Rachel's Hope (2 page)

“What is in those cans?” she asked the owner, Mr. Bloom, in Yiddish.

His nose twitched. A large man, with a belly that swelled over his waist, he moved slowly, his joints cracking. “White fish,” he replied. “And beside them are peaches, cheaper than fresh.”

“Just a moment,” said Rachel. She searched the shop for Nucia and found her at the back, inspecting the herring.

“Nucia, come with me,” said Rachel.

“Not right now,” answered Nucia. She bent down and peered at the herring lying in a row on ice.

“But I found a way to save money, and we'll eat just as well.”

Nucia straightened her back and gave Rachel a skeptical look.

“Come.” Rachel tugged Nucia's sleeve and dragged her to the front of the store. “Canned food,” she said proudly, as if she'd discovered it herself.

“That's crazy,” snorted Nucia. “Food in a can?”

“It costs less than fresh food, right, Mr. Bloom?”

Mr. Bloom nodded. “Canned food is what everyone's buying these days.”

“Is it kosher?” asked Nucia.

“Of course,” said Mr. Bloom. He rubbed his twitching nose.

“And we all prefer white fish over herring,” added Rachel.

Nucia's gaze shifted from the cans to Rachel and back to the cans.

“Jacob did say he was tired of herring….” said Nucia.

“It's settled,” announced Rachel. “Two cans of fish and two of peaches.”

Nucia paid for their food, Rachel put it in her satchel, and they continued to their boarding house on Sixth Street. Jacob and Menahem, were waiting for them with broad smiles in front of the narrow, wood, three-story building, crammed between a barber shop and a Jewish bakery. Jacob's scrawny frame towered over Menahem, who came to his waist.

“You look like you've swallowed a pot of honey,” said Nucia.

“Jacob is a businessman,” blurted out Menahem. He'd grown since their arrival. His sleeves fell short of his wrists by a few inches, and his trousers stopped above his ankles.

“I borrowed money from the Hebrew Free Loan Association to start my own business as a vendor,” Jacob explained. “I'll be selling food from wholesalers to shops and restaurants.”

“But you don't know anything about running a business!” cried Nucia. The color drained from her face. “And you have a good, steady position sewing shirts,” she added, referring to his factory job at the Standard Shirt Factory.

“I'll never make enough money at the factory to get our own home, and the hours are so long I hardly ever see you.”

Menahem slipped away from Jacob and stood near Rachel. She put her arm over his shoulder and hugged him tight.

“But what if your business fails?” said Nucia. “What if we can't pay back the loan?”

Jacob's jaw muscles tightened. “I expect you to have confidence in me, not think of me as a failure before I even begin.”

“I think Jacob is doing the right thing,” said Rachel. “Sergei wrote about how much he hated working in the factory in Petersburg, remember? He said men were injured every week. You don't want Jacob to get hurt.”

“But Father always warned us never to be in debt to anybody,” argued Nucia.

“This is a different world, and even Father, seeing all the opportunities here, would agree we should take chances to better our lives now.”

Nucia gazed at Jacob with teary eyes.

Menahem tugged Rachel's sleeve. “Why is Nucia crying?”

“Because she's happy. Because she knows she's lucky to have Jacob.”

Rachel watched Jacob wipe tears from Nucia's face and felt a familiar twinge of envy toward her sister for being with the person she loved. She gently prodded Menahem inside.

The familiar odor of chicken soup greeted them. From the day they'd moved in, the cramped vestibule always smelled like chicken, a staple of every boarder's diet, bought from peddlers who hung the unfortunate birds from carts by their necks. Every part of the poultry was consumed—the breast for cutlets, the bones and feet for soup, and the giblets and wings for stew.

Rachel and Menahem went up the flight of stairs to their second-floor flat at the back corner of the building. Three beds with thin mattresses lined the front wall. Menahem slept on the floor, on a pile of threadbare blankets they'd managed to accumulate. An enamel basin and a rectangular table stood in the middle of the room, with four mismatched chairs. At the rear of the flat stood an iron stove fueled by gas. It was quite different from the simple stove they'd used in Russia that burned birch logs. A small window on the back wall faced another building.

The toilet, shared with five other families on the floor, stood in a tiny room in the hall. When they needed a bath, they had to wash at the Lurline Public Baths at the corner of Bush and Larkin. Unlike the bathhouses in Russia, where steam cleansed their bodies, American baths used large pools of seawater for bathing. They were social places where families and friends gathered weekly. The Lurline Baths even contained a waterslide.

Rachel headed directly to the table where she dumped the contents of her satchel. She rummaged through the assortment of cooking utensils they'd inherited from the previous boarders, and found the metal can opener. With a puzzled expression, she attempted, unsuccessfully, to attach the opener to a can of fish.

“Let me try,” offered Menahem. He took the opener and examined it closely. Then he pulled the handles apart and inserted the can. With one hand, he brought the handles back together and twisted the can with his other hand. Seconds later, the tin was open.

By this time, Jacob and Nucia had entered the room. Nucia lit the stove and put the kettle on to boil water for tea. Jacob washed his hands in the basin and sat down at the table where he cut a loaf of day-old rye bread into thick slices.

Using a fork, Rachel divided one can of fish between two plates while Menahem opened the second can. Nucia sliced a cucumber and put a few pieces on each plate. They all sat down at the table to eat.

“
Barukh atah adonai, elohaynu melekh ha-olam,”
said Jacob, reciting the blessing that started every meal.

Rachel stuck a forkful of the fish in her mouth. It felt cold and flaky. A fishy taste spread through her mouth while she chewed. Across the table, Nucia ate her fish carefully. Her expression was unreadable.

“It's good,” said Menahem, breaking the awkward silence.

“Not bad,” agreed Jacob. He finished his fish and started on his cucumber slices.

“I'm glad we didn't have to skin the fish or take the bones out,” said Rachel. “We had supper on the table in five minutes.” She glanced at Nucia to see her reaction.

Nucia finished chewing and swallowed before responding. “It's all right once in a while, but I still prefer preparing meals the way Mother did.”

“Mother didn't have to work out of the house like we do,” said Rachel. “I'm sure she'd appreciate how easy it was to get dinner on the table after cleaning other people's houses all day.”

Nucia stiffened. “Mother would not understand life here, where every day we rush to get to work, rush home, rush to eat, and then rush to bed only to do the same the next day. Back home, her purpose was to be a wife and mother, to take care of our home. But here there is no time or energy to be the women we are expected to be.”

“You needn't be so hard on yourself,” said Jacob. “We can't feast every night.”

“Jacob's right,” added Rachel. “This was a fine supper and—”

“We can have a dinner like this once a week,” said Jacob. “To give you a break.”

Menahem coughed and drank his glass of Dr. Pepper, his favorite American drink. “And when Sergei comes, he'll take care of me so you won't have to work so hard.”

Rachel, Nucia, and Jacob stared at Menahem as if he'd just slapped them in the face.

“He will come, one day,” said Menahem, in a meek voice. “Won't he, Rachel?”

From the corner of her eye, Rachel saw Nucia fold her arms and give her a look that urged her to tell Menahem the truth. Sergei would probably never get to America. And, even if he did, he would never find them in such a big country.

“I can't promise,” said Rachel, “but I'll never stop hoping.”

2

S
ergei yanked his head from the train window when he noticed the pudgy carriage conductor checking tickets. He needed to travel without being seen until the train arrived at Moscow, his destination. He flattened his back against the outside of the last carriage and waited for her to finish and move on. He'd been standing outside, at the back of the train for hours. The cold pierced his nose and ears, and the bullet wound in his arm burned, as if the cut had re-opened.

Sergei was a fugitive. He was wanted for belonging to the Combat Organization, a secret revolutionary group that had assassinated Viacheslav von Plehve, Interior Minister of Russia. Von Plehve had supported many anti-Jew pogroms, including the one in Kishinev, where Rachel had lost her father and her home. So far Sergei had not been caught for his part in the von Plehve murder.

But he'd had a close brush with death. Just a few days earlier, he and thousands of other factory workers, women, and children had marched to the Winter Palace, the tsar's home in Petersburg, to protest for better working conditions, increased wages, and an end to the catastrophic Russian-Japanese War. It had been planned as a peaceful demonstration, but when they arrived, the Russian military opened fire, killing and injuring thousands of protestors. Pavel, Sergei's closest friend at the factory where he'd worked, was killed. Sergei had been grazed in the arm.

Sergei shuddered at the memory of Pavel's lifeless body in the cherry-red snow. Pavel was the second friend Sergei had lost in the fight for worker's rights. His other comrade, Lev, had disappeared during a factory strike, when police shot into the unarmed crowd without warning at another “peaceful” rally.

Now, Sergei leaned against the train window and peered inside as darkness blanketed the sky. The carriage conductor was gone and most of the people in the compartment appeared to be asleep. Pressing his shoulder against the train for leverage, Sergei yanked the door open and stepped inside. The warmth struck his freezing skin like fire. A woman, bouncing a restless baby on her lap, glanced at Sergei with half-open eyes and turned back to her child. An elderly man with translucent skin and a shock of white hair fixed his pale blue eyes on him. The old man blinked and turned away.

Sergei advanced slowly down the aisle, dropping into an empty seat beside a snoring man. The moment Sergei felt the solid seat beneath him, his entire body went limp. He struggled to stay alert, to watch out for the conductor. He caught himself falling forward and jerked his body back into the seat. But the rhythmic sound of the train rolling along the tracks overpowered his will, and before long, Sergei fell into a deep sleep.

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

“Wake up! Show me your ticket and papers!”

Sergei's eyes fluttered open. The train stood silent and still in the Moscow station. The smell of fetid breath spewed from the officer hovering over him.

“He appeared from nowhere,” offered the carriage conductor, with vinegar in her voice. “Must've snuck on.” She stood behind the thin police officer, her body eclipsing his.

Sergei sprung out of his seat, but the officer clamped his hands on his shoulders and shoved him back down.

“I can pay for my ticket,” said Sergei, trying to stall while he figured out a way to escape without the officer discovering his identity. If Sergei showed his papers, he'd be taken immediately to prison.

“Where are you from? How did you get on this train?” asked the officer, his bony hands still on Sergei's shoulders.

“I got on in Petersburg.”

The conductor shook her head, her thin lips set in a hard line.

The officer leaned in closer to Sergei so that their faces were an inch apart. “You're lying,” he said. He grabbed Sergei's wounded arm and yanked him to his feet. Sergei clenched his teeth to keep from crying out in pain.

The officer dragged Sergei down the aisle and out of the train where a chestnut horse stood waiting. The air was harsh and gritty. Smoky clouds hung low in the sky.

“No,” said Sergei, trying to wrench himself free from the officer.

“Yuri, what the devil are you doing?” The white-haired man from the train appeared from the station and gave Sergei a look of annoyance. The skin beneath his eyes was shadowed and wrinkled. “Where have you been? I've been searching all over for you?”

“Do you know him?” asked the officer, shaking Sergei when he spoke.

“He's my nephew, Yuri Brovkin,” said the old man. “And I am Dimitry Kalyayev.”

The officer examined Sergei and the old man, as if he were trying to find a resemblance between them. “Why weren't you with him?”

“He was asleep when we arrived, so I woke him and told him to meet me on the platform,” Dimitry replied.

“Where are you headed?” asked the officer.

“Here, Moscow.” Dimitry handed the officer some money, a bribe.

The officer glared at Sergei.

Dimitry handed the officer more money.

Sergei held his breath.

The officer shoved Sergei toward the old man. “Keep an eye on him,” he said. “Next time I might not be so kind.”

The officer mounted the horse and rode off, kicking the animal's sides with a vehemence that made Sergei's insides prickle.

“Why did you help me?” Sergei asked Dimitry when they were alone.

“I recognized you from the photo in the newspaper.”

“What are you talking about?”

The old man removed a folded newspaper from under his arm and pointed to an article about the Combat Organization's activities, with members' names beside their photos. Sergei's identification photo from the factory had been published, a grainy picture showing his black hair and defiant expression. Though Sergei now wore a beard, Dimitry had recognized him.

“If I were a younger man,” said Dimitry, “I'd be the first to join the Combat Organization.”

“What am I going to do?” gasped Sergei. “Where will I go?”

Dimitry ripped a page of the newspaper, scribbled something in the margin, and handed it to Sergei. “Go here. It's a safe house with other revolutionaries.”

Sergei examined the address and crude map Dimitry had drawn of Moscow, a succession of concentric rings with the Kremlin and Moskva River in the center.

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“What other choice do you have?” Dimitry turned and started to walk away. The light from kerosene lanterns hanging from poles above him cast a warm glow on his silhouette.

Sergei watched Dimitry disappear into the intricate fabric of Moscow. He peered at the map and headed south, toward the factory district, crossing a bridge over the Moskva River. The water was dark as slate, with buildings mirrored on the surface. The cold air stung the tops of Sergei's ears and his cheeks.

After walking for a half hour, Sergei found himself in an area with small factories and narrow streets. He made his way to Volgogradsku Prospekt and located villa number six, a brightly lit, two-story wood house. The surrounding houses were dark and foreboding in comparison. Sergei raised his hand to knock on the door, and hesitated. Why would a house of revolutionaries be lit up? He checked the number again. Six. Clenching his jaw, he tapped lightly on the door.

A broad-shouldered man in his late thirties with a chunky moustache opened the door. He wore a white shirt with a high, stiff collar, gray trousers, and tall black boots. His pomaded hair was combed back over his head.

“I'm Sergei Khazhenkov. I've come from the factory demonstrations in Petersburg,” said Sergei. “Dimitry Kalyayev told me to come here.”

The man scrutinized him intensely making Sergei regret his decision to trust a stranger. Sergei stepped back. “I'm sorry—”

The man's eyes, small and dark like coal, rested on Sergei's injured arm and softened with compassion. “Enter.” He opened the door wider and ushered Sergei inside.

“I'm Gorky, Maxim Gorky,” he said genially once the door had closed behind Sergei. “You are welcome here.”

Sergei nodded and studied the cluttered room. A long table, strewn with newspapers, dominated the space. A worn sofa stood in one corner, and shelves, stuffed with books and magazines, lined two entire walls from floor to ceiling. Sergei moved closer and peered at a couple of revolutionary titles:
The Vagrant
by Vladimir Korolenko and
The Lower Depths
by Maxim Gorky.

“You're a writer?” asked Sergei.

“Guilty,” answered Gorky. He clasped his hands behind his back.

“Aren't you worried the police will discover these books?”

“I've been arrested and imprisoned so many times I've lost count,” Gorky said with indifference. He unclasped his hands and stroked his moustache. He picked out his own work,
The Lower Depths,
and thumbed through its pages.

“You like to read?” Gorky asked Sergei.

“I read when I can,” Sergei replied.

Gorky handed the book to Sergei. “You must always make time to read, or you will grow stale and ignorant.”

Sergei leafed through the book, read a couple of paragraphs, but his eyes were too tired to focus. The words blurred on the page.

The door opened, letting in a gust of cold air. A familiar voice boomed: “Well, now, here's a face I never thought I'd see again.”

Sergei lifted his head and saw Boris Savinkov standing in the doorway, holding a bulging satchel over his shoulder. Savinkov, a small, compact man with a perfectly groomed moustache, had been the leader of the Combat Organization in St. Petersburg. He was the one who had arranged the assassination of Viacheslav von Plehve, the anti-Semitic Minister of the Interior.

“How…Where…” Stunned to see his former comrade, Sergei could not string together a clear sentence.

Savinkov grinned and shut the door. He lumbered over to the shelves and dropped the satchel. “Almost didn't recognize you with the whiskers,” he said to Sergei. He rubbed his hands together and inspected Sergei's face. “It suits you, the beard.”

Sergei's heart lurched. His father had been called “the Beard” because of his long whiskers. It was hard for Sergei to think about his father.

“I see that introductions are unnecessary,” said Gorky. He yanked open the satchel and pulled out a bundle of newspapers.

“We know each other well,” said Savinkov. “We even know each other's secrets, don't we, Sergei?”

“I wish I'd never met you,” said Sergei in a curt tone, annoyed about Savinkov's obvious allusion to his part in the von Plehve assassination.

Savinkov feigned dismay. “Surely you don't hold your own actions against me?”

“We went too far,” said Sergei. “Innocent people were killed because of your decision to use a bomb.”

“Much as I'm enjoying this heartfelt reunion,” Gorky interjected, “I suggest we drop the past and focus on the future.”

“Outstanding idea.” Savinkov poured himself a glass of vodka and sat down at the table.

Gorky and Savinkov inspected the newspapers, ignoring Sergei. Sergei glanced at the door. He could leave and never see Savinkov again. Except he had nowhere to go, no money, and his injured arm ached.

“Are you just going to stand there all night?” said Gorky, interrupting Sergei's train of thought. He gestured for Sergei to join them.

Sergei walked slowly to the table and glanced at the newspaper,
Iskra,
Russian for
spark
.

“From a spark, a flame will be kindled,” explained Gorky. “That's
Iskra's
motto.”

“This newspaper supports our movement,” added Savinkov. “The tsar's secret police have been trying to stop it from being published for ages. We print it in Switzerland and we are just starting to distribute it throughout Moscow.”

Sergei rubbed his eyes and scanned the lead article:

“In England, where the idea of a parliament originated, people from all classes are elected and together they make their decisions in the people's best interest. It is a fine example of a working democracy. Not so in Russia, where autocracy has now been wrapped in silk, disguised in a pretty parcel that is empty and void of all meaning when opened
.
”

Gorky glanced over Sergei's shoulder and grimaced. “My grandfather was a mean man who beat me without remorse. But he didn't hide. He even admitted his shortcomings. I knew what to expect. Now, seeing how the tsar is hiding behind a noble façade, I fear him more than I once feared my grandfather. One swindler is more dangerous than ten honest, violent men.”

Sergei weighed Gorky's words carefully before responding. “You don't think the tsar will ever give the people more power or freedom?”

“I would like nothing better than to believe in the man and his government. But faith and skepticism are as opposite as love and hate.”

Savinkov raised his brow at Sergei. “You want to help distribute this paper?”

Sergei flipped through the pages, his pulse rising as he considered this offer. He could hide quietly at Gorky's, without taking the risk of being seen and identified, and let his wounded arm heal properly. Or he could abandon caution, spread the message of democracy by distributing a paper that he believed in, and once again become a potential target for the police.

“It won't be easy,” Sergei began, “getting the papers out to readers without drawing suspicion.”

“When everything is easy, my friend, one quickly gets lazy,” Gorky retorted.

“We must be smarter than the police.” Savinkov tapped his head with his index finger. “We must make our deliveries in the early evening, when there are people all around, before the streets are cleared of everyone except officers.”

“Moscow workers are the lowest paid in all of Europe,” Gorky explained to Sergei. “We need to circulate these papers to every Moscow factory so that workers see the benefits of coming together to fight for better wages and shorter hours.”