Rachel's Hope (14 page)

He offered the water to Nucia.

Marty grabbed the loaf of bread.

“Not so fast,” said Jacob. “Women first.”

Marty pouted. He handed the loaf to Nucia.

Jacob sat down, stretching his legs out. “I couldn't sleep so I went with a group of cadets to help. We pumped water from an old cistern.”

“But you don't know anything about firefighting,” said Nucia. “You could have been hurt.”

“I was careful. And the firemen needed all the help they could get. They were actually pumping sewer water onto flames, and throwing wine and vinegar at the fire.” He reached into his front pocket and pulled out a small vial. “A firefighter gave me some vinegar for Marty's cough. Gargling with it may help.” Jacob handed the vial to the boy.

Marty sniffed the clear liquid and made a face.

“Try it,” said Nucia.

Marty emptied the vial into his throat and gargled. He spat out the vinegar and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ugh,” he sneered. “That's rotten.”

“It will be worth it if you stop coughing,” said Rachel.

Marty drank some water, swished it around in his mouth to get rid of the vinegar, and spat it out.

“Everything south of Market Street is gone,” Jacob told them. “Synagogues, the Benevolent Society building, the Home for the Aged, even the Haas Brothers store.”

Nucia buried her head in her hands.

Rachel's bottom lip quivered. She broke off a piece of bread and thrust it in her mouth. She chewed but could not get it down her parched throat. Marty passed her the bucket and she poured some water down her throat, loosening the dried ball of bread until it dislodged.

“Don't be so fast,” said Jacob. “Eat slowly.”

Rachel nodded and broke off another piece of bread.

“There is no more after this,” cautioned Jacob. “This is all the soldiers have for each family.”

Rachel chewed her bread slowly and watched the flames. Jacob told them that one fire had started by accident while a woman was cooking breakfast for her family. Other fires had been started by people who wanted to collect fire insurance money on their homes, because they were not eligible for earthquake insurance.

“They set fire to their own homes?” asked Rachel.

Jacob nodded. “And those fires started other ones.”

For two more days, the fires raged, destroying entire streets, rows of houses, and shops. More people descended upon Alamo Square. Children, separated from their families, wandered through the mass of people, whimpering softly or crying loudly. Marty coughed more violently each day.

After three days, the flames sputtered to an end. Rain began to fall on the fourth morning, too late to make a difference. Rachel lifted her face to the sky and let the water wash away the soot. She had been wearing her nightdress since the earthquake began.

A troop of cadets, their uniforms soiled and wrinkled, marched along Fulton Street, in the direction of the Ferry Building. They were returning to Oakland.

Residents began heading back to the neighborhood south of Market Street, to examine the damage and check if anything could be salvaged. With Jacob leading the way, Rachel and Nucia, each holding onto Marty's hands, stepped over the bricks scattered across streets. Rubble from damaged buildings lay in high piles.

Every building on their former street had either been flattened or burned to the ground. Rachel walked slowly over the remains of their boarding house as the rain tapered off and finally ended.

“What do we do now?” Nucia asked Jacob.

The four of them stood facing the remnants of their first American home.

“We can try catching the ferry over to Oakland,” replied Jacob, referring to the neighboring town across San Francisco Bay, east of the city. “The soldiers told me that Oakland wasn't hit by the earthquake. But they also say there is already a mob of people waiting at the Ferry Building with little hope for water or food.”

“No,” said Nucia, shaking her head vigorously. “I don't want to be stuck on the other side where we don't know anyone.”

“We can try Golden Gate Park, then,” said Jacob. “People are gathering there, but it's not as crowded yet.”

Rachel and Nucia glanced at one another and shrugged. They set off in the direction of Golden Gate Park. As they walked, other earthquake refugees joined them. The grinding noise of trunks, dragged by people lucky enough to snatch their belongings before losing their homes, accompanied the slow procession. Smoke still hovered in the air, smothering their skin and clogging their noses and throats. Marty coughed so hard at one point, he collapsed. Jacob picked him up and carried him.

Looters scavenged and vandalized shops. One man stuffed his sack with silver from an abandoned store. Rachel's mind jumped to her home in Kishinev during the pogrom when people had looted shops and destroyed everything inside, leaving nothing. A gunshot rang out, puncturing the air. The thief stealing the silver had been shot by a policeman. His body lay across his sack, as if he were trying to stop someone from taking it.

The policeman stood nearby, his gun still aimed at the looter. He tipped his hat at the crowd and brandished his gun. “The mayor's given us orders to shoot looters on sight,” he said, before walking away. It was a warning as much as an explanation.

The formerly vibrant city had been demolished. Streets, where automobiles and horse-driven wagons had co-existed, were now impassable. Buildings on every block were now heaps of rubble. Cars and wagons had been flipped onto their sides or were completely upside down. San Francisco had become a skeleton of broken homes and ravaged lives.

16

R
ound tents sprouted like spring grass in Golden Gate Park. Erected by soldiers, the identical gray shelters were pitched side by side in the basin of the park. Though the fires had stopped, smoke and dust saturated the air. At least a hundred people stood in front of Rachel's family at the Stanyan Street Entrance, and the line grew longer every minute.

“We're going to be here a while,” said Rachel. She stepped forward as the line moved.

“Hopefully, not too long,” said Jacob. He lowered Marty to the ground. His breaths came in ragged gasps as he stood beside Jacob.

“He needs to see a doctor,” said Nucia to Rachel.

Rachel twisted a strand of hair. “I know, but I'm afraid.”

“Why?”

“Because when Mother got sick, the doctor put her in quarantine, and she never got better.”

“That won't happen with Marty. He's not coughing like Mother.”

“We didn't think Mother was that sick either.”

Nucia squeezed Rachel's shoulders. “We must get Marty the help he needs and put our own fears aside.”

Rachel watched Marty, his shoulders hunched over, sucking for air. “When we reach the front of the line, we'll ask about a doctor.”

The line moved as quickly as the tents could be set up. An hour later, the family stood before a grave-faced soldier with a scar running from one side of his neck to the other. He recorded their names, ages, relationship to one another, and assigned them to tent number five hundred and eight.

“Is there a doctor available?” Rachel asked the soldier.

As if cued by Rachel's question, Marty hacked. The blood vessels in his face had burst from the strain of coughing.

The soldier stroked his chin and gave Marty a thoughtful look. “You should take him to the hospital. Mount Zion, in the west end of the city, is not damaged.”

Rachel cringed.

“You don't like hospitals?” asked the soldier.

“No…it's just we spent months in the hospital in Russia after—”

The soldier leaned forward. “I don't know what you've been through, but hospitals here are different. You'll see.”

Rachel bit her lip and nodded.

“We're loading a wagon now with people for the hospital,” the soldier continued. “We can take the boy and one adult.”

“You go, Rachel,” said Nucia. “You speak the best English. Just remember our tent number. We will be waiting for both of you here.”

Nucia and Jacob embraced Marty and nudged him toward Rachel. Marty pressed his head into Rachel's abdomen. His entire body shook. Rachel encircled him with her arms and led him uphill to the horse-drawn wagon on Stanyan Street. A soldier lifted Marty onto the wagon and held his hand out to help Rachel climb over the side. Marty hung onto her arm as she sat in the only vacant spot on the floor of the wagon.

In front of them, an elderly woman moaned. Her arm stuck out at an awkward angle. Behind them, a young woman vomited into a bucket. The stench turned Rachel's stomach. A boy, not much older than Marty, sat with a huge gash on his leg. Blood and dirt had congealed on his skin. Others coughed, cried out in pain or suffered in silence with glum expressions.

The wagon jolted to a start. Marty tightened his grasp on Rachel.

“Try to relax,” Rachel said to him. “Your breathing gets worse when you're upset.”

Marty loosened his grip slightly. Rachel wished the dust would vanish, that he didn't have to struggle so hard for air—that she could make him better.

An enormous, disorganized line branched out from the reception desk down the corridor of Mount Zion Hospital. Rachel guided Marty to the end of the line. She wrapped her arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. “I'm sure we'll be here for only a short time.”

“What will they do to me?” asked Marty.

“Whatever they need to make you better.”

“You won't leave me?”

“No, I promise I won't leave you.”

Please let him be all right. Please let the doctor cure him. Please don't make me leave him.

Hours passed. Doctors and nurses rushed past the people waiting, their uniforms askew and soiled, as if they'd been in the same clothes for days. Rachel and Marty reached the front of the line just after two o'clock in the morning. The nurse gave them a cursory glance and took down information about Marty's breathing difficulties. She told them to wait until they called his name.

More waiting. Rachel felt as if she were going to jump out of her skin. They sat on the floor of the long hall. Marty's shoulder blades shook as he gasped for air. Sick and injured people filled the area, some leaning against walls, others slumped forward.

What if he cannot get enough air? What if he stops breathing?

Rachel's own breathing quickened until she felt winded.
Oh, no! Marty is contagious, just as Mother was contagious. They're going to take him away from me, or maybe we'll both be quarantined and never see Nucia or Jacob again.

“Marty Katsap” called a man's deep voice. An extremely tall man in his early forties and wearing a white coat stood in front of a dark wood door.

“That's me, Rachel.” Marty yanked Rachel's arm.

“Right,” she said. “Let's go.”

They followed the doctor into a small room. He shut the door and gestured for Marty to sit on the examining table. Rachel stood by the door, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“Having trouble breathing, young man?” the doctor asked Marty in a weary tone. Dark circles smudged the skin under his eyes.

Marty nodded.

“Let me see what's happening.” The doctor sat on a stool beside the table, his knees jutting upwards. He put the earpieces of his stethoscope in place and pressed the small metal disk directly against Marty's chest.

“Breathe in,” he instructed.

Marty inhaled and started to cough. The doctor listened several more times to different places on Marty's chest before making notes on his clipboard.

“Has he ever coughed like this before?” the doctor asked Rachel.

“Not this bad,” she said. “Sometimes he has coughing fits but they go away and then he's fine.”

“In Russia, my grandmother made me stand over the samovar to breathe in the steam,” added Marty.

Rachel stiffened.
I know so little about Marty, yet I'm responsible for him.

“Any history of breathing problems in the family?” the doctor asked Rachel.

“We're not sure,” said Rachel.

“My parents died when I was a baby and my grandmother was stabbed to death in the fighting,” said Marty.

The doctor's face turned mushroom-gray. “I'm sorry.”

“We don't know about any illnesses in his family,” said Rachel. “Is that bad?”

“No, not at all.” The doctor swallowed before continuing. “I believe Marty has asthma. It can be genetic.”

“Genetic?” said Rachel.

“Ummm—runs in the family, like red hair or being tall.”

“Oh.” Rachel pondered this for a moment. “What is asthma?” she asked. “Will he pass it to others? Can you make him better?”

“It's a chronic condition where the lungs have trouble getting enough oxygen. Don't worry, it's not contagious.”

“What do you mean by chronic?” said Rachel.

“He'll probably have asthma for the rest of his life.”

“I don't want asthma,” said Marty.

The doctor clamped his large hands on the boy's shoulders. “There are a lot of people with asthma, pretty important people. Did you know that?”

Marty shook his head. “Who?”

The doctor removed his hands and folded his arms across his chest. “President Theodore Roosevelt.”

“My teacher told us about him at school,” said Marty. “She never said he had asthma.”

“That's because he's done so many other important things,” the doctor replied. “And having asthma doesn't change how he does his job. He just has to take some medicine when he has trouble breathing.”

“Will I take the same medicine as the president?”

“Yes. And you're very lucky because last year we started using something new that's really helping the president and others with asthma.”

“You mean it will help him, but it won't take away the asthma?” asked Rachel.

The doctor nodded. “It's called
epinephrine
, and it works like the adrenaline our bodies already make.”

“My English is not so good,” said Rachel. “Can you explain?”

“This medicine opens his airway so he can breathe easier.”

“I see,” said Rachel. “The air can get through better?”

“That's right, but we'd like him to stay here overnight to keep an eye on his blood pressure. This medicine could speed up his heart.”

“That's not good,” said Rachel. “Can't you give him something that will leave his heart alone?”

“I'm sorry, but this is the best way to help him breathe.”

“If President Roosevelt takes this medicine then I want to take it,” said Marty, raising his chin.

“What do you say?” the doctor asked Rachel.

“Well, if there's nothing else, I guess we have no choice.”

“Good.” The doctor opened the door and told a nurse to prepare an epinephrine dosage.

“While we're waiting for the nurse, I'll explain some of the things you can do to prevent asthma from attacking,” the doctor began. “You should stay away from tobacco smoke, or smoke of any kind. The fires from the earthquake and the smoke and dust no doubt led to this bout of asthma.”

“But the air might be smoky for days,” said Rachel. “And we've lost our home. We're staying outside in a tent where smoke will surely get through.”

The doctor scratched his nose. “Let me see if there's another place where you can stay indoors. For now, Marty will remain here where the air is clean.”

What if the air never gets cleaner? What if Marty can never breathe well outside the hospital?

The nurse returned with a syringe and a small vial containing a clear liquid. She stuck the needle into the top of the jar and drew some of the liquid into the syringe, then handed it to the doctor.

“Are you going to stick that in me?” asked Marty. He shrank back from the doctor.

“I'm afraid so.” He rolled up Marty's shirt sleeve, gripped his arm firmly at the elbow, and jabbed his shoulder before the boy could object.”

“Ow!” cried Marty. He looked at Rachel with a hurt expression, as if she'd betrayed him.

“How will medicine in his shoulder help his breathing?” Rachel asked the doctor.

He chuckled. “You're certainly curious. The epinephrine is injected into the muscle, travels through the body, and opens the air passage.”

“That's amazing,” said Rachel.

“It is,” the doctor agreed. “We're seeing good results so far.” He checked Marty's pulse and listened to his chest. “I'll be back later to see how you're doing. In the meantime, I want you to get some rest.”

“Come with me,” said the nurse. She led them down the hall and into a large room filled with patients in beds, much like the room in Shanghai that Rachel's mother had been kept in before she died.

“I'm afraid we only have a bed for the boy,” the nurse told Rachel. “You can rest on these blankets on the floor.”

Rachel helped Marty get settled in his cot, situated between two older men. He lay on his back and breathed in and out steadily, still coughing, but less violently as time passed. Rachel listened as his breathing grew more steady, less labored. Her shoulders loosened and she yawned. She arranged the coarse wool blankets on the floor beside Marty and lay down.

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

A gentle nudge on her shoulder woke Rachel. A woman with a turned-up nose peered at her. She smelled of soap and was dressed in white. A nurse.

“Marty?” Rachel bolted upright.

“He's still asleep,” said the nurse softly. “You've both been asleep for more than twelve hours.”

“Twelve hours? What time is it?”

“Almost eight o'clock.”

“At night?”

“It's morning. You were sleeping so soundly we couldn't bear to wake you.”

The soft murmur of patients' voices floated in the air.

“He's responding well,” the nurse continued. She checked Marty's pulse. “His blood pressure is steady.” She wrote something on his chart.

Marty stirred and opened his eyes.

“How are you feeling?” the nurse asked.

“Who are you?” he said.

“The nurse,” answered Rachel. She stood and tousled his hair. “Remember, we're in the hospital.”

“I can breathe better,” he said.

“You can leave now,” the nurse said.

Rachel turned to the nurse. “We lost our home in the earthquake. The doctor said he would try and find a place indoors for us.”

The nurse hit her forehead with the palm of her hand. “I almost forgot. Mr. Levison is inviting people left homeless to stay at his house. The doctor said there is room for you and Marty to stay until the air clears.”

“Who is this Mr. Levison?” asked Rachel.

“He's a very kind man, vice president of the Fireman's Fund Insurance Company. He lives on Pacific Avenue, a few blocks north of here.” The nurse withdrew a small pad of paper from her skirt pocket, wrote something, and handed the paper to Rachel. “Here's the address.”

“Rachel, I want to go home,” Marty said.

“To our tent?”

He shook his head. “The flat.”

“It's gone, Marty.” Rachel's voice broke.

Marty hung his head and climbed down from the cot.

“I'm sorry,” said the nurse. She led them out into the corridor. “It's terrible what's happened. So many thousands of people are homeless now.”

“Thousands!” gasped Rachel.