Rachel's Hope (10 page)

Rachel wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly. Did he mean what he said?

Hugh returned to the desk with an armful of newspapers. “Here are some back issues with features about immigration. You can read them to get a better idea of the kinds of pieces we publish.” He placed the newspapers on the desk in front of Rachel and resumed his seat. “If you have any story ideas that you think might be good for the
Bulletin
,” Hugh continued, “come talk to me. I'm always willing to listen to new suggestions.”

“She should also start writing letters to the editor, don't you think?” said Anna. “That's a good way to get her name in print.”

“Excellent idea,” agreed Hugh. “That would certainly be a good way to position yourself as a strong, female immigrant voice.”

“Thank you both so much for your encouragement,” Rachel said.

Anna gave her an affectionate squeeze.

Hugh replied, “You can thank me by filing a good story for us one day.”

Then he turned to Anna. “And you, Anna, am I going to see you again before you go?”

“Maybe. I'm not sure,” said Anna.

“More importantly, have you told your father about your trip to Russia?”

“Your father doesn't know you're going to Russia?” asked Rachel, surprised.

Anna shifted in her seat. “Not exactly. He thinks I'm going to Geneva, to interview Russian political exiles.”

“Anna.” Hugh shook his head. “You must tell him the truth.”

“He would do whatever he could to stop me,” said Anna, rising to her feet. “Now, Hugh, we've taken enough of your time.”

Rachel picked up her book and newspapers and made her way to the door, behind Anna.

“It was good meeting you, Rachel.” Hugh accompanied them to the door. “Don't be a stranger. I really would like to see you write for me.”

“Thank you, again,” said Rachel. “I
will
stay in touch.”

After they said good-bye, Rachel felt as if she were walking on air.

“I hope I made a good impression. I won't be able to sleep for days, I'm so excited. This was the best surprise ever,” she said.

“I haven't done much,” cautioned Anna. “You still have to come up with a good story and write it well. Hugh accepts only the best.”

“I can't believe you haven't told your father the truth,” said Rachel to Anna as they descended the stairs. “You are not going to let him find out when he reads the newspaper and sees that you are corresponding from Russia, are you?”

Anna didn't respond. She increased her pace.

“You are,” said Rachel.

Anna stopped and pivoted around to face Rachel. “My father never questions what my brothers do, only what I do. He is overprotective of me because I'm a woman. Doing what I need to do, even if it means lying to my parents, is the only way I know to live my life.” She stopped talking and resumed walking very quickly down the street.

As she hurried to keep up with her friend, Rachel mulled over Anna's predicament. Though life was infinitely better for women in America than in Russia, men still had more opportunities here.

“I understand,” said Rachel. “I won't say a word. I just wish it didn't have to be this way.”

“So do I,” said Anna.

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

Standing outside the Strunsky's opulent Victorian home on Golden Gate Avenue, Rachel had second thoughts about entering. She had been here several times to tutor Anna with her Russian, but this house was still intimidating with its ornate pillars and its intricately carved trim around the windows. It was the day before Anna's departure and her parents were throwing a going-away party for their daughter for what they thought was a short trip to Geneva.

Rachel wasn't nervous about the event itself, but she was uneasy about lying to Anna's family.
I could always tell Anna I wasn't feeling well,
she thought.
But then I'd be lying, too. And I wouldn't get to say good-bye to her.
With a strong sense of dread, Rachel ascended the wood steps and knocked on the door.

The house bustled with people. Tables in the large front room were laden with sweet and savory treats—lemonade, baked apples, cold sliced beef, iced tea, purple grapes, and baked rhubarb dessert. Rachel took a glass of lemonade and a plate of baked rhubarb from the uniformed maid. The ice-cold lemonade tasted sweet. Rachel sipped it and set the glass down on a nearby table. She brought a forkful of the baked rhubarb to her mouth. She'd never tried it before, but after her first bite of the tart fruit, baked with sugar and butter, Rachel decided it was the best thing she'd eaten yet in America. She finished her rhubarb, scraping the plate with her fork to get every last bit. Then she picked up her lemonade and went looking for Anna.

She saw a few familiar faces—some women from the National Council of Jewish Women meeting and some men from the Turk Street Temple, Anna's sister and brother, and Anna's parents. She found Anna in the rear sitting room that overlooked the garden, surrounded by a number of wide-eyed men, like a queen with her loyal subjects.

“Rachel, it's about time you got here,” said Anna. She scooted over, providing a tiny spot for Rachel to sit beside her on the sofa.

Anna introduced Rachel to her friends. Their names buzzed around her head like flies. She nodded politely, knowing she'd never see any of them again.

“Rachel has been helping me speak Russian,” said Anna.

“Did Anna ever stop talking long enough to listen to you?” joked one of the men with heavily lidded eyes and a prominent Adam's apple.

“I bet she knows just enough to ask for the toilet and the nearest restaurant,” said another man with a dark complexion and a head that looked too big for his shoulders.

Anna rolled her eyes at Rachel. “Can you believe these idiots?” she said in Russian.

“I think you frighten them,” Rachel replied in Russian. “They're not used to women like you.”

“I am special, aren't I?” said Anna, knowing they couldn't understand her.

The men looked from Rachel to Anna, confusion written all over their faces. As the two friends continued to speak in Russian, the men got up, one by one, and drifted into the crowd.

“That was so much fun!” Anna laughed. “I am going to miss you.”

“Life will be so quiet with you gone,” said Rachel.

“You'll be busy with school and work. I'll be back before you know it.”

“How are you tonight, Miss Paskar?” Anna's father interrupted them. He filled up the sitting room with his considerable size. He was dark-haired, like Anna, and over six feet tall. The way he looked at Rachel reminded her of her own father.

“I am well,” Rachel replied, in English.

“I don't suppose you can convince our Anna to stay here and forget about this foolish trip to Geneva,” he said, stepping closer to the window. He held his hands behind his back and surveyed the garden.

“Father, please,” said Anna. “You promised.”

“You can't blame a father for wanting his daughter to be nearby and safe.”

Anna rose and went to him. She wrapped her arm around his waist. The two of them stood, gazing out at the garden. Rachel, feeling guilty for knowing about Anna's deception, was about to get up and leave, when Anna's mother sashayed into the room.

“I don't know why we bothered to have this party, when you're hiding back here, Anna,” said her mother. She sounded exactly like Anna, but that was where the similarity ended. Mrs. Strunsky was fair with flaxen hair and deep-set hazel eyes. She reveled in her role as wife and mother, a life Anna staunchly renounced on many occasions.

“Rachel, dear,” Anna's mother continued, “why on earth are you back here when there are so many interesting and eligible young men at the party?”

“I really just want to see Anna,” said Rachel.

“Let them be, Esther,” said Mr. Strunsky. “It's Anna's last night. She can spend it wherever and with whomever she wants.”

Esther sighed and seated herself on the sofa, holding her sapphire-blue dress out to avoid wrinkles. She smelled of fresh lavender. “It does feel good to get off my feet for a minute.”

“Your dress is beautiful,” said Rachel.

“Thank you.” Anna's mother smiled and folded her hands in her lap. “You look tired, my dear.”

“I've been busy,” said Rachel.

“She works during the day and goes to school at night, Mother,” said Anna. “Remember, I told you that the last time you saw Rachel and said she looked tired.”

“That's right,” said Anna's mother. She turned to Rachel. “Perhaps you're doing too much, dear. You really should take care of yourself.”

“I'm fine,” said Rachel.

“Mother,” said Anna. “You need to stop interfering.”

“It's all right,” said Rachel. “It's nice, actually. My mother would have said exactly the same thing.”

Anna's mother pressed her palm against her cheek. “I'm sorry, for reminding you—”

“I don't mind.” Rachel swallowed. “I think of her a lot, especially when I do something for the first time. When I ate my first banana, I wondered what she would have thought of it, whether she would have enjoyed it like Nucia, or hated it like Marty. The first time I saw women her age, in American clothing, I tried to imagine how she would look here. If she would have wanted to wear modern dresses as I do, or if she would have stuck with her Russian clothing like my sister.”

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. Rachel, afraid she had said too much, moved to get up.

“I'm certain your mother would be quite proud of you, dear,” said Anna's mother tenderly.

“And your father,” added Mr. Strunsky.

Rachel's eyelashes grew moist. “I know,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Anna's mother put her arm around Rachel and drew her near. “I hope you will still come around while Anna is in Switzerland. I'll be terribly lonely with her so far away.”

“I'd like that,” said Rachel. “Very much.” She lifted her head and saw that Anna's mother's eyes also glistened with tears.

10

Fall 1905/Winter 1906

S
ergei carefully stacked dynamite in the wood box, preparing it to be transported to the impending Moscow revolt. Though a dozen people had converged on Gorky's small home, and bombs were being built in the basement, it seemed eerily quiet. Only the occasional sound of a pot clanging in the kitchen or a subdued conversation broke the uneasy silence.

There were three taps at the door, the signal from the Volunteer Fighting Squad, which supplied the revolutionaries with weapons. Savinkov ushered in two beefy men carrying burlap bags. He opened one and pulled out a small gun.

“Very good,” said Savinkov, turning the gun in his hand. “A Browning automatic.”

“This is the last delivery,” said one of the men. “We've brought all we can.”

“You've got eighty rifles,” said his partner, “and more than a thousand revolvers and automatic pistols.”

“But we're low on ammunition,” said Savinkov. “Any chance of getting more?”

Both men shook their heads.

“Sergei, bring over one of our signs,” Savinkov called over his shoulder.

Sergei grabbed one of the boards he had designed to recruit volunteers, and handed it to Savinkov. It read:
We need you to help fight for democracy! Every recruit receives a Browning pistol
.

“Can you distribute a few of these?” Savinkov asked the two men.

They nodded.

Sergei bundled some signs together with string.

“Distribute them immediately,” advised Gorky. “We revolt on December fifth, two days from now.”

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

The next afternoon, Sergei dripped with sweat as he sawed through a telegraph pole. Two men dropped a plank from a builder's yard beside him. Across the street, a number of boys wrenched iron railings from their sockets and hauled them over to the growing pile of materials that included doors, advertising boards, and scraps of anything that would add to the growing blockade.

Snow fell, dusting the mound and depositing a thin, sugary layer on the ground. Sergei's saw cut through the pole. He sat back, and surveyed the accumulated supplies. They were building the barricade across Tverskoi Boulevard, where it intersected Mohovaya Road, in order to seize control of the city. The goal was to block all Moscow's main streets from Russian troops. At this very moment, other barricades were being built along the entire circular road surrounding the Kremlin, and wire snares were being set up on side streets, to keep the cavalry's horses from getting too close.

A tramcar appeared down the road. Sergei watched, perplexed, as it moved slowly toward him. The electricity was out, which meant the overhead wires that powered the tram were useless. As the tramcar came nearer, Sergei heard grunting sounds and saw five men pushing it to the barricade. When they reached the intersection, they lifted the car off the tracks and rolled it into the center of the barricade to give it additional sturdiness.

Sergei and the rest of the revolutionaries piled more wood, telegraph poles, doors, and railings against each side of the tramcar. They lashed everything together with wire, and attached a small red flag onto a thin pole. One man hoisted it onto the tramcar and secured it in place.

The number of red flags flying from rooftops had increased dramatically since the previous day.
This is it,
Sergei thought.
The rebellion has begun.

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

Bullets flew inches above Sergei's head. He aimed his pistol and fired. A window came crashing down onto the pavement inches from Sergei. The noise of gunfire and shattering glass assaulted his eardrums. Sergei lowered himself to a crouching position behind the trunk in the barricade.

From behind, a revolutionary threw a stick of dynamite at the police. The explosion made Sergei jump. An officer's horse veered backwards onto its hind legs and whinnied. Sergei felt a pang of sympathy for the innocent animal, and was relieved to see it hadn't been injured. Smoke from the bomb shrouded the street for a few minutes. When it cleared, the corner of a building had been blown out, and the officers had retreated. For now.

The noise receded as the officers withdrew, but Sergei remained as tense as he had been since the revolt had begun four days earlier. The smallest sound made him flinch, and his hands shook uncontrollably.

“You're to return to Gorky's,” said a high-pitched voice close by.

Sergei jerked his head toward the sound, which came from a scrawny boy of ten or eleven.

So young! Menahem would be about your age
, Sergei thought.

He made his way east, to Gorky's house, constantly glancing over his shoulder to see if the police were following him. But now the revolutionaries controlled the streets. As he moved along the ring road, he encountered four more barricades manned by workers, students, and even some bourgeois who'd had enough of the government's brutal authoritarian control.

Veering off the ring road, Sergei turned south into a labyrinth of side streets. At an alleyway, he came upon a motley collection of disheveled girls and boys throwing up a barricade made of chairs, shutters, benches, and logs. Sergei helped them position a shutter on top of a chair.

“Thanks, mister,” said the tallest boy, who appeared to be the leader. “Do you think this will fool the army?”

Sergei stroked his beard. “What do you mean?”

“We know this barricade is nothing compared to the ones being built by adults, but we want to confuse the troops.”

Sergei stepped back and inspected their work. “I think it's a fine barricade, and it will surely baffle the officers.”

The children grinned. Not one wore clothing suitable for the frigid winter air. The girls had threadbare, stained shawls around their shoulders. The boys had coats that were either too small with sleeves halfway up their forearms, or too large leaving space for the icy air to seep through.

“You should go home now,” Sergei told them. “It will be dark soon.”

The children waved and scattered in various directions. Sergei turned up his collar and walked briskly to Gorky's house, now a hub of activity. At the table, men and women were busily folding pamphlets, and a group of men studied a map on the wall that indicated barricade locations and the sections of Moscow under revolutionary control.

Sergei moved closer to the map. The entire area surrounding the top half around the Kremlin was in their control. Judging from the dots showing barricades, he figured there had to be well over a hundred.

“We lost almost all our men at Fiddlers Technical School today,” said Savinkov over Sergei's shoulder. “Troops shelled the building for five hours, even when our workers waved the white flag.”

“Most of the hundred and fifty workers were killed,” added Gorky, stepping away from the table in the middle of the room to join Sergei and Savinkov.

“We need to increase the pressure,” explained Savinkov. “That's why we brought you back. We want to bomb the headquarters of the
Okhrana
, the secret police, tomorrow night.” Members of the secret police had been responsible for shutting down unions, sending armed troops to political assemblies, and capturing revolutionary leaders.

Sergei took off his coat and hung it on a hook on the wall. “I told you I didn't want anything to do with more bombing.”

“We don't need you to throw the bomb, just to be an advisor, since you have the experience of setting off a bomb,” said Gorky.

Savinkov swept his hand across the map. “Consider the progress we've made with just fifteen hundred revolutionaries compared to their fifteen thousand troops. How can you say no when a total takeover seems within our reach for the first time ever?”

Sergei examined the map more closely. Six of the seven railway stations and several districts were under revolutionary control, with the Presnia district particularly well fortified. The troops and artillery were stuck in the Kremlin and the surrounding squares.

“I'd help to organize the bombing myself, only I'm trying to finish this pamphlet and get it out to every member of the party tomorrow,” explained Gorky. He handed his copy to Sergei, who read the first paragraph:

Comrades, our top priority is to hand over power to the people. We need to establish an elected government and introduce the 8-hour workday. We shall prove that under our new democratic government, the rights and freedoms of everyone will be better protected.

“These words make everything we've done seem so official,” said Sergei. “As if we're actually going to have a new government soon. Why do we need another bombing?”

“The
Okhrana
is still a big threat,” said Savinkov. “We have to shut them down before they come after us.”

Sergei pressed his thumb and fingers along the fold of the pamphlet. “Okay, I'll instruct the bombers. But that's all I'm prepared to do.”