Shelly Sanders - Rachel's Secret

Menahem nodded slowly. “I guess so.”

Sergei smiled and hugged the boy. “If I had a brother, I’d want him to be just like you.”

Sergei opened the door and saw his mother on the sofa weeping and his father passed out at the table. An empty vodka bottle lay on its side near his head. Carlotta and Natalya were nowhere to be seen. He bent over his mother and spoke to her quietly. “Mama… what happened?”

She looked up at him. “Your father, he lost his position today.” She started to cry again. Sergei put his arms around her, which only made her cry harder. “What are we going to do?”

“If he had done his job and not let those rioters ruin so many people’s lives, this never would have happened.” He pulled away from his mother.

“Sergei, don’t talk that way about your father.”

“You don’t understand, do you? You don’t see that he could have prevented the riots if only he’d arrested Mikhail’s uncle and cousin. Instead, he let everyone in Kishinev think the murderer was Jewish. He let the hatred build and then stood back and did nothing while innocent people were beaten to death. I was there! I saw the police ignoring the rioters. Forty-nine Jews were killed and more than five hundred were injured. How can you defend him?” Sergei raised his voice louder than he intended, but saw from the corner of his eye that his father was still passed out.

“You don’t know what you’re saying, Sergei.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying. There was even an article in the newspaper—about a document advising police to let the riots take place and not to help the Jews.”

His mother gasped. “No, this can’t be true. You’re wrong.”

Sergei shook his head. “It was written by the Russian Minister of the Interior, and it was called ‘Perfectly Secret.’ Papa says he was following orders, but if he was a good person, he would have ignored the stupid orders and helped the Jews.”

Sergei’s mother continued weeping into her hands.

He put his arm around her shoulder and held her until her crying subsided. “I’m sorry, Mama. I just thought you should know the truth.”

Hearing the rhythmic sound of his father’s deep breathing punctuated by powerful snores, Sergei crept out of bed into the kitchen. He stopped when the floor creaked. Convinced that nobody in his house was awake, he walked gingerly to the shelf near the window. He picked up the birch-bark-and-iron coffer that sat there. The moon provided just enough light to see. Sergei lifted the lid and peered inside.

The coffer was filled with rubles and kopecks. He shoved half of the money into the leather pouch he wore around his waist, then put the coffer back in its place and quietly returned to bed.

Rachel ran into the room where Nucia and her mother sat with three other women at a long table sewing.

“It’s here! A letter. An answer from Zeyde and Bubbe! Mother, Nucia!” Rachel held the letter up excitedly.

Nucia stopped working and stared at Rachel. Her mother looked up at her with a puzzled expression. The other three women glanced at Rachel and went back to their needles and thread.

“See!” Rachel said, waving the small white envelope in the air. “Rena just handed it to me.”

“You wrote to them?” asked her mother. “When did you write this letter?”

“A few weeks ago.” Rachel’s fingers fumbled as she ripped apart the envelope. “I didn’t tell you—in case they didn’t write back.”

“I can’t believe they actually responded,” said Nucia. She set her sewing down and looked eagerly at Rachel. “Aren’t you going to read it?”

Her fingers shook as she pulled the note out of the envelope and lifted her eyes to her mother and Nucia.

“What is it?” asked her mother.

“There… there are tickets in here!”

Nucia furrowed her brow. “Tickets? What kind of tickets?”

Rachel swallowed and took them out. “Train tickets. To Vladivostock. From Kishinev.”

“Why would we go there?” asked her mother. “They live in Gomel.”

“I don’t know,” said Rachel, her eyes scanning the letter for details. She began to read it out loud, her lips curling up into a broad smile as she reached the end of the letter.

Rachel,

We were overcome with grief when we read your letter. Gofsha was our only son and our hearts are in pain from our sadness and regret. Our stubbornness has cost us dearly. Bubbe has taken the news especially hard. She has been quite ill, but her condition has improved slightly and for that we are grateful.

Though we long to see you and to know you, we must put your safety ahead of our wishes. There is talk of a riot here, so you must go to the eastern port of Vladivostok, the gateway to Shanghai and America. Take a steamer or a freighter to Shanghai, where they accept us without papers, without hatred. From there, you can travel to a new life in America. Enclosed, please find three tickets to Vladivostok. I wish I could send you enough money for your passage to America, but this is all I have. Please let us know when you have arrived in your new home,

Rachel’s mother let out a big sigh. “This is too much…train tickets are expensive. They need the money for Bubbe.”

“They wouldn’t have purchased the tickets for us if they couldn’t afford it,” said Rachel, her eyes moving from her mother to Nucia.

“America,” said Nucia, her eyes shining.

“It is so far from here, from everything we know,” said Rachel’s mother, her voice breaking as she spoke.

“What would Father do?” Rachel gazed at her mother for a response.

The other three women stopped sewing and stared at Rachel’s mother—all of them now quiet and pensive.

Rachel’s mother turned and gazed out the small window facing the courtyard. It was open to let in the fresh spring air, and the dull murmur of voices drifted up.

“He would want us to be safe,” Rachel’s mother said finally, her eyes still on the window. “He would want us to do as Zeyde says.” She turned back to Rachel and Nucia and spoke in a strained voice that lacked the strength and vigor it had once possessed. “I know he would want us to go to America.”

“You are so lucky, Ita,” said one of their sewing companions. “And you must think of your girls.”

“Yes,” added another. “You must go. These tickets are a blessing.”

“Yes… but we still need to earn money for the ship’s passage,” said Rachel’s mother brusquely, signaling the end of the conversation. She took the tickets from Rachel and placed them in the cloth pouch that she wore around her neck. “Let us continue our work, Nucia. And Rachel,” she waved at a neat pile of fabric on one end of the table, “there is plenty for you to do, yes?”

Rachel sat down beside her mother and resumed sewing the chemise she’d been working on for hours. Excited by the news, she worked as quickly as she could, determined to make the money they needed as soon as possible. But her carelessness caused mistakes, one so large that she had to rip out an entire seam.

“Ech!” she groaned as she pulled at the threads in the coarse fabric.

“Patience, Rachel,” warned her mother. “Or you will have nothing to show for your efforts today.”

“I know. I just wish I could sew as well as you and Nucia.”