Rachel's Hope (20 page)

He studied Rachel with an intensity that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She increased her stride, moving out from under his arm.

“Slow down,” said Alexander, reaching out for her. “Do you always walk so fast?”

“Perhaps you walk too slowly,” she teased him.

Alexander chuckled and caught her shoulders. “I've never met anybody like you.” He shifted his body so that he faced Rachel, brushing against her as he turned. He brought his face to hers and kissed her on the lips. It all happened so fast, Rachel wasn't sure if it was real, or if she'd imagined the whole thing.

Her eyes met Alexander's. He kissed her again, a lingering kiss that made her legs weak. When he lifted his lips from hers, she wished that their kiss could go on forever. But the clip-clop of a horse leading a carriage broke the mood. Alexander put his arm around Rachel's shoulders, and they continued walking. Rachel felt dizzy and shocked by the fact that she'd kissed a man in public. Even more surprising was how much she liked it.

One block away from Steiner Street, they came to a run-down building that hosted boxing events. The billboard on the sidewalk advertised a boxing match that evening with Abe Attell pitted against Patrick Williams.

“Abe Attell,” said Rachel. “That's the boxer Marty talks about…” Her sentence ended abruptly when she saw Marty and his friend, Dan, come out the door of the building where the boxing match was taking place. Men began spilling out of the door, their voices loud and exuberant.

“What is it?” said Alexander.

“Marty…he's not supposed to go to boxing matches.”

“Do you want me to get him?”

“No, I'd better.” Rachel looked up at Alexander. “I'm sorry.”

“You go. I understand,” said Alexander. He squeezed her shoulders.

She ran after Marty, calling his name until he spun around. Astonishment passed over his face, followed by alarm.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Rachel. “This is no place for you or Dan.”

Dan, fair-haired with a stubby nose, slunk into the shadows.

“We wanted to watch a real fight,” said Marty. “We didn't do anything wrong.”

“You lied to us. You knew we didn't want you going to a fight.”

“I'm sorry.”

“What do you have to say for yourself, Dan? Do your parents know you're here?”

“Not exactly,” the boy replied sheepishly.

“You won't tell on him, will you?” asked Marty.

“That's up to Dan,” said Rachel. She grabbed Marty's arm and yanked him down the street.

Dan fell in behind them.

“Do you have to tell Nucia and Jacob?” Marty asked, once they'd seen Dan to his door.

“Of course. We don't lie, and we don't keep secrets from each other,” said Rachel.

“Please, just this once, can't it be our secret?”

Rachel gripped his arm tighter in response.

Marty hung his head and scowled the rest of the way to their flat. They ascended the stairs slowly, heavily. Rachel hesitated before opening the door. Inside, Nucia was pouring water into a bowl of grains to be soaked overnight for breakfast. Jacob sat at the table with a map of the city and a pencil, planning a route for his next day's deliveries.

Still holding onto Marty's arm, Rachel announced that she'd found him coming out of a boxing match.

Jacob dropped his pencil on the floor. It made a cracking sound as it landed and bounced twice. Nucia's eyes darted from Jacob to Marty and back to Jacob.

Rachel let go of the boy and folded her arms.

“Why,” asked Jacob, “after we told you not to go?”

“I just wanted to see a real fight.”

“But you disobeyed us,” said Nucia.

“You have to be punished,” said Jacob. “For the next week, you will come right home after school. No going out in the evenings or seeing your friends.”

Marty stared at them, his face reddening with anger. “I hate all these rules!” he shouted. “My grandmother would never have been so mean.” He ran to his cot and threw himself down onto his stomach.

“Maybe we are being a bit harsh,” said Rachel. “He's only eleven, and he didn't hurt anyone.”

“You have to be hard on boys,” said Jacob. “My father was strict with me, and I'm grateful now. One day Marty will feel the same.” He went back to his map.

“Jacob is right,” said Nucia. She draped a muslin cloth over the bowl of grains.

Rachel glanced at Marty sobbing, curled up into a ball. When Nucia and Jacob weren't watching, she handed him the bag of candy she'd bought.

“Go away,” he said, knocking the bag off his cot with his hand.

She set the bag on his cot again. “I'm sorry you're upset,” she whispered.

He didn't respond.

She sat in her own bed, close to his. A moment later she heard the crackling sound of the paper bag. Marty put one of the Japanese candies in his mouth. Rachel watched as he ate all three candies. She was glad she'd bought them for him.

Marty rolled onto his side and soon fell asleep. Rachel studied his face, which looked innocent and sad, and wished this new life wasn't so difficult for him.

San Francisco Bulletin,
March 30, 1907

EUROPEAN JEWS IN SAN FRANCISCO FACE DIFFICULT DECISIONS

By Rachel Paskar

San Francisco was founded and populated largely by immigrants, yet Jews who have emigrated from Europe face many challenges today. Not only are there language barriers for these Jews, including this writer, who arrive speaking Yiddish, there are also cultural differences that make it hard for Jews to determine whether they want to blend into the crowd or stand out.

European Jews in San Francisco are often anxious to shed their conventional clothing and hairstyles soon after they arrive. This is especially true for children like eleven-year-old Dan Levy, who attends school with students from all over the world. Looking very much like a local boy, and even shortening his name to sound more American, however, has not made Levy completely happy.

Like many of his immigrant counterparts, Dan is not fond of the knickerbocker-style trousers, and he has struggled to keep up with American-born boys who have been playing baseball since they could walk.

“The guys tell me I don't know how to throw the ball,” says Dan. “I practice for hours but I'll never be as good as them.”

Dan's obvious desire to fit in here has caused some difficulties at home. His mother, Rebekah, wants her family to retain many of their Jewish traditions. She is concerned about the pressure to integrate into American society as reform Jews, “people who hide their faith six days a week.” Rebekah says that her husband has been forced to open his shoe store on Saturdays, the Sabbath, to accommodate American shoppers, who worship on Sundays. This means her husband never attends services at the synagogue.

Problems for Jews in California and America go back to the beginning of this century, with controversial arguments for total assimilation. The Reverend Dr. Joseph Silverman stated in a 1902 sermon in New York City, that “the immigrant Jew must learn the language, ways, and manners of the land in which he lives and lose his foreign identity.” Silverman went on to say that an immigrant Jew “must look like an American and act like an American, but in religion must maintain his distinctive character.”

The challenge of maintaining religious traditions while embracing an American identity, is proving to be so difficult for some families that Judaism is vanishing within new generations. Sixteen-year-old Frances Bransten is the daughter of William Haas, who emigrated from Bavaria. Frances says that there is very little Jewish instruction in her home, and that “my parents seem to favor American customs over Jewish ones. We often dine on sizzling bacon and gorgeously glazed hams, and at our last Christmas party, a glazed suckling pig was the centerpiece for our table. Mother does speak about our relatives in Bavarian villages, but describes them as living in the old world, as stubborn people who refuse to light the fire in bitter cold weather because of the Sabbath.”

While the Haas family has readily embraced American culture, other people, like Joseph Brandon, struggle with the new ways and attitudes. Brandon refused to attend his eldest daughter's wedding because she married an Irish Catholic. “What can I do?” Brandon said in an interview at his California Street home. “My daughter is twenty-eight years old. I brought her up in the religion of her ancestors, and even went so far as to send her kosher meat when she was away in the summer.”

European Jews in San Francisco seem to be stuck between two worlds, sacrificing their culture for new identities. They cling to their past, yet yearn for acceptance. Joseph Brandon and his daughter, divided by their differences, are drifting apart as he holds onto the rituals of the past and she tries to shed them like a winter coat. European Jews are caught in the middle of a river, on a raft without oars, trying to steer into the future without a map, without directions, without certainty. Dan Levy sings The Star-Spangled Banner at school while Rebekah Levy chants age-old prayers, passed on by her ancestors. Frances Bransten is content with her American life, but does admit to being curious about Jewish traditions. Yet, when asked if she wants more religion in her life, she is quite clear: “Why make a stand for Jewish ideals? Why not choose the easier way and be like all the rest?”

23

A
series of loud cracks from ice on the Amur River announced the end of winter. Massive ice wedges, piled haphazardly on top of one another, shifted as the temperature rose.

At daybreak each morning, Sergei and Cyril gathered their scant belongings and continued following the river eastward. A tinge of warmth in the cold air hinted at spring. Hope.

The sun shone brighter and warmer as the days wore on. Sergei lifted his face to the sky and felt the heat on his skin. The chunks on the river melted, and the water level reached the top of the riverbank.

Rocky precipices appeared, making walking cumbersome. Wet from the melting ice and snow, Sergei's feet slipped and slid, slowing his pace. The clay shale that layered the edges of the rock face steamed constantly—a misty, hot spray that looked out of place within the winter landscape.

One late afternoon, underneath the orange glow of the setting sun, Sergei and Cyril came upon an empty boat tethered to a tree. Not far from the water's edge, the stout owner lay asleep, on his back, his hands folded together as if in prayer. Cyril crept toward the boat and untied the rope. Sergei followed, watching the sleeping man from the corner of his eye. They stepped into the boat and slowly lowered themselves until they were seated.

Cyril dropped the oars into the water, pushed off from the riverbank and began rowing with the current. Sergei visualized the map as they progressed. They would travel along the Amur to Khabarafka, up the Issuri River, and across Lake Khanka to Vladivostok. It wasn't until they'd been on the water for more than an hour that Sergei realized he felt no remorse for stealing another man's boat. All his morals had been forgotten in order to survive.

I don't know if I should even try to find Rachel if I get to America
, he thought.
Rachel and Menahem should have an honest, clean start to their new lives. They don't need to be saddled with a criminal like me. With my depraved history, it might be best to leave them alone.

“We're going too fast!” shouted Cyril, several hours later.

“I can't slow down,” cried Sergei, pressing hard against the rushing water.

They were just below the Bureya River. The Amur had suddenly narrowed, and the current's force had doubled. Sergei fought to keep the boat in the middle, but the stream pulled it left, narrowly missing a rocky gorge.

“I'll take an oar.” Cyril, crouched to keep from tipping the boat, made his way to the middle, and slid down beside Sergei.

“Pull,” said Sergei.

With two hands on each oar, they pulled back in unison. They lifted their oars up, brought them forward, and dipped them in the water once more.

“Pull,” Sergei hollered.

They rowed again but the boat turned sideways, facing the gorge.

“Hold your oar in the water against the flow,” Sergei said. “If we can just keep the boat steady, like this, we'll move with the current.”

They steadied their oars on both sides of the boat, and rolled along with the current for hours. Sergei's arms grew numb with fatigue and his hands bled. But when he saw the rocky, unforgiving surface of the gorge, he summoned the strength to continue.

With no safe place to disembark, Sergei and Cyril were forced to hold the boat like this all night. The gorge cast a looming shadow over them, an unceasing reminder of where they'd end up, battered and broken, if they lost control of the boat.

Thirsty, hungry, and exhausted, Sergei fell onto his back, still clutching the oar, when the current finally abated early the next morning.

Cyril rowed them to the marshy edge, secured the boat and collapsed on the ground.

“Do you hear that?” asked Sergei.

“I don't hear anything,” Cyril replied in a croaky voice.

“That's what I mean. It's so quiet all of a sudden.”

No reply from Cyril.

Sergei lifted his head. Cyril was sprawled on the ground, fast asleep. Sergei considered moving onto the shore, but fell asleep before he could roust himself from the boat.

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

A clear, endless blue sky hung above Sergei at daybreak. He grabbed hold of the sides of the boat and pulled himself up. Cyril, in exactly the same position he'd fallen asleep in, slumbered on. Sergei was about to get out of the boat when a soft splashing sound stole his attention. He looked left, toward the flat river. A white crane with a red crown foraged in the reedy water not far from him. Its olive-green bill jabbed down into the water and its head shook violently. When it raised its head, the bird was eating the fish it had caught.

A little farther away, a second crane foraged for food. Sergei remained still, so as not to startle them. His gaze moved beyond the birds, to an endless marsh, and flat, murky water, broken into channels and scattered with ponds. He dropped his fingers in the cool water; it eased the pain in his throbbing hands.

Sergei leaned over, cupped his hands together, and filled them with water. He slurped it eagerly. It had a distinct grubby taste but was better than the water he'd drunk in prison. He grabbed the fishing net, untied the boat, and pushed off from the riverbank with an oar.

One of the cranes gave him a curious look and continued to hunt for food. Sergei dragged the net through the water for half an hour without success. He scowled at the cranes, who seemed to find no shortage of fish.

“You're taking them all,” he said aloud to the bird closest to him. “Find someplace else to fish.”

“Who are you talking to?” asked Cyril, standing on the riverbank with his hands on his hips.

“These cranes are eating all the fish.”

Cyril snorted. “Talk all you want. I don't think they're listening.”

“Very funny. Why don't you—” The net jerked in his hands. He lifted it from the water to find a perch writhing in the net. He held on for several minutes, until the fish stopped squirming, then set it down and rowed back toward Cyril.

“I would give anything to be able to eat this cooked,” said Sergei. He bit off a piece of the perch's flesh and chewed. He imagined eating a slab of beef, but an oily, fishy taste filled his mouth.

Cyril licked his lips. “I wish we could have a big plate of
pelmeni
and
pirozhki
. Once we're back in civilization, I'm never eating fish again.” He sighed and gnawed at the perch. “We'll leave here tomorrow, after we rest.”

Sergei swallowed his last mouthful of fish and nodded. They sat contentedly, taking in the pleasant scenery: cranes dipping their bills into the marshy water, dragon flies darting by, the slight ripple in the calm water, the tall grass bowing in the wind, fishing boats skimming the river's surface.

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

Something bumped against the bottom of the boat. They were on the Sungari River that was yellowish-brown from silt.

“Did you feel that?” asked Cyril, rowing while Sergei rested.

“Must be a large salmon or carp,” said Sergei. “I've seen lots over the last couple of hours.”

“Good. We won't have any trouble fishing for our supper.”

Another thud, stronger and louder.

“I don't think that fish likes us being here,” said Cyril.

“He'll have to get used to us,” laughed Sergei. “We're bigger than he is.”

Another bang, this time right under Sergei, as if the fish didn't appreciate his humor.

Sergei jumped up, rocking the boat. “There must be more than one down there.”

“Stay still,” cautioned Cyril. “We'll be in the water if you jump like that again.”

Sergei sat back down. A strong wallop thrashed the side of the boat. Sergei leaned over to look and froze. Staring back at him was the largest fish he'd ever seen. The open mouth revealed spikes for teeth. Long whiskers protruded from each side of its head. Judging from the dorsal fin sticking out of the water, the mammoth fish had to be about eighteen feet long. The fish submerged and disappeared underneath the boat, bashing it with its tail as it swam.

“Can sharks live in freshwater?” Sergei asked.

“Sharks? Of course not.”

“Are you sure?”

Cyril stopped rowing and looked over the side. “I think you need more sleep, Sergei. Your mind is playing tricks on you.”

“Just don't take your eyes off the water.”

Cyril shook his head and kept rowing. “We don't have time for this. You're the one who wanted to make it to Khabarofka in one week, remember?”

“If this fish attacks us, we'll be lucky to make it anywhere in one piece,” said Sergei.

“The sun is making you see things that aren't there.” Cyril chuckled and glanced over his left shoulder. “What…?” He stopped rowing. All the color drained from his face. “It's a kaluga.”

Before Sergei could respond, the fish swam into the side of the boat, rocking it precariously.

“We need to get away from here.” Cyril attempted to row, but only one oar moved. He tried to lift the other one but couldn't. “It's got the oar,” he cried. “That thing is eating the oar!”

“Can't you pull it away?” asked Sergei.

“Have you seen the size of this fish? It must weigh over a thousand pounds. There's no way I can get the oar from its mouth.”

“Just keep pulling. It will have to let go eventually.”

“I wish I had a gun,” said Cyril. His arm twitched as he struggled to hold onto the oar.

The fish let go of the oar but not before taking a chunk out of it. Cyril set both oars down at his feet and gripped the sides of the boat. Suddenly they rose up, out of the water. The fish had swum directly under them, pushing the boat upwards. It landed back in the water with a thump.

Cyril and Sergei were afraid to move. The fish came at them again, this time from the side, with a big whack. They rocked so violently that their hands dipped into the water. Another hit from the other side spun the boat even faster and harder. And another push from under the bottom.

The boat pitched to one side, spilling Sergei and Cyril into the water. It drifted nearby, upside down. The oars floated past.

“Grab them,” said Sergei. He managed to snatch one.

Cyril swam after the other and retrieved it.

The kaluga still moved under the capsized boat, rocking it with its fins and tail. After a few minutes, it swam downstream. Sergei and Cyril put their oars on the boat, extended their arms across the bottom, and kicked toward the riverbank.

“Where there's one kaluga, there are many,” said Cyril, once they'd safely reached land and secured the boat. “How will we ever get to Vladivostok if we run into more of them?”

“We won't,” said Sergei.