Rachel's Hope (15 page)

“Today's newspaper reported that more than four hundred blocks were destroyed, with well over a hundred thousand people left homeless. We won't know the total number for a few days.”

Sick and injured people filled the hospital corridor, all still in their nightclothes like Rachel and Marty. Rachel held Marty close to her as they pressed through the crowd of moaning, injured people. She wanted to tell Marty to close his eyes, to shield him from the sight of so much misery. Then she remembered what he'd seen in Kishinev, how his innocence had been abruptly taken away a long time ago. Now, he seemed to look directly through the wounded people, as if he were immune to their suffering. She shuddered and opened the door to the street.

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

A sea of tents stretched as far as Rachel could see in Golden Gate Park. Rows of identical peaks pointed up to the dusty sky like hilltops. And there were more tents to be set up. The line for tents started at the entrance to the park and spanned for two long blocks. Rachel stepped forward to find Nucia and Jacob and realized, despite Nucia's warning, she'd forgotten the number of their tent. When she asked Marty if he remembered, he shook his head. Rachel marched into the park with Marty at her heels. She began searching row by row, checking the numbers stenciled in black to the left of each tent opening.

At first, it interested her, seeing how people had adjusted to this unexpected nomadic life, with benches and picnic tables in front of their tents, posing as makeshift kitchens. Some families had strung rope between tents to hang clothes to dry. Children played running games through the maze of tents while adults played cards.

After ten rows, the tents and the people all looked the same. Faces blurred into one another. Rachel feared she would walk right by her sister and Jacob. By tent four hundred, Rachel began to wonder if Nucia and Jacob were even in the park. She put her hand over her eyes and scanned the tops of the tents ahead. There were thousands. They'd barely seen a fraction. Rachel began to panic. “Marty, are you sure you don't remember the number of Jacob and Nucia's tent?”

“I think the soldier said five hundred and something,” said Marty.

“You think or you know?”

“I think…”

“And you're just remembering now?”

“Yes.”

“We'll skip these and go right to the five hundreds.” She walked briskly past the next two rows and slowed when she reached number five hundred.

Marty recited each number aloud as they passed: “Five hundred and one, five hundred and two…five hundred and seven, five hun…Nucia! Jacob!” He ran to Jacob's outstretched arms.

“I was worried I'd never see you again.” Nucia reached out for her sister.

Rachel clung to Nucia. She inhaled, desperate for Nucia's familiar jasmine scent, but all she smelled were ashes and dust. Even her sister's skin felt different, dry and rough.

“They let us stay at the hospital for the night and we fell asleep,” Rachel said.

“And I have asthma, just like President Roosevelt,” said Marty proudly.

“Asthma?” asked Jacob.

Rachel explained how he'd had a shot of epinephrine, that no cure existed, how they had to keep him away from dust and smoke.

“But that's impossible, living here,” said Nucia.

“We're going to stay at Mr.…” Marty looked to Rachel for help.

“Mr. Levison. He's opened his house to earthquake refugees and the doctor said it would be best for Marty to stay there until the air clears.”

“Alone?” asked Jacob.

“No—”

“We can all go, can't we, Rachel?” said Marty.

“There isn't enough room,” said Rachel. “You and I will go, and Jacob and Nucia will stay here.”

“I don't want to be separated again,” said Nucia. “We need to stay together.”

“It will only be for a few days,” said Jacob. “Once the dust from the buildings has settled and the fires are out, they will return to us.”

“I don't want to leave you,” sobbed Marty. He wrapped his arms around Jacob's waist.

“We have no choice,” said Rachel, blinking rapidly to get rid of her tears. “You don't want to get sick again. We will be back together soon.”

Jacob carefully detached himself from Marty and pushed him gently to Rachel. Clasping Marty's hand firmly in hers, she pivoted around and walked away from the park.

17

W
ith the electricity out and the trolley tracks mangled, Rachel and Marty faced a long walk uphill to Mr. Levison's house. Asking directions along the way, Rachel headed to Point Lobos Road, east to Divisadero, and then north to Pacific Avenue. Tall, Victorian-style mansions with bay windows, porches, and balconies lined both sides of Pacific Avenue. All appeared to have been unscathed by the earthquake. Mr. Levinson's home, with its formal façade and symmetrical windows, seemed far too palatial to be a refuge for earthquake victims.

Rachel paused at the white, double doors before knocking. The door opened and she found herself face-to-face with a sturdy man with honey-colored hair and a square jaw. He jumped when he saw Rachel and Marty.

“You startled me,” he said in an apologetic voice. “I was just about to leave.”

“The doctor at Mount Zion Hospital told us to come here,” said Rachel. “So Marty could breathe in clean air. But if you don't have room…” Her voice broke off. Still in her soiled nightdress, she felt like a common beggar, asking for charity, something her father could never have imagined. He had always told her to give what she had to those less fortunate. Now, she'd been reduced to asking a stranger for help.

“Pardon me,” said the man, tipping his tall top hat. “I'm Mr. Levison, and we most certainly have space for you.” He turned sideways and motioned for them to come in.

The polished wood in the entrance hall shone. Even the walls were covered in wood panels, much like the ones in the Haas house. Rachel and Marty followed Mr. Levison through the hall into the front parlor where people sat in chairs around the room in silence. Ivy-green velvet draped the two sofas in front of the fireplace. A portrait of a grave-faced man hung over the fireplace. A woman sat at a small desk in the corner, speaking to a young man who was holding a baby at an awkward angle. He had her diagonally across his chest, his bulky hands keeping her close to him.

Mr. Levison exchanged a few words with the woman at the desk, gave Rachel an encouraging smile, and strode out the door.

Marty coughed into his hand. “I want to go back to Jacob and Nucia.”

“Don't you want your breathing to get better?” said Rachel.

Marty wilted.

Rachel focused on the man with the infant. The woman behind the desk placed her hand on his arm as if to console him. Rachel looked around for the baby's mother, but saw nobody. Her heart sank when she realized that there was no wife, that the poor baby was motherless.

She shuffled closer to them to catch their conversation.

“I'm just not sure where we will put the two of you,” the woman explained to the young man. “You can't sleep with the other women and children, and it wouldn't be right, putting you and the baby with the men.”

“I would sleep on the floor, anywhere, so that my baby can be here and not in a tent,” he pleaded in a thick British accent.

“If only we could find a woman willing to care for your daughter at night—”

Rachel rushed forward. “I'll do it. I'll care for your child at night if you like,” she offered.

The man turned toward her, revealing a long face with sunken cheeks and brilliant blue eyes under a lined forehead.

“You're the girl Mr. Levison brought in,” said the woman, “with the asthmatic boy.”

“Yes.” Rachel introduced herself and Marty.

“Would you really look after my baby?” asked the young man, incredulous.

Rachel nodded.

The woman considered Rachel for a moment and sighed. She took down information about Rachel and Marty, and explained that the house had been set up in two sections in order to take as many people as possible. Women and children slept on the floor of the second level, men on the third. They would have to get their meals from one of the soup kitchens and bread lines in the city, and they could choose clothes from among those donated in the back room. Rachel sadly remembered her stylish new skirt and shirtwaist, lost during the earthquake, and winced. She was back where she started, even worse off, relying on other people's discarded clothes.

“What is her name?” asked Marty, peering at the infant.

“Ruth,” the man answered. “Her mother called her…” He faltered and swung his gaze to the front window. “Ruthie. She called her Ruthie.”

Rachel choked back tears for the child who would never know her mother's love, for the mother who would never get to see her child grow up. “And you are?”

“Nathan. Nathan Pearce.” He held Ruthie out to Rachel. “Would you like to hold her?”

“Very much.”

Nathan placed his daughter in Rachel's arms.

“My friend in Shanghai has a baby, a little older than Ruthie.” The baby cooed. “I didn't get to spend much time with Zoe. We left when she was about your daughter's age.”

“Where is Ruthie's mother?” asked Marty.

Pain clouded Nathan's face.

“Marty, you musn't ask so many questions,” scolded Rachel.

“She died in the earthquake,” said Nathan softly.

Marty touched Ruthie's tiny fingers. She cooed and smiled at him.

“You're lucky to have such a caring sister,” said Nathan, giving Rachel a shy smile.

Marty solemnly explained that he had been taken in by Rachel's family, and now had two big sisters and a big brother. He told Nathan how they'd come from Russia, and had lived in Shanghai before San Francisco.

“Where are you from, Nathan?” asked Rachel, when Marty stopped to take a breath.

“England. After we were married, it seemed like a big adventure, coming to America. Now, I wish we'd never left.”

“Nobody could have predicted this earthquake,” said Rachel.

They began talking, sharing tales of their home countries, and the challenges they had faced coming to San Francisco. Ruthie lay quietly in Rachel's arms, perfectly content, turning her head to her father occasionally when she heard his voice. Marty eventually drifted off to a group of children and a box of wooden blocks, leaving Rachel and Nathan alone.

Nathan told Rachel he was a stonemason, like his father, and that he'd had no trouble finding work when he arrived.

“You'll be busier than ever now. There is a whole city to re-build,” said Rachel. “You should see how many people are living in tents in the park.”

Nathan's gaze settled on his daughter. “I don't know how I'll work. Her mother—”

Rachel averted her eyes to give Nathan time to regain his composure. She gazed at Ruthie, admired her long lashes, her smooth, creamy skin. Rachel sniffed and made a face. “I think it's time to change her.”

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

It had been three weeks since Rachel and Marty had arrived on the doorstep of the Levison home. Rachel wore men's brown trousers and a man's beige shirt which were too big and hung loosely on her thin figure. Most donations were boys' and men's clothes, which meant that all the women at the Levison house wore male attire. Marty had found a striped red-and-blue shirt and black knickerbockers in the pile of clothes. Though the debris and dust in the air had finally subsided, Marty's cough had continued, which had meant two more trips to the hospital for epinephrine.

Today, he was playing marbles with some of the other children. Rachel, armed with a stack of donated magazines, wanted to spend time alone reading. But no matter where she went, Nathan always seemed to find her. She'd discovered a secluded spot outside, between the Levisons' and their neighbor's house. Rachel settled in with her back against the wall and opened a February 1906 issue of
Life
magazine. She studied a cartoon for several minutes, depicting a man and a woman sitting in a park, and concluded that she really didn't understand it at all. She turned the page, coming to a Coca-Cola ad, and vowed to try this carbonated drink when she had the chance. Before she could turn to another page, she heard Nathan's voice.

“There you are,” he said when he came upon Rachel. “Ruthie wanted to see you.”

“I just thought I'd find a quiet place to read, to work on my English,” said Rachel, hoping he would understand that she wanted time alone.

“This is a nice spot,” he said, sitting down beside her and setting Ruthie in between them.

Rachel closed her magazine. Her reading time was over for now.
Don't be so mean,
she said to herself.
This poor man has lost his wife. He's lonely. Be nice.

“Do you think Ruthie would like a story?” she asked Nathan.

“I'm sure she would,” he said eagerly.

Rachel sat Ruthie on her lap and looked into the baby's bright eyes. “Today I shall tell you the story of the Snow Maiden,” Rachel began. This was Rachel's favorite story, one that her father had often told her when she was a little girl. Rachel knew that Ruthie was too young to understand this story, but telling it out loud took Rachel back, for a little while, to her own childhood.

At noon, everyone stood in the bread line, which wound its way around the block. Even the Jewish millionaire, Isaias Hellman, who owned the Wells Fargo Bank, patiently stood in the line today. The earthquake had not limited itself to only one segment of society like the pogroms against Jews in Russia. Wealth was no match for the forces of nature.

After receiving their daily ration of two loaves of bread each, they walked back to the Levison home. Marty devoured his bread. Rachel chewed hers slowly, with the hope that the longer it took to eat, the longer it would keep her full. But her hunger never diminished.

“It seems so odd, standing in bread lines again,” she said to Nathan. “I thought we'd seen the end of such extreme poverty when we left Russia.”

“Do you think it's better in Russia now?” asked Marty hopefully.

“I'm afraid not. Right before the earthquake, I read an article written by my friend Anna. She's in Moscow and risks her own life to write about the revolutionaries, how courageous they are in fighting for their rights. She reports for an American newspaper, so that we here know what is happening in Russia.”

Marty sighed and kicked stones at his feet as they walked.

“Your friend sounds like a remarkable woman,” said Nathan. He shifted Ruthie who had started making restless noises.

“She is,” said Rachel dreamily. “One day I want to be a reporter like her.”

“Don't you want a family?”

“Oh, yes, but I also want to write.”

Ruthie began to cry. Rachel took her from Nathan's arms and rocked her until she settled down.

“You're so good with her,” said Nathan. He watched Rachel with obvious admiration. “Would you consider looking after Ruthie once I get a job?”

Rachel creased her brow and examined the damaged buildings that surrounded them. San Francisco had been broken into fragments. It would never be the same place it had been before the quake. It might be difficult, if not impossible, to find a job or begin English classes again. It could be years before she even qualified to attend university, and she might never be able to afford it. Life might become much easier if she worked for Nathan.

Rachel began to fantasize another life. If she worked for Nathan, she might eventually develop feelings for him. Maybe she would marry him and they would raise Ruthie together. But Rachel knew that if she chose this path, she'd be filled with regret. She wasn't ready to settle down and Nathan wasn't the right person for her. He was too needy, wanted too much from her, and would come to resent her desire for an independent life.

“We're going back to my sister and her husband soon,” she told Nathan softly. “We'll be living in a tent, not the best place for Ruthie.”

Color rose to his face.

“I'm sorry,” she continued.

“I understand,” he said in a low voice. “You can't pretend to be someone you're not.”

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

The tent smelled like dirty stockings. After being in it only one night, Rachel woke early, before dawn, and breathed through her mouth to avoid the unpleasant odor. Underneath the threadbare blanket, she felt the damp, uneven ground. Marty's face was close to hers, his warm breath soothed her skin. He breathed peacefully, for now.

Outside, a baby's cry sliced through the air, reminding Rachel of Ruthie. She wondered where Nathan would go, how he'd manage with his child, and felt guilty for not being the person he wanted her to be.

Marty's arm fell onto her head. Rachel picked it up and moved it away from her. She turned on her side, but sleep eluded her.

“Rachel? Are you awake?” whispered Nucia.

“Yes.”

“Are you feeling well? You were very quiet tonight,” said Nucia. “Did something happen at the Levison home?”

“No, nothing.”

“Marty said you became good friends with a young man and his baby.”

“He lost his wife in the earthquake.”

“How awful. Will you see them again?”

“Not likely.”

“Well, I'm glad you're back. It's good to be together again.”

“It is, though I'd prefer living with you in a house with real walls.”

“The soldiers say it will take months to clean the streets and rebuild,” said Nucia. “Luckily, Marty's school was not damaged. He can return to school tomorrow.”

“That's good news. But I'm afraid we'll never get out of these tents, not with so many homeless people waiting for places to live.”

“Jacob says we must be patient, that the city will rise again.”

“I've been waiting for years to come here, and then this happens. An earthquake that is as unexpected as snow in the summer. I'm afraid I'm all out of patience. I want to get on with my life. I want to go forward, not backward.”

“I wish I could promise you that life will get better,” mumbled Nucia drowsily.

The tent grew quiet. Rachel felt as if she was the only person in the world who could not sleep. She rolled onto her back and closed her eyes, but couldn't empty her mind of negative thoughts. She tried to remind herself of all the good things she had—Nucia, Jacob, and Marty, and her health—but as the morning light trickled into the tent, she felt beaten, like a worn-out shoe.