“Where are you going, Sergei?” hissed his father. “Get back here now.”
“I’m not feeling well,” Sergei mouthed back. “I need air.”
He ignored countless angry glares and headed for the doorway. When he was finally outside, he breathed a sigh of relief and started walking in the direction of lower Kishinev. Without their cloak of snow, the buildings were even more decrepit than he recalled. One market’s walls were cracked and the olive-green paint was peeling. The sagging roof of a bakery looked like it would collapse at any moment.
As soon as he walked into Rachel’s courtyard, he felt like an outcast. There were a number of rickety buildings around the perimeter of the courtyard: the largest was a house with a low, tiled roof and windows that couldn’t be more than twelve inches wide; the smallest included two outhouses and two sheds. At the far corner was a shop with an outdoor counter made of wooden boxes. A man with a long white beard and a tall black hat leaned against it. He peered at Sergei.
A group of women near a cart of wet clothes stopped talking when he entered and stared at him. Sergei paused and seriously considered turning around. Then he thought about Rachel, and approached the women with a boldness he didn’t know he possessed.
“Can you tell me where I might find Rachel?” he asked, his eyes grazing the women’s scarf-framed faces. They all wore long, dark skirts in varying shades of black and brown, and threadbare shawls.
“Do you know her?” asked a heavy-set woman.
“Yes.”
Silence. Another woman, her red hair arranged in a tidy braid down her back, came forward and stood directly in front of Sergei. She was short—her head came only to Sergei’s chest. But the strength in her green eyes belied her stature.
“I’m Rachel’s mother,” she said with an undertone of impatience. “What do you want with her?”
“I’m a friend. My name is Sergei.”
“You stopped those girls from beating her?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
She turned and entered a house that had eight front doors and four chimney flues. The walls were blistered and rotting, a dark contrast to the beautiful violin music escaping from the window, the passionate strains of Tchaikovsky.
“Has she gone to get Rachel?” Sergei asked the remaining women who were gaping at him. Nobody replied. The violin music stopped and the door opened. Rachel emerged with her mother. She walked over to him with a nervous expression that made him question if he should have come. Her mother stood closely beside her.
“What are you doing here?” Rachel asked him. She wore the same clothes he had seen her in when she was attacked by those girls.
“I… I just really wanted to see you, to talk to you again.” He looked up at the women, now eyeing him with suspicion, and lowered his voice. “Can you go for a walk with me?”
She pulled a black shawl tighter around her shoulders and turned her head toward her mother, who nodded. “Yes, I can go for a short time. But only in lower Kishinev.”
He followed her onto the street and breathed a sigh of relief at being out of that repressive courtyard. “Was that you playing the violin?”
She laughed. “That was my father. He’s tried to teach me but I’m hopeless. My fingers cannot move like his.”
“He plays very well.”
“I know. He can’t read music, but he can play whatever he hears. It’s remarkable.”
Sergei shook his head. “I can read music but I can’t play a note. Strange.”
She nodded.
“How’ve you been?” he asked as they strolled along the almost-deserted street. Some Jewish men with long whiskers had gathered on the corner, talking to each other in a language he did not understand, their voices converging into one as Rachel and Sergei walked by.
Rachel furrowed her brow and looked straight ahead. “Better, I suppose,” she said. “And you?”
Sergei bit his lip. “Not very good.”
She tilted her head to look at him. “Why?”
His eyes roamed around, taking in the unfamiliar Jewish quarter. A cabinet shop. A shoemaker’s shop. A school with cracks in the walls. The few people they passed walked with heads down to avoid conversation or eye contact.
“Since I saw what happened to you, I’ve noticed how badly you’re all treated. Even my friends are going after Jews, as if it’s a game.” The words poured quickly from his mouth once he began speaking. “Everyone I know is sure that a Jew killed Mikhail, but there’s no proof—just rumors that are getting out of control. I’m afraid my father will never find the real killer because of the lies that are getting in the way of his investigation.”
He glanced at Rachel and stopped. Her face was twisted into a portrait of agony. Sergei took her arm and guided her to a more private spot behind a large fir tree.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Rachel sniffed and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “It’s not you,” she said quietly. She looked up at Sergei and took a deep breath. “I know who killed Mikhail. I saw everything.”
Her words echoed through his ears. “What?”
“I went back for my shawl and saw Mikhail with two big men. He called one ‘uncle.’” She paused and looked right into Sergei’s eyes. “This uncle, he was a policeman. I recognized his uniform.”
The color drained from Sergei’s face. The idea of a policeman killing Mikhail was almost too much to bear.
Rachel cleared her throat. “While Mikhail was lying on the ice, the uncle pulled out a knife and stabbed him. The other man, I think I heard Mikhail call him Philip, he kicked Mikhail as he lay there in his own blood.”
Sergei clutched his head and paced back and forth trying to make sense of Rachel’s words. “Are you sure?” he asked her. “That’s exactly what you saw?”
She nodded, tears streaming down her face. “I was afraid to tell anybody because it was a policeman. I was afraid the police would come after me and my family if I told. What choice did I have if I wanted my family to be safe?”
“But you’re telling me now…”
“I want you to know the truth, that we are not to blame.” She paused and wiped her eyes. “You were Mikhail’s closest friend. You deserve to know the truth.”
He lifted her chin with his hand so that her eyes met his. “I always knew the rumors were false.” His hand dropped to her shoulder.
They stood, face-to-face, for a long time, saying nothing. Sergei felt closer to Rachel at this moment than he had ever felt to anyone else. He knew that he had to do something to put an end to the false stories, and to gain Rachel’s trust.
“I will tell my father,” he said.
“But—”
“I won’t tell him who saw the murder; I promise I’ll find a way to tell him about the uncle without putting your family in danger.”
Rachel looked up at him with such relief and gratitude, his heart felt like it was going to explode. He drew her closer and wrapped her in his arms. She fit snugly into his embrace.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said a moment later, pulling away from him.
He let go of her and smiled. “I want this whole thing to end as much as you do.”
Rachel grimaced. “I want that also, but I’m afraid that even when the truth comes out, Jews and gentiles will never be able to live comfortably beside one another again.” She rubbed her hands together. “The words written about us, they cannot be taken back. People will always remember those lies.”
Sergei frowned. “I hope you’re wrong.”
“I should get back home now,” she said, turning and heading toward the street.