“I know,” said Sergei quietly.
“Kishinev will never be the same. I’m glad we’re leaving soon.” Rachel picked up a stone and threw it in the river.
“You’re leaving? When?”
“When we can raise enough money for a ship’s passage to America. My grandparents sent us train tickets to Vladivostok.”
Sergei nodded and fidgeted with the stones he held in his hands. “America… that will be a long journey.”
Rachel nodded and picked up some stones. “I’ve never been away from Kishinev. It’s hard to imagine living so far away, in another country.” She pitched the stones into the water and listened to the plunking sound they made as they sank.
Sergei looked at her closely, studying her face as if he would never see her again. “Will you write to me? I’ve always wanted to know what it’s like in America.”
She gave him a half-smile. “Of course.” Her eyes moved to the river again, to the spot where she had last seen Mikhail. “And I’m going to write about Kishinev.” She turned and looked at Sergei. “So that people don’t forget what really happened to Mikhail and my father.”
He grinned. “You will be a famous writer when your story is published. I’m sure of it.”
Rachel felt warm and happy hearing the conviction in Sergei’s voice. He made her feel like anything was possible, that her dreams really could come true.
“Mikhail and I had plans to travel to Petersburg together.” He threw a stone, which skipped lightly over the water. “I was going to study art and Mikhail planned to work there and go to the university.” Sergei pushed the mud around with his feet and scowled. “But now…my father lost his job and is drinking our savings away.”
Rachel turned and stared at him. “Your father is not the police chief anymore?”
He shook his head and smiled grimly. “He got what he deserved. Only it means I have to get a job to help take care of my mother and my sister and aunt.” He played with a stone in his hand and tossed it into the river. “Everyone—everything— has changed. The whole town is a different place now. I feel like I’m twenty years older than I was, as if I have the world on my shoulders.” He sighed and bit his lip. “Especially when I’m out looking for a job and my father is drunk at the tavern.” He looked pointedly at Rachel. “I love him because he’s my father, but I despise him as well. That sounds strange, doesn’t it?”
“No, it doesn’t.” She paused. “Does he know you want to be an artist?”
Sergei grunted. “He thinks I’m going to become a police officer like he was.”
“Will you ever tell him the truth?”
“Probably not.” He shrugged. “It was a stupid idea. I haven’t had time to draw in weeks. I need to make money now.”
“I don’t think it’s stupid. Maybe you’ll get a chance to become an artist someday.”
He hurled a large stone into the muddy water. “I doubt it.”
“Can your aunt get a job to help?”
He laughed. “She’s not right in the head. She says strange things to people, which is why she’s never been married or able to work.”
“That’s a shame.” Rachel picked up a small black stone and examined it closely in her hand. “I miss playing chess with my father. He taught me to play, and I thought I would beat him some day. Do you play?”
“A little, probably not as well as you. I don’t have a lot of patience. I play a lot of backgammon, especially with my sister. Most of the time I let her win.”
Rachel nodded and stared at the river. The setting sun cast a glowing red haze on the water. “I guess I’d better go now, before my mother gets worried,” she said. “She’s convinced another riot is about to occur.”
“First…” Sergei reached into his leather pouch. “I want you to have this.” He held out the money he had taken from the coffer.
“Where did you get that?”
“It doesn’t matter. Just take it. You can use it for your passage to America.”
She pressed her lips together and pushed his hand back, touched that he would make such a generous offer. Though she was determined to keep a wall between them that would guard her emotions, he was making it difficult. In spite of her best efforts, Rachel found herself caring for him. “No. I can’t. My mother would ask questions, and it’s not right. Your family needs it.”
“But I want you to have it.”
She shook her head firmly and stood up.
Sergei sighed again and returned the money to his pouch. “I’ll walk with you.” He stood and they followed the path to the street together.
Two
“I promised Leah I’d meet her in the courtyard,” Rachel told her mother and sister. It was late afternoon and the three of them had finished sewing for the day. She left without waiting for them to respond, hurried outside where the air was cool, and sat down wearily on the top step. It had rained most of the morning, and the air felt heavy.
Rachel was stretching her arms above her head to loosen her cramped muscles when a tall stranger entered the hospital’s courtyard. He had a thick beard, black as coal, and hair that stood straight up from his head.
“Mr. Korolenko…welcome,” said Dr. Slutskii, the senior doctor who took care of Chaia and many other injured people in the hospital. He walked past Rachel and greeted the stranger. They shook hands and then the man called Korolenko opened a bag hanging over his shoulder, reached in, and pulled out a small notebook. He listened intently to Dr. Slutskii and wrote quickly. Rachel tried to listen, but they spoke in quiet voices.
Dr. Slutskii appeared to be talking about the hospital. He waved his arms around, pointed at the building, and was very animated. Rachel slid down to the bottom step and craned her neck to hear, but still couldn’t make out one word. After a few moments, the two men walked by, nodding politely at Rachel as they passed, and entered the hospital.
As soon as they had disappeared through the door, Rachel raced back inside and found Rena in her office. “Who was that man?” she asked.
Rena looked up wearily from the stack of papers in front of her. “You mean the one who just came in with Dr. Slutskii?”
“Yes…”
“I believe that’s Vladimir Korolenko, a journalist. He’s come here to write about the massacre.”
“A writer? You mean for newspapers?”
“I suppose so. Does it matter?”
Rachel’s heart was pounding. “Didn’t you read the newspapers? All those horrible lies about us?” Her voice rose as she spoke. “That we eat blood, that we want to take over Kishinev, that our corpses should be bound to the wheels of carts?”
Rena dropped the stack of papers she was holding onto her desk. “But Mr. Korolenko didn’t write those things. You can’t blame one writer for the poisonous pen of others.”
Rachel’s eyes blazed. “But how can you be so sure he’ll write the truth?”
Rena sighed and reached out to hold Rachel’s trembling hands. “Mr. Korolenko came here to find out what happened. To discover the facts, not to distort the truth. Dr. Slutskii says he has a very good reputation.”
Rachel pulled away. “But,” her eyes teared up, “he might change Dr. Slutskii’s words for his story. How can you trust that he’ll write about what really happened?”
Rena stood up, walked around her desk, and embraced Rachel. “I know you’re scared,” she said softly. “And I know it’s hard for you to trust anyone… but you can’t go through life in fear.”
Rachel nodded and brushed the tears from her eyes as Leah walked into the office. Her hair was starting to grow back, but the scar on her face was now an ugly purple line, a constant reminder of the riots. “There you are. I thought we were going to meet in the courtyard,” she began. “Oh, what’s wrong, Rachel?”