Shelly Sanders - Rachel's Secret

“What are their names?”

“There is Isabella Bird, from England, who writes about places such as Morocco, Japan, Canada, and America. And Emily Brontë, also from England, who wrote the novel Wuthering Heights years ago.”

Rachel’s heart raced as she listened to Korolenko. His words were proof that becoming a writer was not a fantasy, but a very real possibility. Rachel thanked him and turned to go back to the hospital, eager to tell her mother about these women and meeting Korolenko. Still surprised by what he had told her, she looked back to catch one last glimpse of him, but he was gone.

Sergei traipsed through the empty courtyard and into the hospital. The silence was unnerving

“I’m looking for Rachel Paskar,” he said to a woman who was sitting alone in the barren waiting room.

“They’ve all gone,” she said.

“Where?”

“To the train station. We received word that Moldavians are gathered a short distance from here…preparing to beat the Jews.” She wiped her eyes with a cloth. “Soldiers are trying to stop them, but after what has already occurred, everyone fled right away. The government has issued hundreds of exit visas so that Jews may escape safely. The only people still here are too ill to travel.”

Sergei ran to the door. He raced as fast as he could, past now-familiar landmarks in lower Kishinev…broken-down shops and houses and piles of rubbish at the side of the road, remnants of the Easter riots.

“Menahem,” Sergei gasped when he arrived at the orphanage. He was out of breath from running the whole way. “I need to see Menahem now.”

“I’m sorry but you can’t,” said an unfamiliar woman who was blocking the hallway. “It’s our Shabbos, you know. None of the children can leave here until this evening after sunset.”

“But there won’t be an evening for anyone here!” shouted Sergei. “Rioters are on their way right now. You have to take the children somewhere safe—somewhere they won’t be a target. I’ll take Menahem. I’ll make sure nothing happens to him.” Sergei’s eyes darted behind her, searching for Menahem in the corridor’s shadows.

“Why should I trust you?” asked the woman, frowning. “It was your people who started these riots in the first place.”

“He is trustworthy,” said another voice from the shadows.

Sergei squinted and recognized the woman he had often seen when he came to get Menahem.

“He cares for Menahem,” the woman continued, moving toward them. “Menahem will be safe with Sergei.”

The other woman cast a sideways glance at Sergei and grunted. “Very well. I’ll get the boy.” She disappeared down the corridor.

“Sergei!” cried Menahem a moment later. He appeared in the corridor with an excited smile. “Is it true? Are you really taking me away from here?”

“Yes. Now come.” Using his hand, he beckoned for Menahem. “We don’t have time to talk. I’ll explain later.” He smiled gratefully at the woman who had vouched for him, grabbed Menahem’s wrist, and darted out of the orphanage.

“Where are we going?” asked Menahem.

“On the train. Far from here,” puffed Sergei. “Where you’ll be safe.”

As she turned back to get one last look at the hospital, a wave of sadness washed over Rachel. She held her journal to her chest, feeling terrible about not being able to say good-bye to Sergei, about not being able to tell him what he meant to her, and how she wished things were different. Though the hospital had been her home for only a couple of months, it seemed like a lifetime. The ties that had bound her to Kishinev for so long had finally been cut. But this hospital had saved them when they had no place else to go, and in its own strange way, it had become her home.

“I wish the Berlatskys were coming with us,” she said to her mother and sister as they hurried out of the courtyard. “I’m worried about them.”

“You know they can’t travel until Chaia is better,” said her mother. “There is no other choice.” She pushed Rachel forward. “Make haste, Rachel, Nucia…we must get to the station.”

As soon as she was on the street, Rachel was immediately swept up and carried along with the crowd scurrying to the train station. The air echoed with children crying and women and men shouting out for them to hurry.

“How are all of us going to fit on the train?” she called out to Nucia. “There must be hundreds of people heading to the station.”

“I don’t know,” said her sister.

Up ahead, Rachel saw the station, a white building with a tall clock tower. As the crowd moved faster, she worried that she would trip and fall and be trampled. She could hear many people weeping and shouting as she and the others were pulled and pushed along.

“Help me!” a woman’s voice called out.

“Don’t let the train leave without me and my children,” cried another.

It was as if a dam had burst. Words rushed through the air, crashing into one another so that they became mixed up and indecipherable. Rachel’s head ached as the noise grew. She felt like she was hiding in the outhouse again, that the riots were repeating themselves all around her. That there was no escape.

“Rachel! Rachel!”

She stopped immediately when she heard Sergei’s voice. Rachel peered through the agitated crowd, but couldn’t see him. She shook her head and continued moving forward, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of Sergei.

“Over here, Rachel!”

She turned back in the direction of Sergei’s voice, toward the entrance of the station. The arched doorway, framed him with Menahem atop his shoulders. A few stragglers ran past him to catch the train, bumping against Sergei as they rushed by.

“Sergei!” She tried to push against the crowd to get to him, but it was like running uphill on ice.

Nucia screeched at her, “What are you doing? Turn around before you get hurt.”

Rachel felt her sister’s hand dig into her shoulder, trying to pull her along. “I have to see Sergei… he’s here, with Menahem!”

Her mother’s voice rose above the crowd. “There’s no time! Don’t you see? We have to get on the train. It’s the last one out tonight, Rachel.”

She broke away from her sister’s grasp, stuck her elbows out wide, and forced her way through the desperate throng of people, ignoring their dirty looks.

“Sergei… what are you doing here?” she asked when they were close enough to hear one another.

He was breathing hard and moved directly in front of her before responding. “I heard about the riots… I took Menahem….” He set the boy down gently.

Rachel grabbed Sergei’s hand and held it tightly. “You’ve probably saved his life.”

As they gazed at each other, the surrounding noise and chaos seemed to fade away. “Come with us,” said Rachel. “You said you wanted to travel, to get away from Kishinev. Come with us to America.”

Sergei’s eyes moved around the station, taking in the madness as people fought their way to the train. “I can’t leave my mother and sister, not now, with my father….” He bent down so that his face was at the same level as Menahem’s. The boy looked at him with frightened eyes and quivering lips. “You must go with Rachel,” said Sergei. “You will be safe with her family.”

“No, Sergei, no,” cried Menahem. “I want to stay with you.” He threw his small arms around Sergei’s neck and sobbed on his shoulder.

Rachel, holding back tears, watched Sergei comfort Menahem. This shouldn’t be happening , she thought. Menahem shouldn’t have to leave Sergei just to be safe. We shouldn’t be forced to move from our home, from our country.

Sergei pried Menahem away from him, and set him on the ground. “I wish you could stay with me, but you need to be with a family that can take care of you.” He wiped the tears from Menahem’s cheek. “And it isn’t safe in Russia for Jews anymore.”