Many businesses were still shut down: a tavern, a bookshop, a hat store, a vegetable market. Rachel wondered what had happened to the owners, and if the shops would ever open again. Fewer people walked along the streets now than before the massacre, and they moved in silence, heads bowed.
The signs of devastation increased as Rachel approached her home. Furniture that had been smashed to pieces lay in piles, abandoned, like so many of the people in the hospital. She stopped when she reached the courtyard of her former house. She touched the cold, stone wall and choked back tears.
A pile of broken tiles lay on the ground, and the courtyard was still strewn with feathers, broken glass, a torn sleeve, and a child’s pinafore. The doorway of their house had been boarded up with wood scraps and through the broken windows and twisted frames, there was nothing but darkness.
It looked like a shack, but for Rachel, it held a lifetime of memories—eating Shabbos dinners, playing chess with her father in front of the hot stove, lying on her bench reading, helping her mother prepare meals, arguing with Nucia, then making up. Her previous life flipped through her mind like the pages of a picture book.
As she stared at the remains, she saw something protruding from under a piece of broken glass. Rachel dug away at the spot with a stick until she could see more clearly.
“Father’s tallis!” she whispered.
She tore away the debris on top of the prayer shawl until she was able to pull it out. Though no longer white, it was in one piece. Rachel closed her eyes and pictured her father wearing it to the shul. The image settled her and made her feel as if her father was watching over her, Nucia, and her mother.
When she opened her eyes, Rachel felt someone watching her. Turning slowly, she found herself face to face with a tall Russian man, the journalist Korolenko whom she’d seen at the hospital. Rachel stiffened and started to back away from him.
“Have we met?” asked Korolenko, in a robust voice.
“I… I saw you at the hospital.”
“Ah, yes, you were reading to some children.”
“That’s right; what are you doing here?”
“I came to this house to see the damage from the riots that took place during Easter.”
Rachel twisted her braid and looked up at him. “Will you tell the truth about what happened, or are you going to spread more lies?”
He peered at her intently before answering. “I always try to tell the truth.”
“What if the people you talk to lie? The newspaper here told nothing but horrible lies about us.”
“I’ve seen those articles.” His eyes seemed to shine as he spoke. “That’s why I’m here. To try and make amends, to set the record straight.” He paused. “Would you like to tell me what happened?”
Rachel stared out at the rubble and thought carefully about what to say. “This is where I used to live. I was here when the riots started,” she began in a hollow voice. “We hid in the outhouse for hours. All night. One man was killed on the roof as we listened. And my father was killed in the shed.”
She cleared her throat and waited for Korolenko to write down what she said. “Mr. Grienschpoun was killed on this spot.” Rachel pointed to an area close to where they stood. “He ran past here.” Rachel sighed and pointed toward the shed. “He ran past here, and he fell down just there…and that’s where they murdered him.”
Korolenko stopped writing and stared at Rachel for a moment.
She moved toward the street. “Mr. Nisensen died in a puddle of mud out there.” She pointed straight ahead. “A police officer was there the whole time. We thought he’d protect us.” She paused. “He didn’t.”
She was suddenly worn out from describing what had happened. She realized that coming back and reliving the events of that night served no purpose. It was time to go forward, to remember the past but live in the future.
“I…I have to go now,” she said. “My mother will be worried.”
Korolenko smiled at her. “Thank you for telling me your story.”
Rachel shrugged her shoulders. “Do you think that women could be writers like you, someday?”
He smiled at her. “Women are not taken seriously as writers now, but that will change.” He paused and gazed into the distance. “If you look outside of Russia, you will see many women attaining fame as writers.”
“What are their names?”
“There is Isabella Bird, from England, who writes about places such as Morocco, Japan, Canada, and America. And Emily Brontë, also from England, who wrote the novel Wuthering Heights years ago.”
Rachel’s heart raced as she listened to Korolenko. His words were proof that becoming a writer was not a fantasy, but a very real possibility. Rachel thanked him and turned to go back to the hospital, eager to tell her mother about these women and meeting Korolenko. Still surprised by what he had told her, she looked back to catch one last glimpse of him, but he was gone.
Sergei traipsed through the empty courtyard and into the hospital. The silence was unnerving
“I’m looking for Rachel Paskar,” he said to a woman who was sitting alone in the barren waiting room.
“They’ve all gone,” she said.
“Where?”
“To the train station. We received word that Moldavians are gathered a short distance from here…preparing to beat the Jews.” She wiped her eyes with a cloth. “Soldiers are trying to stop them, but after what has already occurred, everyone fled right away. The government has issued hundreds of exit visas so that Jews may escape safely. The only people still here are too ill to travel.”
Sergei ran to the door. He raced as fast as he could, past now-familiar landmarks in lower Kishinev…broken-down shops and houses and piles of rubbish at the side of the road, remnants of the Easter riots.
“Menahem,” Sergei gasped when he arrived at the orphanage. He was out of breath from running the whole way. “I need to see Menahem now.”
“I’m sorry but you can’t,” said an unfamiliar woman who was blocking the hallway. “It’s our Shabbos, you know. None of the children can leave here until this evening after sunset.”
“But there won’t be an evening for anyone here!” shouted Sergei. “Rioters are on their way right now. You have to take the children somewhere safe—somewhere they won’t be a target. I’ll take Menahem. I’ll make sure nothing happens to him.” Sergei’s eyes darted behind her, searching for Menahem in the corridor’s shadows.
“Why should I trust you?” asked the woman, frowning. “It was your people who started these riots in the first place.”
“He is trustworthy,” said another voice from the shadows.
Sergei squinted and recognized the woman he had often seen when he came to get Menahem.
“He cares for Menahem,” the woman continued, moving toward them. “Menahem will be safe with Sergei.”
The other woman cast a sideways glance at Sergei and grunted. “Very well. I’ll get the boy.” She disappeared down the corridor.
“Sergei!” cried Menahem a moment later. He appeared in the corridor with an excited smile. “Is it true? Are you really taking me away from here?”
“Yes. Now come.” Using his hand, he beckoned for Menahem. “We don’t have time to talk. I’ll explain later.” He smiled gratefully at the woman who had vouched for him, grabbed Menahem’s wrist, and darted out of the orphanage.
“Where are we going?” asked Menahem.
“On the train. Far from here,” puffed Sergei. “Where you’ll be safe.”
As she turned back to get one last look at the hospital, a wave of sadness washed over Rachel. She held her journal to her chest, feeling terrible about not being able to say good-bye to Sergei, about not being able to tell him what he meant to her, and how she wished things were different. Though the hospital had been her home for only a couple of months, it seemed like a lifetime. The ties that had bound her to Kishinev for so long had finally been cut. But this hospital had saved them when they had no place else to go, and in its own strange way, it had become her home.