Rachel's Hope (11 page)

11

S
ergei and two young men were on their way to bomb the
Okhrana
headquarters, east of the Kremlin. They'd been dodging gunshots since they'd left Gorky's place. Now, a bullet whizzed past Sergei's head as he crouched behind an abandoned
troika
. His hair moved from the waft of air created by the bullet.

Silence. Sergei waited a few agonizing minutes before motioning to the bomb throwers, sixteen-year-old Arkady and fifteen-year-old Viktor, to follow him across the street. Sergei winced as they crept behind him, eagerness written all over their faces. Arkady, fair with white-blond hair and eyebrows, had acne on his nose and cheeks. Viktor, who'd insisted on carrying the bomb wrapped in the
Iskra
newspaper for good luck, had copper-colored hair, freckles, and cobalt-blue eyes that followed Sergei with complete trust and confidence.

Sergei recalled a recent article in the
Novo Vremia
, a Russian newspaper published in St. Petersburg, about this revolution, where Russian General Min had reportedly told his troops, “Act without mercy. There will be no arrests.” Sergei tried to push these words from his mind as he led Arkady and Viktor closer to their target. They'd entered the Ragozhskii District, still under government control, which meant soldiers would be lurking nearby. The closer they came to the Kremlin, moving within the shadows, the faster Sergei's heart raced.

The Kurskii railway station loomed in front of them, directly across the street from the
Okhrana
headquarters. This station had not been taken over by the revolutionaries. Though the revolutionaries did have a barricade up ahead, which separated their territory from that of the government's, Sergei had decided to attack the
Okhrana
from the government side, hoping to surprise the troops.

“You can go to the safe area, now,” Arkady told Sergei. “We'll take it from here.”

Sergei shook his head. “No, I'm staying with you.”

“But Savinkov told us that you'd be going—” said Viktor.

“Forget what Savinkov said. I'm not leaving you.”

The three of them edged closer to the headquarters, a small, nondescript building dwarfed by more substantial structures on either side. The crunch of footsteps in the snow stopped them all in their tracks. A soldier marched past, ten feet in front of them, his rifle slung over his shoulder. Sergei held his breath until he passed.

Sergei gestured to Viktor to continue forward. The
Okhrana
building stood silent and dark. Arkady took his position as lookout, standing on the street corner, peering left and right. When Viktor stood about eight feet from the building, Sergei dropped his arm, the signal to throw the bomb.

“Run!” hissed Sergei as soon as the bomb flew from Viktor's hands.

Viktor stood motionless.

“Run!” cried Sergei again.

Viktor raced after Arkady toward the area behind the train tracks.

The bomb detonated, showering the three of them with hot fragments. The ground shook. Sergei held out both arms to keep from falling down. Viktor stumbled, got to his feet, and kept running. From behind, Sergei heard the police shouting, “Find the damn rebels! Shoot them on the spot!”

Footsteps pounded behind them.

“Faster!” Sergei yelled at Arkady.

Sergei glanced over his shoulder. Soldiers. Shots fired, narrowly missing Sergei but hitting Viktor's side. Viktor collapsed and clutched his wound. Sergei grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. Blood gushed from his side.

More shots. Sergei dragged Viktor and yelled at Arkady to keep moving. Viktor grew heavier with each step. His eyeballs rolled back.

“Stay awake, Viktor,” pleaded Sergei. “Don't give up.”

Arkady tripped over the train tracks and fell, face-down. Shots zinged past as Sergei struggled to hold onto Viktor and help Arkady to his feet. Arkady's face was covered in blood that ran from a cut on his forehead.

“Run as fast as you can,” Sergei yelled. “We're almost there.”

They reached the train station, bullets flying all around them, and rushed into the building. Comrades, anticipating their arrival, helped Arkady to safety.

Sergei fell as soon as he and Viktor were in the protected area.

“He's…been…shot,” Sergei said. “Help him…
please
!
”

A revolutionary took Viktor's wrist and checked his pulse. He looked up at Sergei and shook his head.

“Oh, no. No!” cried Sergei. He shook Viktor's shoulders. “You can't die…it should've been me, not you.” He rested his head on Viktor's motionless chest. The metallic scent of blood filled Sergei's nostrils, but he couldn't let go of the boy.

Someone pulled Sergei up and held on to him as two men dragged Viktor's body away. Gunshots continued to fire relentlessly at the station, but Sergei hardly noticed.

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

After Viktor's death, a heaviness settled over Sergei, sapping all of his energy and hope. Danger was the only thing that brought him to life. He didn't think twice before offering to help fight in the Presnia district, where the fiercest battles against the government had been waged. Home to a hundred and fifty thousand textile workers, the Presnia district had barricades on almost every street. It had been shelled two days earlier, with hundreds of casualties and demolished buildings.

Today, December seventeenth, Sergei and a fresh band of revolutionaries stood at Krasnopresnenskaya Street with loaded rifles. Across from them, government troops had gathered in much larger numbers. The Semenovsky Regiment had just arrived from Petersburg, significantly increasing the number of soldiers. Just a road and thirty feet divided the two sides.

This could be it
, thought Sergei, eyeing the revolutionaries' battered guns and inadequate ammunition.
The last day of my life.
He considered this possibility with a detached coolness, as if he were thinking about a stranger's potential demise, not his own.

A vicious wind whipped the snow and howled menacingly, warning of bad weather ahead. Yet even the wind couldn't drown out the sounds of the irrepressible strikers throughout the district, who had been protesting for ten days.

“Long live the working people…we want freedom…”

Sergei listened to the chanting grow louder and more powerful by the minute. He felt numb inside, as if his veins were full of ice water. He'd heard these words before, felt the passion of the Russian people fighting for rights. But in all this time, he had never seen a positive outcome from these strikes or demonstrations. Only tragedy.

Gorky stood atop a barrel, giving a passionate speech, to the crowd on Krasnopresnenskaya Street beside the Moskva River. “Comrades! They say there are various races on the earth, Jews and Germans, English and Tartars, but I don't believe it,” he shouted above the crowd. “There are only two nations, two irreconcilable groups—the rich and poor. The poor, the Russian working people, all lead a dog's life. But on this day, the workers throb with one heart, for all hearts are lit with the consciousness of the might of the working people. Each and every one of you is ready to lay down his life for the happiness of all, for freedom and truth.”

A loud cheer erupted as Gorky finished speaking. Sergei's eyes skimmed the crowd—an emaciated woman with her arms around two children in a futile attempt to protect them, a hunched-over man who would be trampled if the crowd grew restless, another with opaque eyes, a young woman watching Gorky closely, clutching a man's arm. Sergei tore his gaze from the mob. Gorky's words were powerful and his passion undeniable. But they no longer seeped under Sergei's callous skin the way they had in the past.

Shots rang out from behind the gathering, rupturing the air and scattering people. Government troops fired persistently on the demonstrators. Sergei took cover behind a barricade and started shooting. Voices cried out in pain as bullets penetrated skin and bodies dropped. Several soldiers went down, bolstering Sergei's spirits.

The shooting lasted for hours, but Sergei never took a break. Every time a soldier fell, his energy grew. Every time a revolutionary went down, his resolve hardened. At around three o'clock in the afternoon, the government troops stopped abruptly and retreated out of sight. The revolutionaries kept their guns poised and their eyes on the street.

“Think they've had enough?” one older man asked Sergei.

“No,” he answered.

“They can't surprise us from behind,” said another revolutionary. “We've got that area controlled.”

“I don't like it,” added a man with a pointy nose. “It's too quiet.”

“What if they return with more soldiers?” said the older man. “We've lost so many men, we'll be in real trouble.”

A high-pitched noise whooshed overhead.

“Another shell!” somebody cried out. “Take cover.”

All of the revolutionaries, except Sergei, took off, vanishing into abandoned factories.

Sergei planted his feet and tightened the grip on his rifle.

A second later, the shell exploded near Alexandrovskii Station. Screams of agony split the air, screams that would be seared into Sergei's memory for the rest of his life.

With his rifle still at the ready on his shoulder, Sergei backed up, toward the river.

“Stop right there,” came a stern command.

Sergei pivoted around and found himself face-to-face with a government soldier holding a pistol aimed at his chest.

“Drop your rifle,” ordered the soldier.

Sergei lowered himself to the ground and set the rifle down. When the soldier bent to grab the weapon, Sergei dashed off in the direction of the barricade on Krasnaya Presnia. Shots rang out. Ahead, soldiers marched toward him. Sergei veered down a small side street, only to find himself in the path of more troops. He turned around and ran directly into the waiting arms of two strong soldiers.

12

Rachel Paskar

35 Sixth Street

San Francisco, California

January 8, 1906

Dear Rachel,

I can't even begin to tell you how excited I am to be here, in the country of my ancestors. I have not yet recovered from my surprise that I am in Russia. It is somewhat terrifying to see a dream come true. All my life I had my face turned to the country of my birth, but it seemed unapproachable. I am filled with happiness.

I am traveling in a train that goes to St. Petersburg and I catch every Russian word spoken with excitement. The sound of the Russian language in Russia! Finally, I am able to hear it! When I look out the train window, I see the winter landscape and can't take my eyes off the magnificent birch trees, white as snow, soaring into the big sky.

For me, this is the only place in the world right now! You can find everything here: melodrama and tragedy, heaven and hell, despair and hope. And you, Rachel, are hope. For all the people looking for better days ahead, a revolution will mark a new beginning. I carry your story with me like a good luck charm and am confident it will give others optimism and courage.

I will write again soon.

With fond wishes,

Anna

With the money she'd earned from several recent articles in the Jewish weekly,
Emanu-El
, and with Nucia's blessing, Rachel scurried along Fillmore Street to Marks Brothers Ladies' Wear. Anna's support had given Rachel the confidence she needed to approach the editors of
Emanu-El
with more of her stories. Now, Rachel had just enough money for a new skirt, shirtwaist, and corset.
I will finally dress like an American!
Impatiently, she tapped her feet while a horse and carriage drove past. As soon as it ambled by, Rachel dashed across the street and into the store.

Her eyes swept the area, taking in the fashionable winter dresses and coats. She made her way to the skirt section and began shopping. She pulled out a biscuit-colored skirt. It was feather-soft, and she loved the light shade that was so different from the oppressive black and brown she usually wore.

“That color will go with everything.”

Rachel spun around. A ginger-haired saleslady in a frilly blouse and a navy skirt, eyed her with approval.

“Are you looking for a blouse to go with it?”

Rachel nodded. “And a corset.”

“Very good.” The woman stood back and brought her finger to her chin. She appraised Rachel from head to toe and rummaged through the skirt section. “This is more your size.” She held up an identical skirt to the one Rachel liked, in a smaller size.

From the side, Rachel saw that the woman's skirt puffed out from her back. With her blouse, full at the front, and her bulging rear, she looked like a pigeon. This was the Gibson Girl look, named after a
Life
magazine illustrator who drew in a new, idealized style showing women with daringly tight corsets and hourglass figures. Anna had embodied the Gibson Girl look, and Rachel longed to emulate this popular, new fashion.

“Follow me,” said the saleslady. She wound her way around the racks of clothes, coming to fancy blouses, much like the one she wore.

“I was thinking of something more simple,” said Rachel. “Not quite as fussy.”

“A shirtwaist, then.” The woman led Rachel to the next aisle and chose a crisp white shirtwaist with a high collar and long sleeves. She handed it to Rachel and went to find a corset so that she could try everything on together.

“Warners is a good, basic corset to start with,” said the saleslady. “Here we are.” She brought out a skin-colored corset that wrapped around the torso with buttons on the front. “This will give you a lovely figure.” She ushered Rachel into a curtained fitting room.

Alone, Rachel took a deep breath before putting on the new clothes. She buttoned the corset from bottom to top. It squeezed her insides and lifted her bosom. Next, came the skirt that billowed around her ankles. Finally, the shirtwaist, which she buttoned up and tied at the waist. The sleeves were tight around her forearms and then became loose and airy to her shoulders. Rachel twirled around in front of the looking glass, grinning as the skirt fluttered gracefully.

I feel like a brand-new person!

Rachel emerged from the fitting room in her new clothes. “I'll take everything,” she said to the saleslady. “And I'd like to wear it home.”

“Fine. That will be seven dollars. You can pay the cashier. This way, please.”

“Wait!” Rachel's face grew red. “I thought it was three dollars and fifty cents for all of it. That's the sale price.”

“I'm afraid the sale is over,” said the lady with an unblinking gaze at Rachel.

“But…the banner is still up, announcing the sale.”

“Mr. Marks forgot to take it down.”

Rachel's eyes fell. “It's not fair,” she said.

“You're right. It's not fair,” said the man who had helped Rachel choose Marty's new clothes. He stood beside the saleslady. “Miss Lubin, charge this young lady no more than three dollars and fifty cents.” He bowed slightly toward Rachel and sauntered off.

“I can't argue with the owner,” said Miss Lubin. “I guess you'll be going home in your new clothes after all.”

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

Rachel handed her nickel to the man in the booth and stepped aside with Marty to let Jacob and Nucia pay. Tonight would be their first time attending the nickelodeon theater, located in an abandoned shop on McAllister Street. Rachel's cheeks flushed with excitement as she waved to the Blooms and other families from the neighborhood. She wore her new skirt and shirtwaist and hoped everybody would notice how smart she looked. The corset was not very comfortable, but Rachel tried to ignore its stiffness. Marty drifted near his friend, Dan, who had come with his parents. It was as if everyone living south of Market Street had decided to spend their Saturday night at the Davis Theater.

The one-story theater was actually quite small, with about a hundred ordinary wood chairs and red walls. Signs with black writing read: NO SMOKING and HATS OFF. Rachel led the way to the only four empty seats she could find together in the ninth row. A piano was angled on the right-hand side of the stage. The seats filled and voices bubbled over with excitement. Rachel gazed at the blank square screen hanging over the stage, afraid to look away in case she missed anything.

A gentleman wearing a dark coat with tails sat at the piano and began playing a fast ragtime piece. As the theater darkened, a white light shone on the stage. A humming sound came from the projector on the upper level at the back of the theater. The title appeared, a bit shaky, white letters on black: “Johnny's Run.” A flash of light and then Johnny, a boy about twelve years old with short hair appeared in a black-and-white moving image. There was no sound from the screen, only from the on-stage piano.

Standing in front of the window of a candy store, Johnny licked his lips and watched the plump shopkeeper arrange a display of Hershey milk chocolate bars. A hunched over old woman entered the candy store and motioned with her hand for the shopkeeper's help. Johnny looked right into the camera and moved his eyebrows up and down. The audience laughed. He tiptoed into the store and grabbed a chocolate bar. He ran out of the door and stuffed the chocolate bar into his coat pocket. The shopkeeper pivoted around and saw the empty space where a chocolate bar should have been, as the door banged shut.

Johnny, sprinting down the street, looked over his shoulder and saw the shopkeeper racing after him. Johnny looked into the camera again, his mouth open. He ran into a lamppost and stumbled in circles, his hand on his head. The audience roared. As the chase began, the pianist played faster. This pursuit of Johnny continued for twenty-five minutes, with Johnny outrunning everybody, including a police officer, who couldn't get his horse to move. Finally, when he'd outrun all his pursuers, he reached into his coat pocket to discover a hole. The chocolate bar was gone! The camera switched to the policeman, climbing down from his carriage. His eyes found the chocolate bar on the ground. He looked left, then right. He picked it up, shrugged, removed the wrapper and ate it.

Rachel, along with the rest of the audience, laughed at this unexpected outcome. The lights came on, signaling the end of the picture.

“That was great! I want to come next week,” said Marty, before they were even out of the theater.

“It was better than I expected,” said Jacob, “but we can't afford to come every week.”

“It will be more of a treat if we only come once in a while,” added Nucia.

Marty considered her words for a moment. “I don't mind if it's not a treat.”

Rachel chuckled. “Unfortunately, you don't have a choice. I would like to see a picture every week also, but that would be expensive.”

“When I grow up, I'm going to make pictures so that I can see them whenever I want,” said Marty.

“Then I will live near you so that I can come over and see them,” said Rachel.

Concern darkened Marty's eyes. “Won't you live with me forever, Rachel?”

Rachel took his hand. “I will live with you as long as I can, but I have a feeling that one day you will want a home of your own.”

“Never,” said Marty. “I'll never leave you.”

Rachel squeezed his hand. She didn't say a word. She didn't want to make a promise she couldn't keep, and she couldn't lie to him.