A sharp jingling sound interrupted Petya as they stepped onto the crowded sidewalk. The boys looked to their left and watched a large closed carriage coming along the street, led by two majestic horses adorned with necklets, bells, and foxtails. When it came closer, Sergei could see from the intricate carvings on the carriage that it carried someone important.
Unable to get away from the mob of people, the boys watched as the carriage passed by. The passenger, a middle-aged man with gray hair and black, turned-up whiskers, wore round spectacles and stared straight ahead, ignoring the hordes of people gaping at him.
“Come on,” said Sergei. He slipped in front of the crowd and onto the street.
“That must be the police official the shopkeeper talked about,” said Petya.
Sergei nodded, his eyes pasted on the Jewish people lining the road. They were disheveled, with torn clothing, and many had open wounds. Turning a corner, Sergei and Petya left the crowd behind them. “Is he going to see your father?” Petya asked.
“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken with my father much. He’s been in a pretty bad mood since the riots.”
“How come? It’s not like they were his fault.”
“I saw a telegraph he received last night. The military troops are staying here for a while to make sure nobody else gets hurt. I don’t think my father likes having people watching over him.”
“Well, at least your father didn’t hide when all the fighting was going on. My father could at least have pretended to do something.” Petya shook his head and scowled.
“I don’t know. My father paraded around, watched the attacks, and did absolutely nothing.” Sergei turned to leave. “I’ll see you later.”
“Where are you going?” asked Petya.
Sergei wanted to tell Petya about Rachel, and how worried he was about her, but he knew this would be a mistake. “To find someone.”
In the hospital’s courtyard. Sergei stared, open-mouthed, at the patients sitting mutely on the steps, heads and arms wrapped in bandages, pain etched on their faces. Weeping—anguished cries—accosted him when he opened the door. The sharp, overpowering smell of antiseptic mixed with the putrid odor of perspiration filled his nose and mouth. He watched in disbelief as a crippled man, whose eye had been gouged out, begged a nurse to kill him. He saw men talking to themselves, their bodies covered in sores, bumps, and bruises. He saw a young girl sitting alone, her arms around her knees as she rocked back and forth. Her eyes were empty of life.
A sea of people sat hunched over in the waiting room, their ragged clothing torn and bloody, their faces lined in sorrow. Sergei pressed his hands to his eyes, unable to witness any more despair; just then, someone grabbed the back of his legs. Startled, he turned around and saw Menahem. He picked the boy up and gave him a big hug. When he tried to put him down, Menahem wouldn’t let go.
“How are they treating you? Are you getting enough to eat?” Sergei could feel Menahem’s bony spine through his shirt.
Menahem nodded. “We go to the soup kitchen every day, and they give us bread too.”
“You and your grandmother?”
“No… she… she’s gone.” Menahem’s lower lip began to tremble.
Sergei could tell the boy was trying to be brave. “Who’s taking care of you?”
“Some of the nurses.”
“I wish I could help you,” said Sergei.
“Can I come home with you?” Menahem asked. “I’ll be good. I promise.”
Sergei’s eyes watered as he hugged Menahem tighter. He wished he could hold onto Menahem’s innocence and trust forever, and that Menahem would never see him as the enemy. “I can’t take you, but I promise I’ll visit you as much as I can.”
Menahem’s body went limp in Sergei’s arms, and he sunk his head onto Sergei’s shoulder. “I won’t be here much longer. I have to go to the orphanage soon.”
Frustrated by this news, Sergei was trying to think of something positive to say, when he saw Rachel walking toward him. Relief swelled inside his chest as she drew closer and he saw that she was physically unharmed.
“Sergei—” she said, her face breaking into a smile. Dark circles underlined her red eyes and her untidy hair hung in her face. “Who is he?” She glanced curiously at Menahem and then at Sergei.
“My friend, Menahem. Menahem, this is Rachel.”
Menahem lifted his head and looked shyly at Rachel. “He brought me here when my grandmother…” Tears streamed down Menahem’s face. He buried his head in Sergei’s shoulder again.
“I was here, the day of the… you weren’t… I went to your house but I couldn’t find anybody,” Sergei said.
“I was hiding in the outhouse; I heard you asking people to stop.” She swallowed and took a deep breath. “That was very brave of you.”
Sergei hung his head, disturbed by the thought of Rachel hiding in a smelly outhouse. “I wish they had listened.”
“My father was killed, and Chaia’s father,” said Rachel in a flat voice. “Chaia has many broken bones and doesn’t speak. She saw her father…” Her voice broke and she turned away from Sergei.
“I know it doesn’t bring anyone back, but many people have been arrested,” he said slowly, watching her reaction. “And Mikhail’s uncle and cousin are being investigated. My father finally revealed what I told him.”
Rachel sniffed and wiped her tears. “I guess that’s good news. Still, I’ve lost everything because of horrible lies. We don’t know where we’ll be in a month from now, or even a week.”
“Are you going to have to go to the orphanage, too?” Menahem said to Rachel.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
Sergei looked past her at the people sprawled all over the floor. He shifted Menahem’s weight to his other shoulder. “I want to help you.”
“How?”
“With money, finding a place for you to live…”
“You don’t work… and you don’t owe us anything.” She looked back down the shadowy corridor. “I have to go now. My mother needs me.”
Sergei’s eyes followed her as she walked away. “Damm!” Rage built up inside of him like a fire fed with oil. He kicked the wall. “Dammit!”
A few patients sitting in the corridor cowered during Sergei’s outburst.
“Are you mad at me?” asked Menahem in a meek voice.
Sergei winced, embarrassed that he’d frightened Menahem with his display of anger. He crouched over and put Menahem on the floor. “No, of course I’m not mad at you. I didn’t mean to—” He bit his lip and tried to figure out the best words to say. “I’m mad at the people who hurt your grandmother and Rachel’s father.” He hung his head. “I want to make things right, but nothing I do will ever be enough.”
He felt a warm hand take his as he looked into Menahem’s hopeful eyes.
“You helped me,” said Menahem. “That was good.”
Sergei smiled and tousled his hair. “I guess that was good. Now I just need to do something good for Rachel.”
Rachel wiggled her toes to keep them from falling asleep. She’d been standing in the soup-kitchen line for almost two hours and was still a long way from the front. Just ahead of them were Elena and Esther Berlatsky with their arms around Jacob. Mrs. Berlatsky and Rachel’s mother stood silently in front of Rachel.
“At least Mother came with us today,” said Rachel to Nucia.
“Yes. This will be the first time she’s eaten since…”
“I know.”
The girls stood quietly for a few minutes as the line moved slowly forward.
“I want to sit down,” Rachel told Nucia. “My shoes are so tight I can hardly feel my feet.”