“Ita, calm yourself,” said Rachel’s father, buttering a piece of bread. “Rachel, it might not be a wise idea to spend so much time with a gentile.” He put his knife down. “Why can’t you be friends with a nice Jewish boy?”
Rachel looked at her father. “I’m not hungry.”
“What?” Rachel’s mother cried. “First she loses her shawl and now she refuses to eat perfectly good food.”
Rachel caught her father’s eye. He pressed his lips together and nodded at her, giving permission for her to leave the table. She backed away without looking at her mother who was still muttering under her breath.
Rachel stood in front of her bed, too distraught for sleep, her eyes blinking back tears. She saw her wooden doll, the one her mother had given her years ago, standing on the shelf above her bench, and wished she could go back in time to when she was little and life was simple. With a trembling hand, Rachel picked up her doll—named Snegurochka after the snow maiden in her favorite fairy tale—and stared at the hand-painted face with its scarlet lips and turquoise eyes. Snegurochka loved Ivan, a human, and he loved her. Ivan gave up everything to live with Snegurochka in a castle made of snow because she would melt if she tried to enter his world.
Seeing Mikhail killed made Rachel wonder if their friendship was to blame, because he’d ventured outside his world and into hers, because he’d cared about her more than he should have. Without even removing her skirt, Rachel, still clutching her doll, climbed onto her bench, pulled her feather quilt over her head and rolled into a tight ball, knees to her chest. When she closed her eyes, all she saw was Mikhail on the ice, in a pool of blood as red as the shawl she’d lost.
Three
The morning passed slowly, with Sergei constantly peering at Mikhail’s empty desk. In rapid French, the teacher conjugated verbs, his monotonous voice drifting incoherently into the background. Sergei began doodling on his paper.
With swift, bold strokes he drew the rectangular outline of a building he’d pictured in his head. The roof was a flat, wide triangle, and the windows were large with arches on top. As the drawing took shape, he added texture with bolder lines and shading.
“Conjugez le verbe envoyer au passé composé, Sergei. Est-ce que vous écoutez?”
Sergei looked up to see his teacher, Mr. Pollkin, scowling at him from the front of the room. Sergei’s face was deep red as he stood up before his classmates.
“Je ne sais pas,” he replied.
Mr. Pollkin’s large, bulging eyes looked as if they were going to pop out of his oversized head. Sergei knew his teacher demanded the full attention of his students at all times, and that he was in trouble. As he stood waiting to hear his punishment, a knock sounded at the classroom door.
“Entrez,” ordered Mr. Pollkin, without taking his eyes off Sergei.
The students gasped as a police officer strode into the room, dressed in the familiar gray uniform, buttoned right up to the collar.
“It has come to our attention that a boy from this class is missing,” announced the officer. “Mikhail Rybachenko went ice-skating on the River Byk yesterday and never returned home. Blood was discovered on the ice. Naturally, his grandparents are quite concerned.”
Sergei froze. The officer scanned the class, which had become so quiet that Sergei could hear the wind growling outside.
Clearing his throat, the policeman asked, “Did any of you see him skating yesterday?”
Realizing that every boy’s eyes were now on him—Mikhail’s closest friend—Sergei stepped forward slowly.
“Come with me,” the officer barked.
Sergei dragged his feet through the doorway and then followed the officer down the hall. On the way he heard a Latin class reciting verses and wished he were there, or anywhere else, and that Mikhail was with him.
They entered an empty classroom. The officer settled into a chair behind the desk. Sergei stood facing him.
“Your name,” he began, holding a pen over his notebook.
“Sergei. Sergei Khanzhenkov.”
The officer’s eyebrows rose and he removed his spectacles. “Are you related to Chief Khanzhenkov?”
Sergei nodded. “He’s my father.”
The policeman pursed his lips as he mulled over this information. He put his glasses back on. “Very well. Continue.”
“I saw Mikhail and this girl, Rachel, yesterday, skating on the river.”
“What time was that?”
“About four o’clock, I think. I didn’t look at my watch.”
“What were they doing?”
“I told you… they were skating.”
The officer scowled. “Don’t be rude. Now, how does Mikhail know her?”
Sergei pulled at his collar, which was suddenly choking him. “We met her one day when we were skating last winter.”
“Were they fighting when you left them?”
“No.” Sergei clenched his teeth. He knew he should tell the officers he’d seen Mikhail kiss Rachel, but he didn’t want to make trouble for Mikhail.
“Do you know where this Rachel lives? Her last name?”
“I think it’s Paskar, and she lives in lower Kishinev.”
The officer removed his spectacles again, stood up, and leaned over the table so that Sergei could smell his sour breath. “So she’s Jewish, a Yid.”
“What difference does that make?” asked Sergei.
The officer stared at him. “Do you have anything more to say?”
Sergei shook his head.
“Go back to your class then. We’re through, for now.”
Sergei backed out of the doorway slowly, breaking into a sweat as soon as the door closed behind him.
A loud tapping persisted in Sergei’s head as he slept. He tossed and turned from side to side, but the tapping was relentless, shattering his sleep. He sat up groggily and rubbed his eyes. It was still dark outside, the middle of the night.
Shivering, he left his bed and trudged out of his room to the sitting room, where the stove burned all night. His father stood in the open doorway to their flat, his back to Sergei.
“When was this?” his father was asking, his voice raspy with sleep.
A man answered his father. Sergei yawned and sat down by the stove, which gave off a comfortable warmth.
“And there was nothing on his feet, hmm?” his father continued. “I’ll be there at first light.”
Sergei feared the resignation in his father’s voice.
His father shut the door and sighed.
“What is it, Papa?” asked Sergei.
His father jumped and turned at the sound of Sergei’s voice. “Why are you up, hmm?”
“The person at the door woke me.”
“Ah.” His father pulled up a chair and sat beside Sergei. “I have some bad news.” He paused, as if he wasn’t sure of how to proceed. “A peasant has come across a body, in a garden in Dubossary.”
Sergei was unable to move or speak. He knew what was coming, but didn’t want to hear it.
“I think it is Mikhail.”
The bile in Sergei’s stomach rose to his throat. “No… no… I don’t believe it!” He wanted his father to tell him it was all a mistake—that Mikhail was safe at home with his grandparents. But his father looked grim and began pouring water into the samovar to make tea.
Sergei’s face turned white with shock. “No. It’s not possible… it’s not… Mikhail. Why would Mikhail be in Dubossary, so far from here?”
His father scratched his head. “Perhaps he was taken there by the person who killed him. We won’t know until after the autopsy, but my officer says there are a number of stab wounds on the body.”