Shelly Sanders - Rachel's Secret

Rachel stared at the table, her mind going back to the last time she had seen Mikhail, to their kiss. Any gentile would have been horrified to see one of their own kissing a Jew. Maybe these riots were being planned to punish all Jews for her terrible mistake.

Sergei watched his little sister on the swing as she flew high as a bird and then sailed backwards. Before long, Natalya would be too big for the swing, he realized. Having a young child in the house had taken away some of his father’s meanness, softened his hard edges. Turning from Natalya, Sergei looked all around Chuflinskii Square for his parents. He saw a long line for the colorful merry-go-round, and a group of children that had gathered to watch the jugglers and mimes. His parents had disappeared into the bustling crowd of people celebrating the last day of Butter Week. Tomorrow, Lent would begin and butter would not be allowed.

He put his hands in his pocket to touch Rachel’s shawl. As his fingers brushed over the wool, he decided that Rachel must have lost it on her way home from skating. He remembered how Mikhail had gazed at her, as if she were the only person on earth. There was no way Rachel was involved in Mikhail’s murder. He was as sure of this as he was of his own innocence, and was glad that his father or another police officer hadn’t found Rachel’s shawl.

Sergei pulled a corner of the shawl out of his pocket and bent his face forward to inhale…a faint scent of soap and tea and cinnamon. Exactly what he had noticed when he had bumped into her in front of the shop. He cringed, thinking about how he had run off without helping her clean up the flour or even apologizing. For some reason, he wilted in her presence, felt like an idiot, and stumbled over his words.

He stuffed the shawl back in his pocket and glanced around the square to make sure nobody was looking at him. Though Sergei knew he should give the shawl back to Rachel, he liked having it in his pocket so he could touch it whenever he wanted.

“I want some something to eat. I’m hungry. Sergei, are you listening?” asked Natalya. She had finally gotten off the swing. Her pale cheeks were flushed from the cold.

“Let’s go to a vendor.” Sergei grabbed Natalya’s small hand and together they pushed through the crowd until they found a booth selling blini . Sergei handed the vendor some kopecks and he and Natalya sat at a round outdoor table to eat.

Sergei put a forkful of the thin pancake in his mouth and savored the rich, buttery flavor. Last year, he and Mikhail had a contest to see who could eat the most. Mikhail won after stuffing thirty blini in his mouth. Sergei had stopped at twenty-six and had an awful bellyache for two days. Sergei’s insides clenched uncomfortably as he thought about Mikhail. He pushed his plate away.

“I wish we could have one less week of Lent,” said Natalya. “I’m going to miss butter and meat and eggs.”

“Me too,” said Sergei, hoping his sister didn’t notice his uneaten blini. “Seven weeks of Lent feels like a whole year.”

“Are you thinking about Mikhail?” asked Natalya. She’d finished her pancakes and was licking her fingers.

“Yes. I can’t understand why anyone would want to hurt him.”

“What’s a blood ritual?”

“Where did you hear about that?” he asked in a solemn voice.

“My friend Maria. She heard her parents talking about it when they thought she was asleep. They said Jews eat blood—it’s called a blood ritual. Is that true?”

“I don’t think so.” He bit his lip. “You shouldn’t be talking about that.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re only eight, too young to worry about bad things.”

“I’m not too young. Besides, everybody’s talking about Mikhail being killed by Jews for blood. My friends, my teachers, everyone.”

“Well, you and your friends should be talking about other things, like schoolwork or games.”

“That’s not as interesting as Mikhail. Why do you think they wanted his blood?”

“I told you, I’m not talking about Mikhail anymore.” Sergei turned away and watched people mingling in the square. A couple of young peasant men with shaggy sheepskin coats, long hair, and flowing beards were marching toward a well-dressed Jewish family, shouting, “No Yids allowed! Yids go home!”

Sergei gasped. These Jewish people had done nothing wrong. The three children began crying as they lagged behind the adults. The biggest child, a boy with long dark brown hair, put his arms around the two little girls, prodding them toward the shops on the opposite side of the square.

Sergei reached out and took Natalya’s hand. Her eyes were riveted on the children.

When the peasants blocked the Jews from moving forward, the father raised his head and looked one of the men squarely in the eyes. The peasant blew cigarette smoke in the Jewish man’s face. The woman kept her eyes on the ground as she adjusted her kerchief. Both peasants spat at the man’s face. He didn’t blink.

Sergei motioned vigorously to a shopkeeper leaning against his window. He saw the man shift his gaze toward the Jews for a second. Then he looked back at Sergei, shrugged his shoulders, and sauntered back into his store.

Disgusted by the shopkeeper’s apathy, Sergei stood and told Natalya to get off her chair.

Both of the peasants were now kicking the Jewish man and woman in the shins. The cries of their children punctured the air.

“Sergei, why are the men hurting those people?” asked Natalya, who looked stricken. “Did they do something wrong?”

“No,” said Sergei. “Those peasants are fools. Come. We must find Papa and bring him here to stop things before they get out of control.”

M ikhail skated quickly along the river. Smiling. All of a sudden, he was lying on the ice in a puddle of blood. And his eyes were open, water frozen to his lashes, like icicles dripping from the needles of an alder tree.

With a shudder, Rachel tried to put last night’s dream out of her mind and forced herself to concentrate on the morning service at shul—the Synagogue of the Glaziers. She gazed up at the coffered ceiling and studied the Jewish symbols, then looked down from the women’s gallery at the half-empty prayer hall and saw her father sitting tall, in spite of the threats that had kept so many other people from attending.

Rabbi Yitzchak’s resonant voice echoed off the walls of the sanctuary, filling hollow spaces with the morning blessings. The familiar words, chanted in Hebrew, were soothing, but Rachel couldn’t focus. Her mind drifted to the never-ending dilemma that plagued her night and day…if only she hadn’t kissed Mikhail… if only she hadn’t argued with him…if only she could’ve convinced him to go home when she left the river that day. Rachel felt a tap on her shoulder and spun around to see Nucia glaring at her for not paying attention. She nodded and turned toward Rabbi Yitzchak, but her mind stayed on Mikhail and her regrets.

After the service, Rachel traipsed home beside her father. Nucia and her mother were a few steps ahead of them. Her father was telling her what he thought of the service when an earsplitting scream sliced through the quiet morning. Rachel stopped in her tracks. She put her hands over her face and crouched down, as if to hide.

“Rachel, are you all right?” asked her father, bending down and wrapping his arms around her. “It was just some boys teasing a girl. Nobody is hurt. Look.”

Rachel’s eyes followed his hand, which was pointing straight ahead at a group of children laughing together.

Her father’s forehead wrinkled into folds of concern. “Why are you so afraid?”

“Father,” she said, “if you had a secret but knew it could cause trouble if you told, what would you do?”