Shelly Sanders: Rachel's Secret

By the time Rachel saw the branch on the ice it was too late. Her skate blades had caught in the bough, throwing her off balance. She waved her arms to stay upright, but gravity pulled her over. She landed facedown on the frozen River Byk, her long black skirt flying up to her knees, revealing skinny legs in dark woolen tights.

Rachel’s face flushed beet-red with embarrassment over her fall and the public display of her legs. She hastily pushed herself up and brushed the ice off her mittens and shawl.

“What happened?” Mikhail, asked as his lanky frame approached her. “One minute you were talking to me and the next minute you were down.”

“Ech… a branch got in my way,” she replied with a grimace. “I should have been paying more attention.” She looked ahead, squinting to find her friends, but all she saw was a group of children with their parents. “Where are Chaia and Leah?”

“They’re up ahead, skating with Yoram and Meyer.”

Rachel shook her head and let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “Then I don’t want to skate with them. Chaia acts silly around Yoram, as if he’s the most important person in the world.” She continued skating with Mikhail by her side, looming over her like a shadow. “But he’s just the same old Yoram.”

“Do you think Chaia’s thinking about marriage?” Mikhail asked, running his hand though his short, white-blond hair.

“I should hope not. She… I mean we’re far too young to be so serious.” She looked away so Mikhail wouldn’t see the fear in her eyes. Over the last few weeks, Leah and Chaia had been spending far more time with Yoram and Meyer than with her.

Through the barren trees clutching the edge of the narrow river, she saw the lower section of Kishinev, with its cramped wooden shanties and skeletal birches asleep for the winter. Thin, swirling lines of smoke rose from the chimneys. Rachel inhaled the flat, burnt fumes.

“My mother married when she was sixteen,” said Mikhail, smiling mischievously and fixing his eyes on Rachel. “My grandmother was even younger.”

Rachel noticed that the skin surrounding Mikhail’s eyes creased when he smiled. “I’m not getting married until I’m a famous writer who has traveled everywhere, and I shall only marry if I find someone I love more than anyone else.” She lengthened her stride to keep up with Mikhail, a difficult task with the afternoon wind picking up and her rusty skate blades too long for her feet. Every time she moved forward, her felt boots almost came off the blades entirely.

Mikhail’s eyebrows arched. “Don’t you think that’s a little too much to expect? I’ve never heard of a woman writer… women can’t even travel without permission from their father or husband.”

“There is Elena Gan, Karolina Pavlova and Isabella Grinevskaya.” Rachel’s eyes flashed with defiance. “Women are just as capable as men at writing. It doesn’t require strength or size like you need for farming or factory work.”

“But how can you be a wife, and a mother, and a writer?”

Rachel pressed her lips together and thought about Cecily, the rich heroine in her favorite book, A Double Life , by Karolina Pavlova. Cecily, trapped in a meaningless marriage, is despondent about her future, even when she sleeps and dreams:

Even though Cecily has money, she is miserable because she has no purpose other than serving her husband. Rachel would rather be alone, writing and traveling, than be married to someone who didn’t encourage her to follow her dreams. “How can you be a husband, a father, and work in your grandfather’s business?”

Mikhail’s eyes clouded over. “It’s always been that way… men work and women raise the children and manage the house.”

“Not me,” said Rachel with shaky pride. “I don’t want to end up miserable like…” She searched her memory for a character that Mikhail would know. A Double Life was much more popular with girls than boys. “Like Anna Karenina.”

“I should hope not.” Mikhail stopped skating and gave Rachel an incredulous look. “Anna Karenina left her husband and chased after another man.”

Rachel’s green eyes narrowed. “She wasn’t happy with her husband, so why should she stay with him?”

“Because—”

“She married the wrong person and couldn’t be with the man she truly loved.”

“Yes, but—”

“Everyone treated her badly, even her friends, when all she wanted was to be happy.” Rachel put her hands on her hips and braced herself for another heated debate with Mikhail, their third in as many weeks.

But Mikhail’s face softened, and he looked at her with a tenderness that startled Rachel. Before she knew what was happening, he had wrapped his arms around her tiny waist. Shivers ran up and down her spine. She could smell the mint on his breath and tobacco smoke on his overcoat. Feeling constrained by his arms, she tried to pull away.

He tightened his grasp, bent his head down, and kissed her for the first time.

“Stop,” she cried, pushing him away. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why not?” he demanded. “Chaia and Leah have probably already kissed Yoram and Meyer.”

Rachel swallowed a lump that had suddenly lodged in her throat. “I’m not like Chaia and Leah. All they talk about is getting married and having houses of their own.” She paused. “Besides, they’re Jewish, Yoram and Meyer.”

Mikhail frowned. “It was only a kiss. I didn’t say anything about marriage.”

“I know,” snapped Rachel. “But if people saw us…” She turned around to see if anybody had been watching and winced when she saw Sergei, a friend of Mikhail’s, approaching them.

“Have you seen Petya or Nikolai?” Sergei asked. Although he was fourteen, like Mikhail, Sergei’s voice was deeper and dark hair was beginning to show above his lips.

“No, I didn’t know they were here today,” answered Mikhail.

Sergei turned and stared into the distance. “They must be way down the river. Too far to go now.”

Rachel wished Sergei would just leave. A couple of days ago, when she had walked out of a shop with some flour to make challah for Shabbos , Sergei had bumped into her and knocked her bag out of her hands. When she saw the flour all over the ground, Rachel had looked at Sergei for an offer to buy some more. Even an apology would have been welcome. Instead, he ran off without saying a word.

“I thought we were going to race to where the river narrows, Mikhail,” said Sergei.