Rachel's Hope (16 page)

18

Summer 1906

Rachel Paskar

c/o Temple Sherith Israel

2266 California Street

San Francisco, California

Dear Rachel,

I am sending this letter to Temple Sherith Israel in the hopes that someone will pass it on to you, as I don't know where you are living after the earthquake. Not knowing where you and my other friends are, or even if you are safe and unharmed, is a worry that presses on my heart day and night. With my father's business destroyed, he and Mother have decided to move to New York. This makes me sad, knowing that everything they worked for is gone. But I know there are many people far worse off than they are.

Meanwhile, in Moscow, life is also chaotic. The strength and courage of the women I've met here never cease to amaze me. Last week, I heard a woman, imprisoned for distributing illegal leaflets, speak and read poems she wrote while in prison. Everybody who listened threw roses at her feet. She stood there, dressed in white, with traces of suffering in her face. People were inspired. With women like her, the revolution cannot fail.

There are so many questions I want to ask you, but I don't even know if this letter will reach you. Please write me at the hotel address enclosed, and know that I am thinking of you and your family.

With fondest wishes,

Anna

Rachel's beloved library and thousands of its books had been destroyed during the earthquake. The remaining books had been relocated, temporarily, to a smaller building on Hayes Street near Van Ness. Here, Rachel sought refuge from the crowded tent city in Golden Gate Park. The Haas family only needed her and Nucia two days a week now, and the sisters couldn't find more work. After standing in line every morning at a food station, Rachel usually made her way to the library where she inhaled books, newspapers, and magazines. She'd long ago finished the works suggested by Anna, and had moved on to novels recommended by the congenial librarian. Each book opened her mind further, pushing her to think harder about the world and her pre-conceived notions.

Books fed Rachel in a way that food could not. They sustained her during the tedious months, when her future seemed as uncertain as Marty's breathing. Words fed her imagination with new ideas, opinions, and knowledge. Still, Rachel hungered for more. She longed to attend university to broaden her thinking and develop the writing skills she needed to become a journalist.

Often, as the sun set, Rachel stood outside the Ferry Building and stared across the foggy bay toward Oakland. This hilly city was the home of the University of California, Berkeley, where women, even some Jewish women, had graduated.
Someday, I'll study there
, she vowed to herself.
Then, I want to write stories for the Bulletin. And when I'm ready, when I'm the best writer I can be, I'll write a book about my journey from Kishinev.

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

“Happy Birthday, sleepyhead!” said Nucia to Rachel. “Time to get up.”

Rachel, groggy after another poor night's sleep on the ground, rolled over in the small tent, away from her sister.

“What's the matter?” cried Nucia. “You've always loved your birthday.”

“I'm not ready to turn eighteen,” said Rachel sleepily.

“What do you mean?”

Rachel groaned. “I thought I'd be in university by now, I thought we'd be settled here when I reached eighteen. I'm going to be old, without achieving any of my dreams.”

“You're being silly.”

Rachel sat up. “Am I? Anna Strunsky went to university at my age.”

Nucia bristled. “A lot of good that did her. Now she's gallivanting around Russia like some crazy woman.”

Rachel stifled a smile. “Do you ever wonder why life is so hard for some people and so easy for others?”

“Everyone has troubles, but some are easier to see.”

Rachel opened the tent flap and went outside in the clothes she'd worn to sleep, a pair of chocolate-brown trousers and a bright yellow shirt with sleeves that were supposed to go to her wrists, but only went halfway down her forearm. While she appreciated the donations from the earthquake relief committee, she wished she could have just one skirt, or at least a pair of trousers that fit properly.

Rachel poked her head through the opening. Gray, dreary skies and a misty rain. She tugged at her shirt, too tight around her chest, and let the rain wet her hair until it hung damply around her face.

“Can I have twenty-five cents from the box to spend today?” she asked her sister.

“What are you going to buy?”

“You'll see.”

“Well, it
is
your birthday…”

Rachel scooped out a quarter and ran off before Nucia could object. With one hand holding up her trousers, she hurried to tent number five hundred and twenty, where a crude wood sign advertised haircuts for twenty-five cents. A heavyset woman struggled to get clothing off the rope that swayed wildly in the gusty air.

“Will you cut my hair for me?” Rachel asked her. She held out the coin so the woman would see she had money.

The woman turned, glanced at the quarter, and resumed pulling clothing off the rope. “Help me get this into the tent,” she said to Rachel.

Rachel yanked a man's large trousers and shirt from the rope and dropped them in the woman's basket. She followed the woman into her tent, where she began laying out the clothes as if she had all the time in the world.

“Please, will you cut my hair before I change my mind?” asked Rachel. “It's my birthday, and I've wanted to do this for a long time.”

“If you have been planning this, then why are you so anxious?” asked the woman.

“Because it will be a big change. I want you to cut my hair short.”

The woman studied Rachel. “Like a boy's?”

“No, to here.” Rachel held her hand to her shoulder. “I've seen women with hair like this in magazines, and they are beautiful.”

The woman let go of the shirt in her hands and grabbed a clump of Rachel's hair. “Very thick. It will feel different, losing so much hair.”

“That's what I want—to feel like a new person.”

“Then let's begin.” The woman removed a comb and a pair of scissors from a box and told Rachel to sit still.

As Rachel listened to the sound of the scissors cutting her hair, she felt as if she were shedding the past and all that had happened to her over the last three years. Strand by strand, her head felt lighter, freer, her future brighter and less inhibited.

“Well?” said the woman when she had finished. She handed Rachel a small mirror.

Rachel gazed at her reflection and ran her fingers through her hair. It framed her oval face and made her eyes seem bigger, her smile wider. She tossed her head from side to side and grinned. “I think this is the best twenty-five cents I've ever spent.”

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

“Your hair!” Nucia cupped her face with both hands and stared at Rachel.

Rachel patted one side of her hair with the palm of her hand. “Don't you love it?”

“What have you done?” Nucia reached out to touch Rachel's hair, but yanked her hand back abruptly, as if the hair were on fire. “Your hair was so long and thick, like Mother's. Remember how her braid came down past her waist?”

“I remember brushing her hair, how tangled it was,” said Rachel. “I remember it took forever to braid it for her.”

“But it was so beautiful when she brushed it loose,” said Nucia.

“It was, but I don't have time to brush and braid. And just think about how hard it's been to wash our hair, living here like wild animals.”

Nucia stroked Rachel's hair. “I'm afraid I'll forget them.”

“You don't need long hair to remember the way Father's whiskers scratched our faces when he hugged us, or how he always smelled of peppermint. You don't need long hair to remember sitting by the fire on cold, blustery evenings, with Mother threading her needle in and out of fabric and Father rustling the newspaper as he turned the pages.”

Nucia bowed her head.

“We'll never forget them,” said Rachel softly. “They are in our hearts and they are part of us. I see Mother in you every day, the way you get everyone organized, and how you can mend Marty's trousers when there is hardly any material to work with.”

Nucia smiled through her tears. “And I see Father in you, how you love to read and want to know everything.”

Nucia opened her arms. As they embraced, Rachel felt very close to her sister. Beyond their differences, they were witnesses to each other's lives.

“What's wrong?”

Jacob's voice startled both girls. Rachel pulled away from Nucia and wiped her eyes.

“Isn't it your birthday, Rachel?” asked Jacob. “Why are you so unhappy?”

“I'm very happy,” she cried.

“So am I,” said Nucia.

“Wait a minute,” said Jacob. He examined Rachel closely. “Rachel, your hair!”

“You hate it,” said Rachel, on the verge of tears again.

“No, I love it! You look much older,” he said.

“Thank you.”

Jacob studied their faces and shook his head. “I have good news, but I'm afraid you'll both start crying again.”

“Wait, Jacob,” said Nucia. “First I must give Rachel her birthday present.” She handed Rachel a parcel wrapped in newspaper with a sky blue ribbon.

“You shouldn't have,” said Rachel. “We need to save our money for a flat.”

“Just open it,” said Nucia.

Rachel tore the paper and gasped. Inside were two pretty skirts, one royal blue and the other emerald green, and two cream-colored blouses.

“I sewed them by hand when you were at the library,” said Nucia. “I know they're not as nice as the ones you bought before the earthquake—”

“They're even nicer,” said Rachel. “Much better made. I couldn't ask for more beautiful clothes.” Rachel squeezed her sister and then held the skirts to her waist. “But I thought you were only going to make clothes like the ones we wore in Russia.”

“When I saw you in the clothes you bought, you looked so pretty. I realized I liked the brighter colors. I might even make myself a skirt like yours one day.” Nucia turned to Jacob. “Now, tell us your news.”

“Yes, you can't tell people you have good news and then keep it from them,” said Rachel, still admiring her new attire.

Jacob scratched behind his ear. “I have arranged for us to move to a house on Steiner Street in January.”

“A house?” said Nucia.

“Mr. Bloom has asked me to be his partner in a new delicatessen. He and Esther will live above it and we will live on the third floor. The house is in the Fillmore area, near Temple Sherith Israel. The fires didn't reach that part of the city.”

“That's wonderful,” said Nucia, beaming. “Mr. Bloom must think highly of you.”

“How big is it? Can we see it? Where is it?” asked Rachel.

“It is only one bedroom, so you and Marty will have to sleep in the sitting area,” he began.

Rachel's face fell for a moment.

“I know you wanted your own room,” said Jacob, “but it is too expensive right now.”

Rachel forced a tiny crack of a smile. “It's fine. I'll just be glad to get out of this tent.”

“I can't wait to tell Marty,” said Nucia.

“You have given me the best birthday gift,” Rachel said to Jacob, regaining her graciousness. “A new home. A new start.”

19

T
he officer called out Sergei's false name from the master roll. Sergei stepped forward and the blacksmith, with a portable forge, a lap anvil and a hammer, examined his leg fetters to make sure they were on tight and couldn't slip over his heel. An officer gave Sergei eight kopecks that were expected to last for two days between
etapes
, exile station houses situated along the road every twenty-five to forty miles. Crude buildings, they provided overnight shelter for exiles on their arduous journey. Sergei stepped back into the line and waited as the rest of the exiles and convicts were accounted for.

Sick, weak deportees and children under twelve rode on
telegas
. Before such prisoners could get on these carts, however, a doctor examined them and issued certificates to those deemed medically unable to walk.

“Party, march!” shouted an officer once all the appropriate prisoners had been placed on telegas. He took off his cap, crossed himself, and bowed in the direction of the prison church.

In two columns, the exiles began to advance, followed by the telegas and carts loaded with the exiles' gray bags, a
tarantas
with soldiers, and at the rear, a captain. As they walked, the seven-hundred-person convoy kicked up a massive cloud of dust that clogged Sergei's throat and made him gag. Behind him, people coughed loudly enough to be heard over the sound of cart wheels rolling over the dry terrain. Sergei's legs and feet began to ache. The leg fetters scraped against his skin.

Six miles out of Tomsk, the convoy came upon an open pavilion containing a wooden effigy of the crucifixion.

“
Priva!
Halt!” ordered the guards.

Many exiles, and all the guards, removed their caps and crossed themselves. Sergei turned away. After witnessing the Kishinev massacre, where devout Christians including priests had viciously attacked Jews, he'd given up on faith.

Shortly after they resumed their march, crows followed the convoy overhead, swooping down perilously low at times. Crows fed on the dead. Sergei stared up at them and wondered if the crows knew more than he did, if they knew exiles would soon die, providing a feast for them.

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

A rest day. Sergei sat hunched over in a corner of the courtyard. They were not far from Chita, their final destination. It was warm and still, with no wind to dissipate the foul odors within the etape. Mosquitos and fleas hovered around the exiles, clouds of relentless pests. Sergei breathed through his mouth and watched the men eat, drink, and gamble.

One of the exiles spread his overcoat on the ground. “How many fleas will jump on my coat in the next ten minutes?” he asked the group of men gathered around him.

“One kopeck for an even dozen,” said a red-haired exile. He threw his coin down beside the overcoat.

Fleas began appearing on the overcoat, gray flecks that moved.

“A dozen?” cried another exile. “I have two kopecks that say at least twenty fleas will land there.”

The owner of the overcoat recorded the men's names and wagers on a scrap of paper. Fleas continued to infest the coat. After ten minutes, forty-three fleas were counted. The winning exile picked up the nineteen kopeks with a smug smile.

Sergei watched in disbelief. These men were political exiles, accustomed to reading newspapers and books and living civilized lives. Exile had reduced them to behaving like simple-minded barbarians.

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

Sergei opened his hand and received his monthly allowance. He'd been in Chita for a month now, and knew that eight rubles would only cover about half of what he needed to eat.

“Next,” barked the Cossack handing out money to the exiles.

Sergei moved to the side and waited for Cyril. They walked out of the post station and headed to the police station for their weekly check-in.

“We need to find jobs before we starve to death,” Cyril said to Sergei.

“Good idea,” said Sergei. “All we need to do is find some shop owner willing to take on exiles, undesirables.”

“At least we're free to walk, unfettered, on the streets. It's better than prison.”

“Is it?”

They approached the police station, a whitewashed brick building in the center of town, next to the train station. Sergei glanced wistfully at the tracks that stretched beyond the horizon and wished he could jump on a train and go straight to the port of Vladivostok, where he might slip onto a boat. But he didn't have enough money, and the police had confiscated his papers. Being so close to a way out, yet unable to grasp it, was as bad as living next to a river full of fish and having no bait.

The chief of police, in a gray belted coat, had the exile sign-in book open and ready for them. Sergei wrote his false name and handed the quill pen to Cyril. The officer glared at them with obvious contempt and reminded them to return the following week.

“It's not like we have anything else to do,” muttered Sergei.

“What did you say?” The officer rested his hand on his pistol that hung from his waist.

Cyril grabbed Sergei and pulled him away.

“He said we'll be happy to do this,” said Cyril to the officer.

Cyril didn't let go of Sergei until they were a block away from the station.

“Are you crazy?” asked Cyril. “Are you trying to get yourself locked up?”

Sergei ran his fingers through his beard. “I don't know what I was thinking.”

They made their way back to the one-room log house they rented from the Cossacks, which stood on a dirt road at the northern edge of town, a derelict area with other homes rented to exiles. The house had cracks between the logs, letting in the heat and humidity. The roof had more patches than original wood. There were two small windows, but one was boarded up because the glass had shattered years earlier. Shared with two other exiles—Rudolph from Kiev, and Andrei, the young man mistakenly exiled because his name had been confused with another man's—the house was at least affordable. Inside were four rickety cots with straw mattresses, a wobbly table, and four barrels used as chairs.

A dismal scene greeted Cyril and Sergei when they entered the house. Rudolph and Andrei announced that they were being banished to additional terms of hard labor in the mines for smuggling in copies of
Iskra
.

“The police found one copy of
Iskra
in my satchel and decided it was proof that I have been distributing it here,” said Andrei.

“And I'm guilty because I'm his comrade,” said Rudolph.

“The mines at Kara,” mumbled Andrei. “Hell on earth.”

Rudolph buried his head in his hands.

“There must be something we can do,” said Sergei.

“Once the police have made up their minds—” Cyril's voice broke.

“It's a death sentence,” Andrei began. “I'll never last at a mine.”

Sergei lowered his eyes. Andrei was right. Stronger and bigger men had lost their lives working in the mines. They were factories of death.

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

A loud bang woke Sergei from a deep sleep. He'd been dreaming about finding Rachel in America, seeing her ahead of him, never being able to catch up to her, and becoming hopelessly lost. When the bang jolted him awake, he'd been pivoting around in circles with unfamiliar buildings closing in on him, suffocating him, turning day into night.

He sat up, disoriented.

“What was that?” asked Cyril.

“Sounded like a shot,” said Andrei.

Sergei noticed that Rudolph's cot stood empty. “Where's Rudolph?” he asked.

“Oh, no!” Andrei leapt out of bed and rushed to the door with Sergei and Cyril at his heels.

Outside, the unmistakable smell of gunpowder brought Sergei to a dead stop.

“No, please, no,” said Andrei. He hurried to the outhouse, opened the door and fell to the ground in a heap.

Cyril peered into the outhouse and clamped his hand over his mouth.

Sergei looked over Cyril's shoulder. Inside, Rudolph sat, slumped forward, blood gushing from the side of his head. At his feet lay a pistol.

“I knew he was upset about being sent to Kara,” moaned Andrei. “But I never thought he'd do this.”

“He didn't say anything to you?” asked Cyril.

“Not a word,” said Andrei.

“Where did he get the gun?” asked Sergei.

Andrei shook his head.

“Why here, in the outhouse?” said Sergei.

“I think that's the saddest part,” said Cyril. “That he chose such a filthy place to end his life.”

“I don't think I can bear going to the mines without him.” Andrei stood and shut the outhouse door.

“What will you do?” asked Sergei.

Andrei took a deep breath and stared into the dark night. “I'm going to escape before they force me to go, before they discover Rudolph is gone.”

“I'll come with you,” said Sergei.

“Me, too,” said Cyril.

“Let's take Rudolph out of here so that nobody will know where he killed himself,” Andrei suggested.

The three of them searched for a secluded place in the nearby forest. They found a spot, under a towering birch tree with bark that glowed in the moonlight. With great difficulty, they extracted Rudolph from the outhouse and carried him to the spot where they placed him gently on the ground. They found enough brush, decaying branches, rocks, and dead leaves to cover him. Then they stood back.

“I can't bear to leave him here,” said Andrei. “Even though he's gone, it feels wrong.”

“Maybe we should say a prayer for him,” said Sergei.

“I thought you didn't believe in religion and faith,” said Cyril.

“I don't,” Sergei began slowly, choosing his words with care. “But it seems like the right thing to do.”

They stared at the covered body on the ground.

“Maybe we should just pray silently,” suggested Cyril.

The three of them bowed their heads.

Rudolph would still be alive if he lived in a country where people had the right to express their opinions,
thought Sergei.
Rudolph chose death over life because only in death can he be free. This is the tragedy of Russia.

“I'll write to his family when we're out of Russia,” said Andrei in a monotone voice.

“Don't tell them he…you know…. Tell them it was an accident,” said Cyril.

Andrei nodded vaguely.

“Come.” Cyril tugged gently at Andrei's arm. “We must plan our escape now.”

They trudged slowly back to their house and planned their seventeen-hundred mile route to Vladivostok.

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

Before daybreak, the three exiles, with a hand-drawn map and satchels filled with food, moved stealthily to the Chita River, where they hoped to find a boat. At the river, the rising sun cast a golden glow on the horizon. Sergei, Cyril, and Andrei stopped behind a row of pine trees and watched as fishermen, silhouettes against the light, loaded small rowboats with nets, lines, and bait. Sergei clenched his hands so tightly, his fingernails cut into his palms.
Without a boat,
he thought,
we'll never get out of here.

“Look,” whispered Cyril. He pointed to a rowboat in the middle of the fishermen, which appeared to be unclaimed.

“We can wait until they're all gone and take it,” said Andrei.

“Too risky,” said Cyril. “Someone could come along and grab it before we get the chance.”

“Well, we can't just get in it now, in front of them,” said Sergei.

“Why not?” Cyril looked at Sergei with defiance. “They're all peasants. Unarmed. They can't stop us.”

“I don't know,” Andrei murmured.

Sergei looked at the empty boat, then over his shoulder through the trees. “Cyril's right. We won't get anywhere without taking chances.”

“Well, Andrei?” Cyril folded his arms together.

Andrei nodded his head slightly, as if he wasn't entirely convinced.

“We'll move quickly, confidently,” said Cyril. “As if we own the boat.”

“But they'll know we don't,” said Andrei. “They'll know we're stealing it.”

“By the time those fishermen recover from their shock at our boldness, we'll be long gone,” said Cyril.

“I'm ready,” said Sergei.

“Let's go.” Cyril marched out from the trees with long strides.

Sergei, his heart pounding in his chest, followed.

Without a word, Cyril and Andrei got into the boat.

“What do you think you're doing?” asked a bearded fisherman beside them.

Cyril took the oars while Andrei sat across from him. Sergei untied the boat from the pine tree, tossed the rope to Andrei, pushed off from the riverbank, and climbed in.

“That's not your boat!” someone yelled.

“Get out of there,” shouted a man, shaking his fist.

Cyril rowed quickly to put as much distance as he could between themselves and the fishermen, who were already calling for the police.

The chorus of fishermen faded as they skimmed the surface of the water. Sergei, his back and neck stiff and tense, did not turn around until the men's voices had disappeared. The river was shallow at first, and Cyril kept getting the oars stuck in the mud. As they moved farther east, toward the Amur River, the water grew deeper. Cyril rowed faster. Sunrise gave way to day. Sergei relieved Cyril at the oars.

“How far do you think we've come?” asked Andrei.

“Hard to say,” said Sergei. “The river winds so much.”

“What do we do if the Cossacks see us? Wouldn't we be better off in the forest?”

“It's a lot faster by water,” Sergei replied as he rowed. “We talked about this.”

“I know,” said Andrei. “But I feel like a slug, surrounded by magpies.”

“In a way, that's exactly what we are,” said Sergei.

They continued in silence, with only the sound of the oars swishing through the murky water and birds singing from the treetops. With autumn approaching, leaves had already begun to turn vibrant shades of gold, yellow, red, and orange. At some points the river narrowed so that Sergei could almost extend both of his oars and touch the banks on either side. He imagined Cossacks wading into the water and grabbing them, or shooting them at close range.