Rachel's Hope (7 page)

Now, with a heavy heart, I must advise you to move forward, to stop writing in Yiddish for
Israel's Messenger
, a small publication with a narrow readership. It is time for you to write stories for big American newspapers, to receive a byline with your full name. You have the talent. I know the English language is an obstacle, but I also know you will soon be writing as if you had been born in America. When you set your mind to something, you don't let anything get in your way.

I suggest you start with this article. Rewrite it in English and submit it to a Jewish publication.

I wish you the best and hope you will send me a copy of your first published article in America.

Sincerely,

N. Ezra, Editor-in-Chief,
Israel's Messenger

7

T
he moon hung low and was slightly obscured by wispy clouds in the Moscow sky. Streetlights shone, illuminating the stone Bolshoy Kamenny Bridge over the glossy Moskva River. It was almost nine o'clock and people still strolled along the Lenvika Street sidewalk, enjoying the warm, summer evening. The sounds of horses trotting and coachmen issuing instructions echoed through the streets. Sergei held his hands behind his back and sauntered toward the riverbank, casting sidelong glances in all directions. One amorous couple sat down on a grassy spot close together and appeared to be fascinated by the half-moon. A family with four little girls, clad identically in white dresses with red sashes, rushed along the sidewalk as if they had somewhere important to be.

Sergei shifted his empty muslin bag from his left shoulder to his right and peered at the couple on the grass. Wrapped up in each other, they took no notice of him. The family with the little girls had vanished. Most important, there were no policemen or Cossacks anywhere in sight.

With his heart pounding against his chest, Sergei moved stealthily downhill to the riverbank. He sat waiting, as instructed by Gorky, facing the river. From the opposite bank, came a whistle and the sound of a train departing Kiyevskiy Station. Mosquitoes circled his head coming closer, until it sounded as if they were in his ears. He swatted at them, a futile exercise, as he could not see the insects in the dark. He felt a sting on his neck and slapped his skin.

“Dammit,” said Sergei. He got to his feet and moved sideways to get away from the cloud of mosquitoes.

As he flailed at the pesky bugs, he noticed a figure coming toward him. Sergei did not realize the figure clad in dark clothing was a woman until she drew near. In the moonlight, he saw fragments of her as she came closer—a long black dress, gray hair, parted in the middle, held in a bun, arched eyebrows over shrewd eyes.

As she stood in front of Sergei, he was struck by the serenity in her face. Though he knew many women were risking their lives and freedom by distributing the contraband
Iskra
, it still shocked him to see one now.

“
Matushka
,” said Sergei to the woman.
Mother
. This was the password he had to give in order to receive the newspapers.

The woman held out a satchel as dark as her dress. Sergei handed her his empty bag and took her heavy satchel, weighed down with copies of the latest edition of
Iskra
. The woman turned and walked alongside the river, disappearing into the shadows like a ghost. Sergei slung the bag over his right shoulder and climbed up to the street. The strap dug into his shoulder. He wondered how far the woman had carried it.

A policeman, smacking his club into his hand, paced up and down the sidewalk, on the lookout for trouble or vagrants. The officer stopped when Sergei appeared.

Sergei looked him in the eye. “Good evening.”

The officer scrutinized him, his eyes lingering on the satchel.

Sergei started to open his mouth, to offer a false explanation for the satchel's contents. Then he remembered Savinkov's warning not to offer any information unless requested. Sergei pressed his lips together. A drop of perspiration from his forehead fell onto the bridge of his nose.

After what seemed like an eternity, the officer nodded at him and continued down the street. Sergei resisted the very strong urge to run as fast as possible. Instead, he walked slowly in the opposite direction.

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

Two weeks later, Sergei tried to push through the angry mob that blocked the road like a brick wall. He gave up and retreated to another street less crowded with strikers. There were so many Moscow factories on strike it was hard to tell where one ended and another began. Protesters flowed together like the current of a turbulent river, moving steadily and quickly over the ground. Thirty thousand workers were now on strike in Moscow, demanding better living conditions and a democratic government. This differed from the Petersburg strikes where workers were asking for better wages and working conditions within factories.

His stomach grumbled as he moved past the closed-down shops with empty shelves. Windows were varnished with frost. Winter would be here soon, bringing its usual bitter cold and blustery wind. Sergei felt dizzy and leaned against a telegraph pole until the spinning subsided. Food had been scarce since the railway workers' strike. Supplies couldn't get into the city. Shops had been drained of food, clothing, and necessities. The lack of medicine forced the hospital to close.

“Shut down the government…down with the tsar…we want the right to vote…give us a Duma with actual power…workers of Russia unite…” The words rang out continuously as Sergei made his way to Gorky's house, weaving his way through the surging mob.

A baby's shrill cry pierced the early evening air. Sergei twisted his head and spotted a panicked mother trying to calm her baby in the crowded street. The child's face appeared pale and drawn. Blue veins almost punctured his temple as he wailed. The infant was hungry.

Sergei turned away in frustration.
How terrible for a parent
,
not to be able to feed a child
. He shoved his hands in his pockets and quickened his pace, not slowing until he reached Gorky's house.

“Moscow has fallen into chaos,” he said as soon as he walked inside.

Savinkov and Gorky sat at the table with a bottle of vodka. The hum of the crowd outside filtered through the window.

“Sit, my friend,” said Gorky, pulling out a chair. “This is what we have been waiting for.”

Savinkov poured himself a glass of vodka and ran the palm of his hand over his hair, which shone with pomade.

“We need to do something big,” said Gorky. “The streets are full of people demanding change. Moscow is paralyzed, but the authorities are hiding, waiting until our energy and resources are depleted.”

“What do you propose?” asked Savinkov.

“We must form a soviet council in Moscow,” Gorky responded. “An organization, not controlled by the government, that speaks for workers. This has already been accomplished in Petersburg.”

“We have the Social Democratic Party,” said Sergei, referring to the revolutionary party established to combine the many rebellious Russian groups into one organization. “Why can't we work within that?”

“Because we need an independent party, dedicated solely to obtaining democracy for all Russian people,” Gorky replied. “We need to organize strikers, and we must urge our supporters not to pay taxes to the government.”

“The time has come for big actions with even bigger consequences,” added Savinkov.

“You've said this before,” argued Sergei. “And we've committed the worst possible crimes in the name of the party. Yet nothing has changed.”

“How can you say that?” said Savinkov. “After all these protests! The people of Moscow have come together to demand freedom. This would not be possible without the revolutionary bombings and assassinations carried out by the Combat Organization.”

“I disagree,” said Gorky. “The pen is the mightiest weapon, much more powerful than any bomb. It is the circulation of
Iskra
and the words of our fellow revolutionaries that have armed the people and given them the hope and courage to fight. This is precisely why everything written in Russia is censored,” continued Gorky in a voice filled with vigor. “Even the authorities recognize the power of language. Words have fired up the people.”

“We must continue circulating
Iskra,
but this is not enough,” said Savinkov. “More people need to know what's happening and how they can join the fight for freedom.”

“What do you propose?” asked Sergei. “More newspapers, until all of Russia is covered in ink?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” said Gorky. “I think we need a leaflet, smaller than
Iskra,
easy to conceal, that can be distributed more easily to the greater population of Russia.”

“Excellent!” said Savinkov. “It could be used to announce upcoming strikes and the whereabouts of supplies to make protests successful.”

“How will we ever pay for this leaflet?” asked Sergei. “We can barely afford to publish
Iskra
.”

“I will put up the money,” said Gorky without hesitation.

Sergei's eyebrows shot up. How could Gorky afford such an expense?

Savinkov raised his glass. “To Gorky…the tyranny will fall…”

“And the people will rise,” said Gorky.

“And the people will rise,” Sergei echoed.

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

“The tsar has signed an Imperial Manifesto!” shouted a jubilant man in the street. It was the thirtieth of October, almost a month since Gorky had proposed leaflets for the Russian people. “He's guaranteed civil liberties for all Russian citizens and legal power for the Duma.”

Sergei was on his way back to Gorky's house after meeting with a new factory manager interested in receiving
Iskra.
He stopped and joined the crowd to hear what was being said. The man's words sounded far away and muffled, as if he were speaking from the other side of a wall. Sergei strained to hear the fellow again, to make sure he'd heard correctly.

“The tsar has given in to the people,” came the same voice. “Freedom is ours!”

Sergei stood on his toes to try and match the speaker with the voice, but to no avail. Too many people stood between him and the baritone-voiced man.

“An Imperial Manifesto…” “Our struggle is over…” “The tsar has answered the people…” Elated voices rippled through the mass of people as they digested the news.

Sergei squeezed through the throng. “Have you heard?” he asked, darting inside Gorky's house. “The tsar has signed a manifesto giving the people what we've been asking for.”

“Savinkov is bringing a copy of this document,” said Gorky, looking up from his writing. “I will reserve judgement until I see the terms of this supposed manifesto.”

“You sound skeptical,” said Sergei, walking over to the bookshelves.

“I don't believe the tsar would bend so easily, my friend,” said Gorky.

Sergei turned and faced him. “You are the smartest man I know, but I hope you're wrong. I want to get on with my life, to do more with my time than protest.”

An hour later, the door burst open. Savinkov marched in like a general preparing for battle. “Just as you thought, Gorky.” He spread a number of pages of foolscap on the table and pointed at one line. “It claims there will be freedom of conscience, speech, assembly, and association. There is the promise that all classes will be able to participate in the Duma, a group of people chosen to represent the people and limit the authority of the tsar.” Savinkov continued, “But the tsar can veto any legislation passed by the Duma, and authorities can continue arresting anyone for speaking or writing against the government.”

“This proclamation is merely a slight dilution of power, not a full reform in favor of the working people as we have demanded,” stated Gorky as he waved Savinkov away and examined each page of the copied document.

Then he stepped back and poured himself a glass of vodka. He drained it in seconds. “I'm afraid this is exactly what I expected, a meager attempt to pacify the people.”

“So nothing has really changed?” said Sergei. “Out on the streets, people who don't know the details of this proclamation are cheering the tsar and believing they have new rights.”

Savinkov dropped heavily into his seat and folded his hands together. “When people find out the truth behind this document, things will get worse.”

“Much worse,” added Gorky.

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

Sergei couldn't move his arms or his legs. Something hard and sharp dug into his skin, cut off his circulation. His hands and feet were shackled. When he tried to break free, the shackles grew tighter. The sound of chains clattering grew louder until they encircled him. An explosion. Smoke filled the air, and body parts, torn and bloody, flew past him—hands, legs, an ear, a foot. Chains slithered around him like snakes, squeezed him tighter and tighter until he couldn't breathe. He gagged; couldn't get enough air; couldn't escape the chains.

Sergei bolted upright and clutched his neck. Perspiration coated his entire body and his throat was parched. He peered around the room. Savinkov lay beside him, snoring robustly. Sergei remembered he was in Gorky's house and exhaled with relief.

I will never be free from guilt,
he thought as he wiped his brow.
Even though I am not behind bars, guilt is suffocating me, destroying me from the inside.

Sergei lay down but remained awake until daylight streamed through the window.

PART TWO

Summer 1905

Naturalization, with us Russian Jews, may mean more than the adoption of an immigrant by America. It may mean the adoption of America by the immigrant.

—Mary Antin,
The Promised Land,
1912