Rachel's Hope (17 page)

After a couple of hours, they came upon some peasants fishing in the river. Andrei, who was rowing now, slowed down until they were barely moving as they approached the men.

“Good day,” said Cyril with a slight wave. “Keep rowing, Andrei,” he hissed under his breath.

Andrei picked up his pace.

The peasants watched them warily as the boat skimmed past.

“Dammit, Andrei, don't ever slow down like that!” said Cyril when they were past the fishermen. “Wherever there are peasants, there is a colony. And where there's a colony, there are Cossacks.”

“I'll take over,” offered Sergei. “You've been at it a long time.” He moved to the middle of the boat, stepping carefully to avoid tipping, and took over the oars.

“I'm sorry,” said Andrei. “I got nervous.”

“It's all right,” said Sergei. “Nothing happened, so just forget it.”

“This time,” said Cyril in an anxious tone. “Nothing happened this time. We can't afford to
make stupid mistakes.”

Sergei watched Cyril twitch with nervous energy as they made their way slowly along the river.
He's like a bomb
, he thought,
ready to explode at any minute.

They rowed all day and ate sparingly to conserve their supply of bread, cucumbers, and cabbage. At dusk, clouds rolled in, hiding the moon as it rose. They found a secluded location not far from the riverbank, secured the boat, and slept for a few hours.

A sharp noise woke Sergei.

Cyril cried out and thrashed loudly from side to side. “Don't! Stop it! Let me go.”

Sergei rolled over on the bumpy ground and wondered what Cyril had been dreaming. Something horrible, no doubt, something secret, locked up inside of his mind.
We all have our secrets,
he thought.
We all have scars
.

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

They hadn't been rowing for long next morning, when two sturdy, armed Cossacks appeared on the riverbank.

“Show your identity papers!” one called out.

“What are we going to do?” moaned Cyril. His face had turned white with fear.

Sergei considered jumping into the water and swimming. He squinted ahead and figured he'd make it twenty feet, at the most. Not far enough to escape.

“Keep rowing. We'll pretend we can't hear them,” said Andrei. He waved at the Cossacks.

The Cossacks gawked at each other with bewildered expressions as the boat moved past them.

“Come to shore. That's an order,” shouted the same Cossack, in a louder voice.

Andrei held his hand behind his ear. “Can't hear you,” he said, opening his mouth wide as if yelling, but speaking at a normal level.

The Cossacks gestured madly with their hands and pointed at the boat. Cyril increased his pace, rowing furiously and smiling, in the hope that the Cossacks didn't notice his efforts. The river bent to the right and widened, enlarging the space between the Cossacks and the boat. Within minutes, the Cossacks were specks in the distance.

“That was close.” Cyril stopped rowing and hunched forward, exhausted.

Sergei took the oars and kept going. “We can't stop. They could still catch us.”

“There will be more,” said Andrei.

Cyril breathed heavily, his shoulders rising and falling as he recovered from their narrow escape. Sergei rowed as fast as he could, mechanically, like a machine in the factory where he used to work. His shoulders grew numb and blisters formed on his palms, but he did not let up.

An hour later, more Cossacks appeared on the grassy riverbank ahead of them. This time, Andrei was rowing. He tried to paddle faster, but didn't have the strength.

The Cossacks raised their pistols and aimed at them.

“Stop or we will shoot,” said the tallest Cossack.

Sergei peered ahead. The current intensified significantly. “We have to jump and swim underwater as far as we can,” he said. “When the current speeds up, we'll be carried with it much quicker than their bullets.”

“I can't swim,” admitted Andrei in a panic.

“We have no choice,” said Cyril. “Sergei's right. This is the only way.”

“We have to jump now,” said Sergei, “before they decide to shoot. We're dead as long as we stay in this boat.”

“I can't do it,” said Andrei.

Sergei and Cyril looked at each other and frowned. They needed to act fast.

“Good luck, Andrei,” said Sergei.

“Whatever you do, don't tell them our plans,” said Cyril.

“I won't,” Andrei answered. “Good luck.” He would remain in the boat and wait for the Cossacks to pick him up.

Sergei and Cyril dove into the ice-cold water. Sergei heard shots above him. He swam as fast as he could, his body brushing against the muddy bottom of the river. From the corner of his eye, he saw Cyril. This gave him the energy to keep going, to keep holding his breath until he felt as if his lungs were going to burst. Finally Sergei rose to the surface, took a big gulp of air, and went under again. A bullet grazed the water on top of his head and he began to panic. He felt an overwhelming need for air and rose to the surface again. When his head burst from the water, a bullet shot past him, missing his right ear by inches. He breathed in and submerged again.

The current suddenly increased, launching him forward, headfirst. He straightened his legs and held his arms out in front and let the water propel him faster. Moments later, Sergei and Cyril rose to the surface far from the Cossacks and their weapons.

“We need to find something to hold on to,” said Sergei. “So we can float with the current.”

Up ahead, birch logs were caught in the roots of a fir tree. Cyril lunged forward and grasped one of the logs. Sergei followed him.

“Hurry,” urged Cyril. “They may be coming after us.”

“Just let me catch my breath,” said Sergei.

Cyril extracted a log from the roots. “We can hold on to this, as long as the current is strong.”

Sergei threw his arms over the log and it began to move with the current. His legs dangled behind him. The water held him up and carried him onward. His racing heart slowed the farther he moved away from the Cossacks. He relaxed a bit, until he thought about Andrei, whom they had left behind.

20

Fall 1906

Letter to the Editor:
San Francisco Bulletin

RE: Chinese taking advantage of earthquake's destruction, September 17, 1906

I took offense with your article about the Chinese people “underhandedly” bringing their relatives to San Francisco. Yes, it is tragic that City Hall and its Hall of Records were destroyed by the earthquake. And yes, it is clear that many Chinese people are now able to falsely claim citizenship, allowing them to bring more relatives from China, since there are no records stating otherwise. But to suggest, in this story, that “the Chinese population should be deported from the city to the edge of the county,”
as if they were all criminals, is a gross violation of their rights as human beings. In fact the Chinese immigrants to America have made major contributions to the construction of the railway and to the mining industry. For this, they should receive respect for their labors. Instead, we have the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act, which is prejudicial and, in my opinion, should be repealed.

As a Jew from Russia, I understand what it is like to be persecuted for nothing more than being the “wrong” race. I, as well as every Russian Jew, lived under unfair laws imposed by the tsar, which took away our basic rights to vote, own land, go to school, and travel freely. We came to America, land of the free, to get away from these shameful restrictions. On our way here, the people of Shanghai, China took us in without papers, without money, without questions. They gave us refuge when we needed it most. They saved our lives and the lives of thousands of other refugees. The Chinese are a good, hardworking decent people who deserve better. Our great country of America should recognize this.

—Rachel Paskar

After class had been dismissed, Rachel stared numbly at the blackboard that was covered with important dates in American history. Numbers swirled around in her head like moths, forgettable and meaningless. She found memorizing so many dates and events a daunting challenge, but she needed to pass the exam to get her high-school diploma before she could apply for university.

“I feel so stupid,” mumbled Rachel in Yiddish.

“Pardon me?” asked a young man in Yiddish, sitting behind her.

Rachel swiveled around in her chair and raised her eyebrows. “You're from Europe, too?”

The young man with thick, dark hair chuckled. He appeared to be in his early twenties, had a cleft in his chin and skin the color of honey. “A
shtetl
near Minsk. My name is Alexander.”

Rachel placed her hand on her chest. “Rachel from Kishinev.”

“Rachel from Kishinev,” Alexander repeated with deliberation, as if he were trying to memorize the words. His voice was warm and husky. “How long have you been here?”

“Two years. And you?”

Alexander's lips moved silently as he deliberated. “Just over three years. I was eighteen when my brother and I arrived.”

“We should be speaking in English,” said Rachel in English. “Or we'll never sound like Americans.”

“If you wish,” said Alexander, switching to English. “But I don't want to forget my Yiddish either, in case my parents ever come here. They stayed behind with my grandmother, who was too old to travel.”

Rachel explained how she'd come with her sister, Jacob and Marty, how she had nobody left in Russia.

“It must be difficult, being without parents.” His sympathetic voice relaxed her and made her want to keep talking.

“It is,” she said, “and I often worry about the friends I left behind.” Rachel's thoughts jumped to Sergei. She hadn't thought about him in a long time. For some reason, Alexander made her open up about herself more than usual.

“Did I upset you?” asked Alexander. “You look pale.”

“I was just thinking about someone.” She forced a half-smile.

“Let's talk about something else, then,” said Alexander. “What do you do, besides school?”

“I work.”

“Where?”

“I have to go now,” Rachel said, putting a sudden end to the conversation. She stood and gathered her notebook and pencils.

“I'm sorry,” said Alexander. “It is no business of mine, what you do. I just wanted to keep talking to you.”

One of Rachel's pencils rolled onto the floor. She bent down to get it but Alexander moved faster. He handed Rachel her pencil.

“It's fine. I just don't like what I do right now.”

“Well then, what do you want to do?”

She paused. “I want to go to university, but it is taking longer than I expected.”

“University? That is a big dream.”

“I
will
go to university,” she said, bracing herself for a debate. Even in America, men who attended university greatly outnumbered women. The miles between Russia and America had not closed the distance between men and women as much as she'd hoped.

Amusement flickered in Alexander's dark eyes, sending a quick rush of anger through Rachel's veins. She turned her back on him and stuffed her books into her satchel.

“Wait,” said Alexander. “I didn't mean to offend you.” He came up beside her and put his hand on her satchel. He stood a head taller than Rachel. “Please, listen to me.”

“You were laughing at me,” she said. “You think I'm foolish. I can see it in your face.”

“No, I was surprised, that's all. Most girls I meet dream of marriage, not education. You are different. I like that.”

Rachel studied his earnest face.

“Ask me what I'm planning to do,” he challenged her.

“All right. What are you planning to do?”

“My brother and I are going to open a restaurant and serve the best food in all of San Francisco.”

“What?” said Rachel, crinkling her forehead.

“You see!” Alexander pointed at her triumphantly. “You're just as surprised as I was when you said you were going to university.”

They walked, side-by-side, out the classroom door.

“What kind of food will you serve in your restaurant?” asked Rachel as they made their way down the quiet hall.

Alexander frowned. “This is the big question right now. My brother wants to have only Russian food, but I want to open a restaurant that will serve a mix of food—Italian, Polish, and American.”

“That sounds ambitious, too,” said Rachel. “How can you make all these different meals in one kitchen?”

They opened the school door and descended the steps. Alexander turned to face her, walking backwards, his face flushed.

“It will be the biggest kitchen ever, with many cooks,” he said, his voice rising excitedly. “Instead of having to choose one restaurant with one particular food, you will be able to come to mine, where everything will be offered on the menu.”

“When will you open your restaurant?”

“It takes money and we need to find the very best location. Right now we are saving and looking for the right place.” He turned around, facing the same direction as Rachel.

“And you and your brother will need to agree on what kind of food to serve,” said Rachel.

“Yes.” He sighed. “I must learn about running a business also. So many people have failed here, but I won't let that happen to me.”

“That's how I feel about university,” said Rachel. “People often say they are going to apply. Then they change their minds because it takes so much time. They want to earn money quickly. I would rather be poor and in school, than rich and doing a job I detest.”

“You will succeed,” said Alexander. “I am as sure of this as I am that my restaurant will be a great success.”

Rachel shifted her satchel to her other shoulder. “Right now I need to pass the history exam.”

He gave her a lopsided smile that made her shiver. Rachel tucked strands of hair behind her ear.

“Would you like to have a cup of coffee with me?” he asked.

“I don't drink coffee,” said Rachel.

“I'm sure we can find a place that has other things. Tea maybe.”

“Tea would be fine,” said Rachel, stunned at the words coming from her mouth. Nucia would surely disapprove if she knew Rachel had just agreed to go out alone in public with a man, a stranger.

Alexander held her elbow as they walked down the street. Her skin burned and her heart began to pound against her chest. The February air had cooled since Rachel had arrived for her class two hours earlier, yet she felt warm walking beside him.

“What other classes are you taking?” Alexander asked when they came to a busy corner and waited for a couple of cars to drive by.

“Geography,” Rachel replied. “It's hard for me, memorizing all those place names and facts. Next term I'm taking English, my favorite subject.”

They crossed the street and Alexander steered her to the right. “I'm taking English now, and I'm afraid it's not going well.”

“What is your favorite—”

“Math,” he said, anticipating her question. “I love solving problems, and answers can only be right or wrong. There is no in-between like in English, where you are graded on your ideas.”

“I never thought about it like that,” said Rachel. “I just know that I'm better at writing than memorizing.”

They had arrived at California Café and Bakery, a well-lit restaurant with round tables scattered throughout. Alexander chose a table near the window and ordered a cup of tea for Rachel and a coffee for himself. Rachel admired his self-assurance as he spoke affably to the waitress.

“I work at Schindler's Dining Room as a cook,” he said, after taking a gulp of coffee.

Rachel laughed self-consciously. “I am a dreadful cook. Thank goodness my sister cooks or we'd all starve!” She added some sugar to her tea and stirred it.

Alexander finished his coffee and glanced around the bakery. “What do you do when you aren't working or in school?”

Rachel brought her tea to her lips, but it was too hot to drink. She blew on it and set it back down. “I read, but there's never enough time for books. And even when I do have a few spare minutes, I'm so tired I can't keep my eyes open.”

“I go to the Nickelodeon every chance I get,” said Alexander. “Have you been?”

“Only once, but I will go again soon.”

“Maybe we can go together some time,” suggested Alexander. “I could take you.”

Rachel's hands shook as she brought her cup of tea to her mouth. Still too hot. “I will go when I can pay my own way.”

Alexander's eyebrows shot up with alarm. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by that. I just thought it would be fun to go with you.”

Rachel set her cup down. “I'm such an idiot. I always assume the worst—that people look at me with pity. I am a poor immigrant, but I'm also proud.”

“Pride is good,” said Alexander, “but too much will cloud your judgment.”

Rachel took a sip of tea. “You're right. My father used to say that temper gets you into trouble—”

“Pride keeps you there,” said Alexander, finishing her sentence. “My father used to tell me the same thing.”

Rachel looked at him with astonishment. He seemed so familiar to her. Part of her wanted to crawl into his arms and the other part wanted to run away before she got in too deep.

“Is something wrong?” he asked her. “You look worried.”

“I'm just tired. I have to go now.” Rachel stood. “Thank you for the tea.”

“Let me walk you home.”

“It is only a few blocks. I will see you at the next class.”

“Are you sure I can't walk you?”

“I'm sure.” She started toward the door then paused. “By the way, I clean houses,” she told Alexander.

“That is good, respectable work,” he said sincerely.

Rachel shrugged.

“Can I see you again?” asked Alexander.

She looked at him and felt all lit up inside, as if she'd awoken from a deep sleep. “I'd like that.” Rachel turned and walked out of the café, a smile edging across her face.