“Mikhail’s uncle and cousin killed him.”
“You have no proof of this,” said Sergei’s father. He threw Sergei a dismissive look.
“Let us hear what the boy has to say,” said Governor von Raben. “How did you get this information in the first place, Sergei?”
“I have a friend who saw the whole thing.”
“Why didn’t this friend come forward himself?” said Mayor Schmidt.
“Because my friend is Jewish, and a girl,” he answered, aware that his father would be shocked by the fact that the witness was not only Jewish, but female as well.
“Well of course she didn’t come forward,” said the man in the military uniform. “She was trying to throw people off the Jewish scent.”
“That’s not true,” said Sergei. “She’s terrified that Mikhail’s uncle will come after her if she says anything. I’ve promised not to reveal her name.”
“Mikhail’s uncle, Vasily Rybachenko, is a former police officer,” Sergei’s father continued, cutting off Sergei.
“That’s not possible,” interrupted Mayor Schmidt. “A police officer would never stab a boy to death.”
“Aleksandr, what do you know about this officer Rybachenko?” asked von Raben.
Sergei’s father rubbed his whiskers before answering. “He was dismissed for threatening a fellow officer.”
“When?” demanded Mayor Schmidt. Sergei’s father shuffled some papers around on his desk, pulled one from the pile, and squinted at it. “The seventh of February.”
“Two days before Mikhail was killed,” said Sergei slowly. “His uncle probably wanted to inherit the family’s tobacco plant; Mikhail was supposed to take over for his grandfather one day.”
The room grew silent. All eyes were on Sergei’s father.
“I remember Mikhail telling me that his uncle had a gambling problem,” Sergei continued. “So Mikhail’s grandfather was going to leave everything to Mikhail.”
“Surely the old man would leave Vasily something.” Governor von Raben twirled his mustache with his thumb and forefinger.
Sergei shook his head. “Mikhail’s grandfather had cut Vasily off years ago, and with Mikhail’s parents gone, everything was going to go to Mikhail.”
“What about the cousin?” asked Mayor Schmidt.
“Philip,” said Sergei. “My friend heard Mikhail begging Philip to help him that day.”
“How long have you had this information about Vasily and his son, Aleksandr?” asked Mayor Schmidt.
Sergei’s father closed his eyes for a moment before answering. “A couple of weeks.”
“We could have arrested Vasily and Philip, announced that the police had solved this murder, and put an end to the idea of a pogrom,” said Governor von Raben. Sergei’s father hung his head. “I know. I put my prejudices ahead of justice, ahead of my own son. I will carry that shame for the rest of my years.”
Sergei saw remorse in his father’s eyes, but then he recalled Mikhail’s blood on the river, Menahem’s small, tear-stained face, and the lifeless faces of the dead being carted off like animals, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to forgive the defeated man who stood before him.
Rachel watched Chaia being loaded onto a horse-drawn wagon. Chaia’s long blonde hair, streaked with dirt and blood, draped over the sides of the board that held her motionless body. The rest of the Berlatskys climbed onto the wagon and with a jolt were off to the hospital, along with hundreds of others with no place else to go.
Rachel clutched Snegurochka’s wooden head as she followed the wagon with her mother and sister. The clip-clop of the horse’s hooves was a comforting, familiar sound, the only normal part of the day. As they walked, they were joined by more people, all carrying their treasured belongings, their faces pale and despondent. Rachel reached into her blue muslin pouch, touched the six chess pieces, and then the pages from her journal. They were all she’d been able to salvage from her home, all she had to remind her of her father and her life before the riots.
When she saw the crowd gathered at the Jewish Hospital, Rachel fought back tears. Being forced to take refuge in this large, imposing building made everything more real and painful. Lining up to get a place to sleep was almost too much to bear, and yet, there was no other choice.
A tall, plain woman greeted them at the gate to the hospital’s courtyard. “I’m the matron,” she explained to Rachel’s mother. “Can I have your name and the number of people in your family?”
Rachel waited for her mother or Nucia to speak, but they stared at the woman blankly, as if they hadn’t understood the question.
“Rachel Paskar and we have four… I mean…” She gulped and paused. “Three people in our family: my mother, Ita, my sister, Nucia, and me.”
The woman carefully recorded their names in a notebook with a feather pen. “I must tell you that space is limited here now, and getting scarcer by the minute. To tell you the truth, we have at least four hundred people spread throughout the building, and just one hundred and ten beds, so I’m afraid there’s not much privacy. But you’ll be glad to hear we are separating men and women—men on the first floor, women and children on the second.”
Rachel nodded.
“I’m also not sure how long you can stay; we don’t really know what lies ahead, do we?”
Rachel shook her head.
“Now, are any of you injured in any way?” Her voice was smooth and efficient, as if she had repeated the same words over and over.
“No,” said Rachel. She watched the woman’s eyes scour her body for blood, bumps, and bruises.
“Fine.” The woman made a note on her paper.
“The Berlatskys…they arrived just before us,” said Rachel. “Could we be in a room with them?”
“Well, let me see.” The woman looked over her notes and frowned. “Yes, one girl was badly injured. She’s in a treatment room. You can stay with the rest of the family in the ward.” She gestured to the area behind her. “Walk through the courtyard and once inside, take the stairs on your right to the second floor. Follow the corridor until it ends and turn left. It’s room 28, on your left.”
“Thank you,” mumbled Rachel.
“My name is Rena, if you have any questions or problems.”
Rachel turned back to thank Rena again, but she was already talking to another group of new arrivals.
The courtyard was a stark square surrounded by dirty white cement walls. It looked shabby and old. As her eyes moved around the dingy area, Rachel saw something in the far corner. Squinting to see better, she cried out “Ei!” when she saw dead bodies stacked neatly against the wall like birch logs. Is this where they would bring her father? To be callously piled as if he was worth no more than firewood?
“Are you all right, Rachel?” asked Nucia.
Feeling as if she might vomit, Rachel waited a minute before she was able to respond. “Don’t look around,” she said in a dry voice. “Keep your eyes straight ahead.”
Inside, the air was stale and smelled like sweat, soap, and urine. Men sat in the dimly lit corridor, their backs against the wall, with the same vacant expression Rachel saw on her mother. She wondered if her own face looked that empty.
As they walked past room after room, she gasped. So many men were crammed into the small spaces, lying on cots and the bare floor, talking and groaning.
“Look, there’s Mr. Gervitz!” Nucia exclaimed, pointing to an elderly man asleep in the hall.
“It’s not fair,” Rachel whispered. Why had he survived instead of her father? Her tears were unstoppable as she trudged through the building.
Rachel climbed the stairs slowly, her legs heavy, as if they were bags of potatoes. She took a deep breath and then entered the stuffy room. There were ten narrow metal cots with their heads to the wall, five on each side of the room. The space between the beds was no more than the length of her father’s violin, and the passageway down the middle was only wide enough for two people side by side. One old woman rocked back and forth with her eyes closed as she sat on a cot. She didn’t appear to be hurt, but her clothing was splattered with blood.