“What a shame,” said Sergei’s mother, brushing her hand over Natalya’s hair. “The square seems odd without the carousel music.”
Sergei stared at the motionless carousel horses and felt as if a shadow was hanging over the square, as if life was about to change forever.
The sound of breaking glass, followed by a woman’s piercing scream, diverted Sergei’s attention from the merry-go-round. Turning toward the noise, he saw a group of men and boys throwing glasses at an elderly Jewish woman.
“Let’s have some fun with the Jews!” they shouted. They wore long, red, belted blouses, and their pants were tucked into tall boots. Sergei could tell by their staggering gait that they had been drinking.
The church bells pealed, announcing the noon hour.
“Go home, all of you.” Sergei’s father moved briskly toward the group of men.
“There’s no law against being outdoors,” said a bulky man in a slurred voice.
“That’s right.” A few other people voiced their displeasure at being ordered to leave, turned their backs on Sergei’s father, and kept drinking.
“Keep it down,” ordered Sergei’s father in his authoritative police chief voice. “We’re going to have extra police working this weekend, so watch yourselves or you’ll end up in jail.” He stood behind the men for a moment, as if he was expecting a response, and then walked back to his family. “Those men are big with noise but short of brains,” he said. “They’ll be passed out before they can do any real harm. Come—” He held out his right arm to Sergei’s mother, who grasped it with both hands. “Let’s enjoy this fine day.”
Sergei watched his sister take hold of his father’s other arm. The three of them paraded down the square as if nothing was the matter. Sergei scowled and sat down on a bench. He exhaled when he saw the Jewish woman run safely out of the square, but grew anxious when the men resumed their boisterous drinking. He could feel the tension in the air, sense the doom that was coming, and was disgusted by his own uselessness. Without anyone fighting the tide of hatred, he could not even begin to hope for a good outcome. Perhaps Nikolai was right, he fretted, about something bad happening this weekend.
“Beat the Yids!”
Sergei’s jaw dropped when he saw at least twenty-five people, mostly men, surrounding another Jewish woman.
“Stop!” she cried. “Somebody help me!”
Sergei stood up and looked across the square at his father as the crowd chased the woman, screaming “Beat the Yids!” over and over. He ran toward his family and saw his sister and mother hanging onto his father.
“I need to get some more officers down here,” said his father, plucking Natalya and his wife’s hands off his torso. “Take the children home, Tonia. I’m going back to the station.”
“Papa! Papa, you have to stop those people now,” cried Sergei, “before someone gets hurt.”
“I’m not risking my life to stop those idiots. Go home with your mother.”
Sergei winced when he saw a Jewish man being taunted mercilessly, while a group of young men chased a Jewish boy.
“Papa, you have to do something!”
“I’m not going to tell you again. Leave the police work to me and stop worrying about the Jews.” Sergei’s father walked away without looking back.
“Please come, Sergei,” pleaded Natalya.
Sergei gazed at his sister’s frightened face. “You go with Mama,” he told her. “I’ll come soon.”
He headed out of the square, his ears burning with the sound of his sister’s cries mixed with raging voices yelling obscenities at the Jews. He put his hands over his ears, but the sound grew with every minute. He lowered his hands and quickened his pace.
Large crosses were chalked on many store windows, and in others icons hung in plain view. Sergei realized these shop owners wanted to make it clear that they were not Jewish, as if they had sensed approaching danger. Up ahead, he saw boys and men throwing rocks at shops without crosses or icons.
Sergei looked frantically for police officers but couldn’t find even one. As he got closer to lower Kishinev, he saw boys whistling, shouting, and throwing rocks as they marched. Behind them, men carried crowbars, smashing Jewish shops and homes along the street. Women and men stood at the side of the road cheering the rioters on. Some were stealing items from Jewish stores that had been vandalized. Others dressed themselves in layers of clothes they took from the demolished stores.
The noise pounded inside Sergei’s head. He wanted everything to disappear, but it just got louder and louder.
Hearing a carriage coming from behind him, Sergei turned, hoping to see the police. But it was Bishop Iakov’s carriage. Sergei assumed the bishop would put an end to the violence, but the regal man, dressed in his gold-trimmed vestments, simply waved to the bystanders and continued on his way. People cheered as he moved past them. Sergei stood in shock for a moment, unable to move. If the bishop didn’t put a stop to this, he wondered, what hope did the Jews have?
The crowd was moving toward lower Kishinev. Rachel could be in danger. Sergei started running in the direction of her house and didn’t stop until he was in Rachel’s courtyard.
“A gezunt dir in pupik!”
“What?” Sergei looked at the man who had spoken. He was wearing a tattered robe and had so many wrinkles on his face his skin looked as though it might crack open.
“He’s saying good health to your belly button.” Sergei turned around and saw Rachel standing in front of her doorway. Her face was pale and strained. “He says the same thing to everyone. He’s been strange ever since he lost his job.” She closed the door behind her and stepped toward him.
“Rachel, you have to stay inside. There’s a riot going on in town. Peasants are bashing Jewish stores and homes with crowbars and rocks.”
“Oh no!” she covered her mouth with her hand. “Haven’t you told your father yet, about Mikhail’s uncle?”
Sergei gulped and averted his eyes. “Yes. I did, but he wouldn’t listen. He wants only to believe that a Jew is guilty.”
Rachel’s face fell. “I should have said something earlier. I should have gone to the police myself.”
“Then you might have been hurt—or your family. It’s clear to me now that the simple truth is no match for the lies printed in the newspaper.”
“What are we going to do if the rioters come here? We have nowhere else to go.”
Sergei chewed his bottom lip and thought about what to say to make Rachel feel better. “I know there are extra policemen on duty this weekend. Hopefully they’ll have everything under control soon. Just stay inside and tell your father.” Sergei’s face turned red. He had to look down at his boots in order to get the rest of his words out. “I… I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
She nodded, backed into her doorway, and disappeared.
Sergei stared at her house. “Stay safe, Rachel,” he whispered, before running home.
“…get hurt… stay with us…”
“Don’t worry… many are coming…”
Rachel woke to her parents’ agitated voices. She got off her bench and pulled aside the muslin curtain. Except for a lit oil lamp on the table, the house was swathed in darkness. Sunday night had not yet given way to Monday morning.
Her father was tying the sash on his overcoat, while her mother stood nearby, clutching a square of white muslin.
“Father, where are you going?” The sight of him getting ready to leave so early alarmed Rachel.
His hands shook as he put his black yarmulka on his head. “A group of us are going to the New Marketplace.”
Rachel ran over to her father and wrapped her arms around him. “But Sergei said they had crowbars and were throwing rocks at Jews there yesterday. You could get hurt.” She sobbed into his coat. “Don’t go, Father. Please don’t go!”