“Because there’s nothing to break or steal, so hopefully they won’t even think of coming in. I’m going to see that everyone else is well hidden. Stay here and keep quiet.” He opened the door slowly and ran out. Mrs. Grienschpoun and her children began crying softly as they huddled in the corner.
Rachel’s mother and sister sat down on the board set in place by Mr. Grienschpoun. Rachel cleared a corner by kicking the snow away, sat down, closed her eyes, and prayed for her father to come through the door soon.
“Have mercy and pity on us,” she whispered. “Please, protect us all.”
For a few minutes, silence was their only companion. Then the terrifying clamor of people marching and screaming began, growing louder and louder until it sounded as if they were right outside the outhouse. Rachel sat frozen in place, terrified at the thought of the outhouse door being ripped open by the rioters.
“Give us thirty rubles or we will kill you,” yelled a crowd outside in unison, like students reciting a lesson.
Rachel heard Mr. Serebrenik, the shopkeeper, stammer, “H…here…here, take it.” There was silence and then the smash of glass breaking. As the crowd drew nearer, Rachel heard something hitting the stone walls hard and felt her chin quiver in fear.
Masculine voices yelled, “Beat the Yids!”
Cheers rose from the crowd.
Rachel hugged her knees to her chest and tried to bury her head, to drown out the noise.Crash! Glass shattered. Bang! Thump! Heavy objects fell to the ground. Hearing the sounds of havoc, of destruction, all around her, without being able to see anything terrified Rachel. She held her breath as heavy footsteps ran toward the outhouse, and exhaled when the footsteps moved past their hiding place. “Where’s Father?” she mumbled softly.
Seconds later, a powerful bang, like thunder, sounded above them.
“I think someone’s on the roof of the outhouse,” whispered Rachel to her mother and Nucia.
On the bench, Mrs. Grienschpoun looked up and clung to her two boys tightly.
Rachel listened in horror as two more loud bangs shook the old roof. It wobbled precariously with each collision.
“Ech! The entire roof is going to fall on top of us,” Rachel whispered.
Voices rose from the courtyard, cheering the rioters on. Suddenly, there was a massive crash and then a thump.
“Ohh…” A groan from the man on the roof brought laughter from the crowd outside. “Help!”
“That sounded like Mr. Grienschpoun,” Nucia said.
“I know.” Rachel looked over and saw Mrs. Grienschpoun with her head down and her body trembling as she sobbed noiselessly.
Rachel stood up and crammed herself in beside her mother and Nucia. They clutched each other and listened helplessly to the frightening noises. Shrieks of pain and terror came from above. Rachel closed her eyes and held her hands over her ears to block out the sounds of agony, but it was impossible.
“They’re throwing something at him,” said Rachel’s mother. She looked smaller, a fraction of herself, receding into the outhouse.
“I hope Father’s all right,” whispered Rachel as she pulled her mother and Nucia closer, trying not to cry out loud.
“Stop!”
Rachel’s head shot up when she heard Sergei’s voice.
She couldn’t believe he was in her courtyard, urging people to stop the violence. Hope warmed her heart as she heard him say, “Enough already… too far…” She couldn’t make out all his words because of the noise from the crowd. It was maddening, knowing he was so close to her and yet she could not show herself.
Sergei saw a mass of people shouting in the street outside Rachel’s courtyard. They were beating a man lying in a mud puddle with wooden clubs. When his attackers stepped back, the man asked for water in a feeble voice. Sergei could tell that his legs and arms had been broken in many places from the peculiar way they dangled from his body. A couple of Jewish men lugged him from the puddle, gave him water, and started to wipe the dirt and blood off his face.
“The Yid’s still alive!” yelled one of the rioters.
The Jews that were helping the man quickly disappeared into the crowd.
Another rioter veered around and struck the groaning man on the head with a crowbar, knocking him over so he lay face down in the mud. His bony legs shook for a moment and then were still.
As Sergei gaped at the victim, he noticed four police officers huddled together. He elbowed his way frantically through the crowd to reach them.
“Stop them!” Sergei demanded, pointing back at the attackers.
One of the officers shrugged. “Don’t have any orders to stop it.”
“What are you talking about? Why do you need orders? They’re breaking the law, aren’t they? Look… they’ve killed that man over there.” Sergei pointed to the man who now lay dead in the mud.
“He’s right,” said another officer. “If the governor were here, he’d stop them.”
“But he’s not here,” snarled a third. “There’s nothing we can do until the governor gives us orders. Why don’t you just leave and go home, before you get hurt.”
“No! How can you just stand there and do nothing? You have to do something. Please!” cried Sergei.
“Look, just go home. By tomorrow this should all be over.” Three of the officers sauntered off as casually as if they were walking to a tavern.
The one who remained gave Sergei another shrug, this time looking only mildly apologetic as he sat down on the wooden curb.
Undeterred, Sergei fought his way into Rachel’s courtyard—past a handful of raging men hurling sticks and rocks toward the house; past men in ragged clothing waving knives and crowbars, as if in battle; past women and boys hurling insults that scorched the air. Sergei pushed his way toward Rachel’s house and was quickly swept up by the throng of people. He found himself staring at the remains of her home—an empty shell with battered windows and doors.
“Stop!” he cried out as he watched men and women discarding the contents of Rachel’s life, throwing dishes, mattresses, clothing, and their samovar from the door and windows.
“Stop!” a chorus of voices echoed Sergei.
He listened in disbelief as words of protest rippled through the crowd.
“Enough already!”
“It’s gone too far!”
“You’re behaving like savage animals!”
He spun around and was amazed to see both Christians and Jews, united in fear, pleading with the rioters to stop. Relief surged through him, sustaining his faith that good could triumph over evil. He cried out with renewed energy and determination for the crowd to help end this unprovoked attack. But tolerance succumbed to rage. Sergei and the other protestors were sorely outnumbered. They could not stop the tortuous killing of a man with bright red hair on top of a rickety outhouse.
The voice on the roof grew weak. Rachel could tell that the man was unable to keep fighting for himself. There was a big thump, the crowd cheered, and Rachel stared at Nucia in horror. The man had fallen off the roof.
Rachel listened for Sergei’s voice, but only wailing, shattering glass, heavy footsteps, and loud bangs filled the tiny outhouse, making it seem smaller and smaller until the walls closed in on them. Her body was cramped from being in one position for so long. She shook her tingling foot. The rioting went on and on as Rachel listened, tense with fear. At any moment, the unlocked door might open. She sniffed the air. Smoke was beginning to seep into the outhouse.
Feeling like she would suffocate, Rachel hugged herself tightly and recited the Eighteen Benedictions in her head, over and over, trying to soothe her fear with familiar Hebrew words.