Rachel's Hope (18 page)

21

“W
e need another boat,” said Cyril. He and Sergei lay on the riverbank to dry.

The current had caused them to drift to the Amur River, the longest river in far-east Russia. The deep water shone like a mirror, the reflection of soaring larch trees casting a clear image on the surface. White-capped mountains rose around them in the distance. The air had cooled with the raw wind that chapped their skin. Sergei stirred and rubbed his arms to keep warm. He slept fitfully as the late afternoon sun dried his clothes.

“I'm starving,” said Cyril, more loudly.

This time, his voice woke Sergei. “Me, too.”

They got to their feet and scoured the area, finding a few dried-out mushrooms and some gooseberries.

“I wish we had a net for fishing,” said Cyril. “There are salmon swimming in the river.”

Sergei began to salivate at the thought of salmon.

“Hand me your overcoat,” Cyril said.

Sergei picked up his gray overcoat, which he'd spread out in the sun to dry. He gave it to Cyril who proceeded to button it and tie off the top using the sleeves.

“We'll use your overcoat as a net,” Cyril explained.

“But I'll need it tonight,” said Sergei.

“We'll share mine.” Cyril pulled the knot tight. He waded into the river and held the overcoat in the water.

“Aha!” Cyril pounced on a fish. After a lot of splashing, Cyril was drenched and the overcoat came up empty.

It took more than an hour, but eventually Sergei's coat held a thrashing fish. Cyril climbed out of the water and hit the fish with a rock until it stopped moving.

Sergei and Cyril tore at the skin with their fingers, and broke off hunks of the pink flesh. They ate every bit of the fish, down to the white bones. A chorus of howling wolves serenaded them from the distance as they ate.

“This was a better meal than we ever ate in exile,” said Sergei.

“I think they were trying to starve us to death.” Cyril sat back, resting his torso against a tree. “It feels good, this new freedom.”

Sergei lay on his back and patted his full abdomen. “I won't feel free until we're out of Russia, out of the reach of Cossacks and police.”

“It's going to take months, a year maybe,” said Cyril, “but we'll get there.”

Sergei watched the sky turn dark. Stars glittered above him. He wondered if Rachel ever looked up at the sky from America, if she saw the same stars, if she was safe.

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

They came to a clearing in the forest, dotted with crudely built log shacks. Colorful homespun clothing hung from tree branches. An elderly woman stepped out of her door, saw Sergei and Cyril, and rushed back inside.

Cyril knocked on the door of the woman's shack at the edge of the clearing. “We have come to ask for help,” he called out.

No sound came from inside.

Sergei glanced down at his gray trousers and shirt, the exile's uniform that had probably frightened the woman.

“We are not criminals,” said Cyril to the closed door. “We were banished for speaking out against the government, not for crimes against others.”

“Who are you?” asked a raspy voice.

An elderly man in a long tunic stood behind Sergei and Cyril. He held a long branch, carved into a walking stick, in his right hand.

“We are political exiles,” Cyril began, “trying to escape from Russia. We have harmed nobody, committed no crimes.”

The old man eyed them blankly.

“We need warmer clothes to get through the winter,” said Cyril. “We will pay you nine rubles for your help. I wish it could be more, but it's all we have.”

“Come.” The man gestured for them to follow him into his rickety shack.

Inside, the old woman sat on a barrel, embroidering a bright red shawl with yellow thread. Her hands, knotted with swollen veins, shook when they entered.

“It's fine,” the old man reassured her.

She went back to her embroidery, but watched them from the corner of her eye.

The old man put some logs in the stove. The smoldering embers ignited, and the fire flared up, producing a comforting warmth that Sergei hadn't felt in a long time. He held his hands in front of the stove and let the heat penetrate his skin. The old man filled a samovar with water and set it on the stove.

“Sit, sit,” the old man said, lifting a bench from the corner.

Sergei hurried over and took one end of the bench. He and Cyril sat on it and the man pulled up a three-legged chair on which he balanced with ease.

“First, we have tea. Then we will get you new clothing,” the old man said.

“Wonderful,” said Cyril. He leaned in closer to the stove, his face flushed from the heat.

Sergei's eyelids began to droop as he grew warm. He tried to force them open, but they were too heavy. His head sunk forward. His arms hung limply. The conversation between Cyril and the old man soon became an unintelligible murmur to Sergei. Then everything went dark.

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

Wind pounded against the walls of the shack. Sergei awakened from his spot on the floor, his body at an odd angle. His neck ached from the cold. Beside him, Cyril slumbered. Sergei propped himself up on his elbows. The fire had gone out, taking its warmth with it. On the other side of the stove, the old man and woman slept.

Sergei put on his shoes and went outside to examine the terrain in daylight. Harsh wind smacked his face. Frost glazed tree trunks and the ground. A train clanged by, so loud it seemed as if it would appear through the woods.

When Sergei went back inside, the old man stirred. Sergei put some logs in the stove, trying to be as quiet as possible. His hands were cold and stiff. He dropped a log on the floor.

Cyril bolted upright. “What's wrong?” he called out.

“Nothing,” said Sergei. “Go back to sleep.”

Cyril yawned and stretched. “It's time I got up.”

The old man woke up. He prodded his wife and told her to get some food ready.

“We don't have much to eat, but we are glad to share it with you,” he said to Sergei and Cyril.

The woman rose and immediately went to work cutting bread.

“You need your food,” said Sergei. “We can find something later.”

“I insist,” the old man said. “You must fill your stomachs before you leave.” He went over to a shabby trunk and began to pull out trousers and coats. “Try these on.” He gave the garments to Sergei and Cyril with shaky hands. “They were my son's.” The old man gazed through the window as if his son were standing there. “He protested against the government and got himself exiled to Yakutsk. He died on the way.”

The old woman sniffed back a sob.

“I'm sorry,” said Sergei.

“That's horrible,” said Cyril. “He is one of the many heroes who have died for the cause.”

The old man looked at Sergei. “Please, put on the clothes.”

Sergei searched for a private spot to change.

“Don't worry,” said the man. “My wife will not look.”

Cyril and Sergei turned their backs to the woman and quickly removed their exile uniforms. As Sergei replaced his with the threadbare trousers and shirt, he straightened his spine and held his head high.

The old man picked up the discarded clothes and pitched them into the fire. They all watched the flames burn the fabric.

“Now I really feel as if we've left exile behind,” said Cyril.

“I'm so glad I will never see those clothes again,” said Sergei, gratefully.

“Food is ready,” said the old man. “Come.”

The woman had set out a plate of black bread on the table. There were also boiled eggs and glasses of steaming tea.

Sergei devoured a piece of bread and an egg and sipped his tea.
This is all I really need
, he thought.
A warm room and food. I could be content to stay here for a while, but it is not safe. The longer we are in one place, the bigger the chance of someone revealing us to the police.

“It's time to go,” said Cyril, once he'd finished eating.

Sergei dropped nine rubles onto the table, leaving them with three for the remainder of their journey. “Thank you for all your help,” he said.

“Wait,” said the man. He lifted a bulging satchel onto the table. “This is from us.” He held the satchel upside down, releasing wax candles, a matchbox, a kerosene lantern, bread, two tattered sheepskin overcoats, scarves, gloves, a net to catch fish, and a blanket.

“This is too generous,” said Sergei.

“It is necessary if you want to travel through Siberia in winter,” said the man.

“We are grateful and will never forget you,” added Cyril. He took a cobalt-blue scarf and wrapped it around his neck.

Sergei put on a pair of gloves and wrapped a red scarf around his neck. For a moment, his mind returned to Kishinev and the day he'd found Rachel's red shawl in the snow where Mikhail had been killed. He'd carried her shawl with him for weeks to remind him of Rachel.

The old woman pushed five rubles back to Sergei. “We don't need much,” she said in a papery-thin voice that sounded as if it hadn't been used in a long time.

The old man nodded in agreement.

“But we promised you nine rubles for your help,” said Cyril.

“I never agreed to take them.” The man walked over to the door and held it open. “Be safe.”

Sergei opened his mouth to argue, but the old man's face was stiff with determination.

“You are good people,” said Sergei.

“It's what my son would have wanted.” He clutched Sergei's hands. “You remind me of him.”

Feeling the man's hands covering his made Sergei wish that this man
was
his father. He didn't want to let go.

“Come, Sergei,” said Cyril, waiting outside.

The old man released Sergei's hands. “Go,” he said.

“I don't even know your name,” said Sergei.

“That is for the best.” The old man pushed him gently, yet firmly, through the door. “Travel safely,” he whispered.

Sergei didn't look back until he and Cyril had been walking for almost thirty minutes. The gray light of day flickered through the trees.

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

Snow fell for a week without letting up. They hibernated in a cave like bears, sleeping most of the time, rising only to eat bread, to suck on snow, and to relieve themselves. As the days wore on, Sergei found it harder to pull himself over the pile of snow blocking the cave's entrance. Sometimes, before he fell asleep, he wondered if he would have the energy to wake up again.

One morning, the snow stopped. A brilliant, light blue sky rose over the endless white tundra.

“We should go, before another blizzard comes,” said Cyril.

“I think we should just stay here until winter's over,” said Sergei.

“Until April, when the marching parties of exiles begin again? We might as well turn ourselves in.”

“What if we can't find shelter tonight?” asked Sergei.

Cyril regarded Sergei with scorn. “If I'd known you were such a coward, I never would have agreed to escape with you.”

Sergei's stomach twisted when Cyril called him a coward. It was the same word his father had used before he'd left Kishinev, the last word his father had said to him.

“I'm ready to go,” he announced to Cyril.

They continued eastward through the pine-covered slopes of the Amarzar ridge. The sunny sky was deceptive. The air had turned bitterly cold. The snow crunched beneath their feet and when they exhaled, smoky swirls danced before their eyes. On their right, the river lay still with a thick glittering layer of ice. Tree branches, loaded with snow and ice, drooped down to the ground.

“We need to find something to eat,” said Cyril, after they'd been walking for hours. Long blue shadows of trees stretched out onto the snow.

Sergei set down the satchel and rummaged through it until he found the net. They went to the river where Cyril pounded on the ice with a rock to make a hole. Sergei stuck the net through the hole and shifted it around.

“Maybe you should keep it in one place,” Cyril suggested after Sergei had been trying without luck for a long time.

Sergei held the net still. Nothing.

“Let me try,” said Cyril.

They exchanged places. Cyril sprawled on the ice and hung the net into the water.

“This isn't going to work without bait,” said Cyril after an hour with no fish. His eyelashes were frozen. He stood and stuffed the net back into the satchel. “We'll try again later.”

They kept going, finding it more difficult as the ground became icier. Sergei tried to put his empty stomach out of his mind, but his energy began to falter. He stumbled and fell a couple of times. He glanced sideways at Cyril, also struggling to stay on his feet.

The ground gradually became more even and the mountains faded into the distance. Sergei surveyed the river, which opened to a flat terrain as far as he could see.

“Give me the net,” said Cyril.

Sergei handed it to him. Cyril knelt down on the river's frozen surface and pounded out a large hole. He crouched over the hole and swung the net back and forth.

“I'll find a place to sleep while you're fishing,” Sergei said.

Cyril nodded.

With more level terrain, the possibility of finding a cave seemed remote. Instead, Sergei hunted for boulders that would shield them from the wind. But he couldn't find more than two together.

“I caught something!” Cyril called.

Sergei rushed back to the river where Cyril proudly held a thrashing speckled burbot in the net.

“We'll save some of the flesh for bait,” said Cyril, once the cod-like fish had died, and they were cutting it open with a jagged shard of ice. “Any luck finding shelter?”

“Only a couple of rocks,” said Sergei. “We'll have to keep a fire going all night to make sure we don't freeze.”