His future is here. It’s unlikely he’ll leave the orphanage until he’s sixteen, so promises of any kind would be devastating.”

“What can I promise? Friendship. That’s all I have to give him.” Sergei finished writing down his name, address, phone number, and his fictional age.

“Wait here. I’ll go and get the boy.” She stood up and headed down a long, narrow hallway. The floorboards creaked with every step she took.

Sergei looked away from the stained walls as he waited. What if Menahem was mad at him for taking so long to visit? What if Menahem was upset that he couldn’t help him get out of the orphanage?

“Sergei!” Menahem ran up to him and gave him a big hug. “I knew you’d come. I knew you wouldn’t break your promise.”

Sergei held him tightly. “You look good. A bit skinny but good,” he told Menahem.

“The food tastes terrible here.” Menahem made a face.

“Well then, how about I take you out for something to eat?” Sergei smiled at Menahem and tousled his hair.

“Let’s go!” Menahem was already on his way to the heavy door.

“How are your pirozhki ?” Sergei watched Menahem finish the last pastry filled with mashed potatoes. They were eating in a small, rundown restaurant in the Jewish quarter, one of the few restaurants that had re-opened after the riots. Sergei had paid for the meal with money he’d been saving for train fare out of Kishinev.

“Good!” Menahem grinned. He had a dab of potato in the corner of his mouth.

“I’m not that hungry. You can finish mine if you want.” Sergei pushed his plate over to Menahem.

“Really?”

“Listen, I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve seen you. I meant to come earlier, but I’ve been looking for a job.”

“That’s all right. I’m just glad you came. You’re my first visitor.” Menahem polished off the pirozhki from Sergei’s plate and looked up happily.

“I’ll try to come a couple of times a week, after school,” Sergei said.

“That will be good!”

“So… is it all right, living at the orphanage?” Sergei looked at Menahem and saw a flicker of pain cross the boy’s face.

“I guess. Mostly we have to stay on our beds when we’re not doing our chores. The lady in charge only yells if we get off our beds or if we don’t do our chores the right way.”

“What about school?”

“It was wrecked in the riots.”

“Do you have any books to read?”

“No.”

“Playing cards?”

“No.”

“I’ll try to bring some books with me the next time I come.” Sergei didn’t know what else to say.

“I don’t know if you can bring me anything. We’re not allowed to own things the other children don’t have. That way there won’t be any fights. This one boy had a wooden boat that his father had carved for him. But an older boy stole it and smashed it into pieces.”