Rachel's Hope (22 page)

“Linguini,” he replied, correcting her. “It's a type of noodle, also very good.”

“I want to try all new food tonight, things I've never had before,” she said, closing her menu.

Alexander leaned forward, close enough that Rachel could feel his warm breath on her face. “Don't ever lose your spunk. It's the best part of you.”

His penetrating eyes and husky voice brought a quick rush of blood to her cheeks. Rooted in her seat, she could not move or speak. All she knew was that Alexander had the uncanny ability to get under her skin, to confuse her mind, to make her heart flutter.

The waiter appeared to take their orders, shattering the mood. Rachel chose the spaghetti and meatballs in tomato sauce. Alexander ordered the Sand Dabs. A moment of awkwardness fell over them as they sat facing one another.

“You look worried,” said Alexander.

“I was just thinking that I should be studying harder for the entrance exams.”

“You study every day,” he assured her. “Tonight you should try not to think about it. My mother always told me not to worry about things I had no control over.”

“But what if I don't do well on the exams? Or don't get the grades I need?”

“You work harder than anyone else,” said Alexander. “Your grades are among the highest in our class, better than mine.”

“They are, aren't they,” she said impishly.

He crossed his arms and tilted his head to one side. “Only because I don't work as hard as you.”

“Is that why?”

“Well, I can see that you're not doubting yourself anymore.”

“I never doubted—”

“Spaghetti with meatballs,” interrupted the waiter. He set Rachel's plate in front of her.

“There's cheese on the meatballs,” said Rachel. A basic rule of kosher eating—not mixing dairy with meat.

“Is there a problem?” the waiter asked her.

“Eating cheese with meat won't make you less Jewish,” said Alexander.

Rachel bit her lower lip.
I can't send my food back at such a nice restaurant.

“It's fine,” Rachel said meekly to the waiter.

“There's only a little cheese on top,” said Alexander. “You won't even taste it.” He picked up his fork and dug into his fish.

Rachel stabbed a meatball with her fork and put it in her mouth. “This is good, different,” she said.

“I may not be as smart as you, but I do know food,” joked Alexander.

Rachel laughed and tried to pick up the long, slippery noodles, but they kept falling off her fork. Alexander gently took her fork and swirled the noodles around it. He handed it back to her.

“I like Italian food very much,” Rachel declared after she finished her last noodle.

When they left the restaurant, Alexander took Rachel's hand as naturally as if he were putting on a glove. Rachel liked the feeling of Alexander holding onto her, of letting somebody else be in charge for a little while.

It would be so easy to just give in and want nothing more than marriage and children
, she thought, as they walked toward the trolley.
Like flowing along with the tide instead of fighting against it.

25

Fall 1907

Rachel Paskar

5 Steiner Street

San Francisco, California

October 29, 1907

Dear Rachel,

I'm dreadfully sorry for the time between letters, but I wanted to wait until I left Russia so that I could send this to you without worrying about my words being censored. I am safe in Paris now and have so much more to tell you, I hardly know where to begin.

I suppose I'll start with the most scandalous event: I was arrested in Russia for meeting with a professor who had organized a union. By the time I returned to my hotel after seeing him, a number of tsarist police were searching my room. One guard asked me where I kept my weapons. I showed him a pen and answered, “The pen is my weapon.”

I was taken to a prison, which was grimy and crawling with bugs. When word spread that an American writer had been arrested without any evidence, the story was picked up by all the papers in Russia. I was released the next day.

This sort of quickness to punish has been a disturbing and familiar sight in Russia. The things I've witnessed…I saw an officer shoot and kill a student for refusing to sing “God Save the Tsar.” Cossacks burned the village of Tsarevschina, which I visited, because peasants had organized their own government to solve their own problems. A woman, arrested for possessing anti-tsar propaganda, told me she was beaten and tortured while in prison. The list goes on. I could write a book about what I've seen.

I hope school is going well, and that you are close to being accepted at university. I plan to be on a ship to America early next year, and will let you know once my passage is booked.

With friendly wishes,

Anna

P.S. I have asked everyone I've met about your Sergei and did speak to someone who knows him well, Maxim Gorky, a revolutionary writer who just recently got out of prison. He told me he worked with Sergei in Moscow
distributing a revolutionary newspaper, and that Sergei was arrested during the Moscow uprising in December, 1905. Gorky has not heard from Sergei and believes he was exiled to Siberia. I wish I could bring you better news. If it's any consolation, Gorky was impressed by Sergei's unwavering determination to help the Russian people gain freedom.

Rachel held an envelope from the University of California in her shaky hand. Only two days earlier, she'd received the letter from Anna telling her that Sergei was probably living as an exile in Siberia—if he'd even survived the brutal march to exile. Since reading Anna's letter, Rachel felt as if her heart had been wrenched out of her chest. Now, if this envelope from the University of California brought more bad news, Rachel worried she wouldn't have the will to press forward.

“I think I want to leave it sealed,” she said to Nucia, Jacob, and Marty. They had all just arrived home after a long day of work. “I'd like a few more minutes to believe that anything is possible, even getting into university.”

“Just open it, Rachel,” said Nucia. Seven months pregnant, her belly had swelled and her cheeks had grown rounder. “I can't take the suspense.”

“If I haven't been accepted,” said Rachel, “I don't know what I'll do.”

“You'll write the entrance exams again,” said Nucia.

“Open it,” urged Marty, tugging Rachel's elbow.

Rachel held the envelope in one hand and began to slice through it with a knife. She inhaled deeply before taking out the letter. She unfolded it and began reading, her lips moving as she scanned the page.

“I got in!” she shouted incredulously. “I'm going to university! I'm really going!”

Rachel tossed her acceptance letter in the air, grabbed Nucia's hands, and began dancing around their flat. Marty joined in and they twirled around until they grew dizzy.

When she'd caught her breath, Rachel noticed Jacob sitting and staring at her letter.

“What's wrong?” she asked him.

“I don't mean to spoil your good news,” he said, “but you still have to find a way to pay for university.”

Rachel's face fell. She sunk into a chair. “You're right. University is not free. Without money, this letter means nothing.”

“You told me that the university offers scholarships to needy students,” said Nucia.

“Yes, but would they help me?” said Rachel.

“You won't know until you ask,” said Jacob. “Just like you didn't know if you'd be accepted unless you applied.”

Rachel examined her acceptance letter again. “I'm going to apply for every single scholarship available, and I won't stop until I get one.”

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

The gymnasium of Minn's Evening Normal School was awash in black. New graduates in billowing gowns filled rows of seats and families took their places in chairs set up on the side. Rachel squinted to see if she could find Marty, Nucia, and Jacob, but all the faces were blurry and indistinguishable. She felt a tap on her shoulder. Alexander beamed at her.

“I never thought this day would come,” he said.

“I keep pinching myself to make sure this is real,” said Rachel. “Is your brother here?”

A shadow crossed Alexander's face. “He had to work.”

“I'm sorry.”

He shrugged and turned away, but not before Rachel saw the hurt in his eyes.

“We're going out for lunch after,” she said to him. “To Jacob's deli. You should come with us.”

“Are you asking me out?” Alexander teased.

Rachel blushed. “It's just lunch.”

The brass band seated behind the podium began warming up.

“It sounds like a perfect way to celebrate,” said Alexander. He took his seat, three rows behind Rachel.

The principal stood and held his hands up until the auditorium fell silent.

“Welcome to the 1907 graduation ceremony,” said the principal into a microphone. “Please join me in singing our national anthem.”

The band's introduction to “The Star-Spangled Banner” made Rachel's heart quicken. Voices began to sing the now-familiar words, growing stronger and louder. Rachel pressed her hand against her chest and sang with pride, “O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave, O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.”

After the band played the last note, Rachel sat down, her eyes shiny with tears. The principal welcomed graduates and families, and spoke briefly about the importance of education in America. He began calling out names. Graduates walked across the stage, shook the principal's hand, and received their rolled up diplomas, tied with a black ribbon. She watched as Alexander rose, and clapped as he descended the stage, his diploma clutched to his chest.

“Rachel Paskar.” Rachel made her way to the stage and shook the principal's firm hand. He held out her diploma. Trembling, she took it.

“Congratulations,” he said warmly.

The rest of the ceremony was a haze. Rachel held on to her diploma so tightly, she creased the paper.

“Were you scared, standing in front of all those people?” Marty asked later, his face smeared with potato salad. They were seated in Jacob and Mr. Bloom's deli, the Steiner Street Delicatessen. Their business had been doing so well, they'd rented the space beside them and added four round tables, a counter, and some stools so that people could sit down and eat there.

“I was too excited to notice,” Rachel replied. She turned to Alexander, who was sitting beside her. “Were you nervous?”

Alexander stroked his chin. “I'm just relieved school's finished. Now I can work more to make money, so that my brother and I can open our restaurant.”

Rachel finished chewing her chicken sandwich. “In some ways, I'm sad it's over.”

“For now,” said Nucia, sitting across from Rachel. “In four years you'll be graduating from university.” Pride filled her voice. Since Rachel had been accepted, Nucia had become her biggest supporter.

“What?” Alexander dropped his fork onto the floor and looked at Rachel for an explanation.

“It's not for certain,” said Rachel. “I still have to see if my application for a scholarship is accepted.”

“Why didn't you tell me about this?” asked Alexander.

Nucia and Jacob shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

“Come, Marty,” said Jacob. He and Nucia rose. “Mr. Bloom's in the kitchen. He'll want to see you.”

Marty scraped his plate with his fork to get every last bit of potato salad. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and followed Jacob and Nucia to the kitchen at the rear of the deli.

Rachel shrank under Alexander's pressing gaze. “I was waiting for the right time to tell you.”

“When would that be, the day before you start?” asked Alexander.

“No, I really did want to make sure I received the money first.” She cut into her apple pie then set her fork down on her plate. Her appetite had suddenly disappeared. “Why are you so upset?”

“I'm disappointed that your whole family knows, but you didn't tell me.”

“I was afraid to tell you.”

“Why?”

“Because every time something changes in my life, I lose the people I care about.”

Alexander reached for her hand. “I'm not going anywhere. You should know that by now.”

Rachel's chin quivered.

“You have to let go of your fear and learn to trust me,” said Alexander. He held her chin tenderly with his free hand. “There is a wall you've built around yourself to keep people from getting too close, to keep yourself from getting hurt.”

“But I don't want you to feel burdened by me. There are so many girls who would love to be with you, girls who want nothing more than to be a wife and mother.”

Alexander lifted her chin. “Don't you see that your adventurous spirit is what I love about you? That I want to be with someone who will keep me guessing, who will always make me laugh?”

Rachel opened her mouth to speak, but Alexander bent his head forward and kissed her before she could make a sound. He enveloped her in his arms and she let down her guard for the first time in years.

26

S
ergei and Cyril reached the docks at Vladivostok in the early evening. Two ships were loading grains and live chickens, common exports from Russia. Kerosene lights lit up the shipyard. From outside the fence, obscured by shadows, Sergei squinted to see the names of the ships. The first two were Russian and therefore completely out of the question. The third ship had an American flag hoisted at the bow and the name,
SS California
, seemed too good to be true. A sleek passenger ship, it was almost five hundred feet long with two black funnels, three decks, and two masts.

That evening, after they watched the crew leave the ship for a night in the city, Sergei and Cyril walked along the gangplank leading to the deck. Once on board, Cyril found a square opening leading to narrow steps.

“We need to go down to the bottom of the ship,” said Cyril. “Hopefully, by the time we are discovered, the ship will be too far out to sea to turn back.”

The steps led to another deck and another gap, which opened to a rope ladder. They climbed down and through a small, round hole where a tunnel led to a vast rectangular compartment that was hot, humid, and thick with coal dust.

“The coal bunker,” said Cyril, incredulous.

“We can't stay here,” said Sergei. “They'll find us the first day.”

“Let's go back up a level and try to find the cargo hold,” suggested Cyril.

Sergei coughed and nodded. He followed Cyril back through the tunnel to a passageway that ran toward the stern. They passed the galley and third-class berths before coming to a lower deck. They climbed down a steep staircase from this deck, into the partially filled cargo hold.

“This looks like a good place,” said Sergei, motioning toward a stack of wooden crates in the corner. There was just enough room for them to squeeze in behind.

“Not exactly first class,” said Cyril with a wry smile.

“At least we're near the galley.” Sergei sat down in the cramped space with his knees squished against his chest. “We can try to steal some food at night.”

Cyril squeezed in beside Sergei. “I hope I'll be able to walk by then. My feet are already getting numb.”

“How long do you think it will take to get to America?” asked Sergei.

“Two weeks, maybe three—four at the most,” said Cyril.

Sergei groaned and stared at the crate in front of him. The months of worrying about being caught, of being hungry, of wondering what he'd do if and when he reached America were not over yet. His muscles twitched with restlessness. Now he had time to ponder the life he had left behind such a long time ago in Kishinev—and his family. He couldn't stop thinking about his father. Was he still drinking? Or had he stopped and found another job? Did he ever think about Sergei, regret hitting him, wish they were still a family living together? Or had he vanished, leaving Sergei's mother and sister to support themselves?

This possibility frightened Sergei more than any other. How well were his mother and sister, Natalya, surviving? Sergei had sent them money regularly from his factory job in Petersburg. But once he'd fled to Moscow and became involved with Gorky and the revolution, he had to cut off all contact for their safety. Sergei had chosen the rebellion over his own mother and sister. He had gone into hiding with a new identity, a choice that most revolutionaries were forced to make in order to protect their families.

The first thing I'm going to do when I'm settled in America is send for Natalya and Mama
, vowed Sergei. He imagined their reunion, the tears of happiness, holding his little sister—no longer so little—in his arms. He wondered what Natalya looked like now. It had been more than four years since he'd seen her. She would be eleven years old now.

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

The next night, hours after the ship had boarded its passengers and left Vladivostok, Sergei pressed his body against the corridor and stepped gingerly in the direction of the galley. His stomach grumbled so loudly he was sure that the people on deck could hear it. Cyril, directly in front of Sergei, peered into the galley and gave Sergei a mischievous smile. Sergei's heart raced as he made his way into the dark space, which smelled of onions and garlic. He bumped his knee against a cabinet and cried out.

“Shhhh!” hissed Cyril.

Sergei held his sore knee and nodded. In the murky light, he saw cupboards on either side of a narrow passage. Large, shiny pots sat on a stove and an assortment of cooking utensils hung from pegs on the wall. A shelf above the pegs held even more pots and pans.

Cyril opened a door and rubbed his hands together with glee. Inside, shelves were piled with cartons of flour, potatoes, oranges, and nuts. Cyril reached to the highest shelf and knocked over a carton of flour. The lid came off and both he and Sergei were instantly covered in fine white powder.

“They must keep the meat somewhere else,” muttered Cyril. “Somewhere cold.”

“We don't have time to look further,” said Sergei. “Let's just grab some oranges and nuts and go.”

“Oranges and nuts?” Cyril scowled at Sergei. “They'll fill me up for a minute.”

A light suddenly shone in their eyes. A man dressed in white with a moustache that curled up at both ends, held a kerosene lantern. He looked just as startled as Sergei and Cyril.

“We don't want to cause trouble,” said Cyril, in Russian. He stepped forward.

“No!” said the man. He held up the palm of his hand to stop Cyril from coming closer.

The man said something to them in English. He sounded frightened.

Sergei glanced down, saw his clothes covered in flour, and realized they must look like ghosts.

“We're hungry,” said Sergei.

The man turned his head and shouted. Footsteps sounded. More men appeared at the doorway of the galley. Voices erupted into a confusing babble.

“They're going to throw us off the ship,” said Sergei to Cyril.

“We don't know that,” said Cyril.

Sergei attempted to whisk the flour from his clothes, but all he managed to do was create a white cloud. He felt as if his heart was in his throat.

Seconds later, the men at the door parted to let someone through. A man with a white, brimmed cap strode into the galley with an air of authority.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” he asked in Russian with an American accent.

“I am Cyril and he is Sergei, and we mean no harm,” Cyril began. “We escaped exile in Siberia and have no money for the passage to America.”

“You crossed Siberia on your own, without horses?” The man removed his cap and ran his hand over his smooth scalp.

“We had a rowboat, until it was destroyed by a giant fish,” explained Sergei. He went on to describe their treacherous journey across the steppes.

“An amazing story,” said the man when Sergei had finished. He introduced himself as Captain O'Brien and explained that he'd learned the Russian language because he'd been an officer in the American navy, stationed in Japan during the Russo-Japanese War.

“How old are you?” O'Brien asked Sergei.

Sergei had to think about this for a minute. “I will be nineteen this year.”

O'Brien's hazel eyes shot open with surprise. “Come. Get cleaned up. I want to introduce you to a few people.”

“You aren't going to throw us off the ship?” said Cyril.

“Not a chance,” said O'Brien. “I think you two deserve medals for what you've been through.”

Sergei scrutinized O'Brien's face to see if he was telling the truth. He had lived in fear for so long, unable to depend on anybody but himself, he had forgotten how to trust. But O'Brien seemed genuine, the way he made direct eye contact, unlike Savinkov, whose eyes had flitted everywhere when he talked. There was sincerity in O'Brien's voice, and it reminded him of the old man who had helped them during their trek through Siberia.
I may as well trust him. Either he'll keep his word and let us stay aboard, or he'll toss us into the sea.

O'Brien took them to a small room with a toilet and a narrow stall. He turned a lever and water poured from tiny holes in a round metal contraption that hung from the ceiling.

“Indoor rain,” said Cyril.

O'Brien chuckled. “It's a shower. There's soap and towels and clean clothes on the stool.” He motioned toward the stool beside the shower. “I'll be in the corridor when you're finished.” He backed out of the room and shut the door.

Sergei held his hand under the water. “It's warm!” He peeled off his clothes and positioned himself under the shower. The dirt ran from his body. Sergei let the water rush over him, filling his pores and crevices until the skin on his fingertips began to pucker. When he finished, he was was a shade lighter and he felt as if he'd shed ten pounds. While Cyril showered, Sergei changed into the clothes left by O'Brien: navy trousers, a cream-colored shirt, and stiff black shoes that cramped his feet.

After they had dressed, they re-joined O'Brien, who guided them to a group of uniformed sailors near the back of the ship. The sailors' mouths hung open as O'Brien spoke to them in English. They stared at Cyril and Sergei as if they were wild boars.

“These men are going to take up a collection of money for you,” O'Brien explained to Sergei and Cyril. “So you have something to get started with in America.”

“A collection?” said Cyril. “Why would they want to help complete strangers?”

“Because of what you've been through,” said O'Brien. “One man said he feels lucky to be born in a free country, and he wants you to experience America without being worried about money as soon as you step off the boat.”

“I can't accept charity,” said Sergei. “We'll never be able to repay them.”

“They have no interest in repayment,” said O'Brien. “Instead, you could do the same for someone else one day. Once you are established, you will give help to another person who needs it or donate to a worthy cause.”

O'Brien led them away from the sailors.

“Sergei, we have no money,” said Cyril. “If they can collect just a little amount, it could mean the difference between sleeping on the streets, and going hungry before we get jobs. How can we find work if we're starving and exhausted?”

“Cyril is right,” added O'Brien.

They stood against a railing, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The anxiety that knotted every cell of Sergei's body began to recede.

“I suppose a little help wouldn't be so bad,” he said. “Just enough to tide us over.”

“Finally,” Cyril said.

“Come.” O'Brien marched forward. “I have many more people for you to meet.”

O'Brien introduced them to some passengers, the steward, and even the cook, all of whom were fascinated by their experiences.

“They're staring at us as though we are heroes,” said Sergei to O'Brien. “What exactly are you saying about us?”

They'd arrived at the dining hall for supper, their first full meal in months. Long, rectangular tables draped in white linen tablecloths were arranged in three columns. White candles in brass candlesticks stood in the center of each table. As he took his seat beside Captain O'Brien, Sergei realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd sat at a table for a meal, or the last time he'd used a fork and knife.

“Nothing but the truth,” said O'Brien. “I don't think you realize just how remarkable your story is, escaping from exile in Siberia. Russia is so far away, so fascinating to Americans. Being political exiles, with such an adventure to tell, makes you quite intriguing.”

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

San Francisco Bay. It stretched out in front of Sergei like a Chagall painting, beautiful and surreal all at once. Hills rose over the city much like those he'd seen in Vladivostok. But this was America.

Sergei felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see O'Brien.

“I have a list of people who can help you,” he said, handing Sergei a piece of paper with a dozen names.

“And here is the collection money for you and Cyril.” O'Brien gave Cyril a bulging envelope. “Everyone on the ship wanted to contribute, the cook, the purser, and all the passengers and crew.”

Sergei stared at the envelope stuffed with a thick wad of American bills.

“That's a lot of money,” said Cyril.

“Too much,” said Sergei.

O'Brien put his hand over Sergei's. “You would offend a lot of people if you don't accept this gift. Everyone on this ship wants you to succeed. You've struggled hard to get here. Spend this money wisely. Make us all proud.”

Sergei raised his eyes to meet the captain's. “Do you think you could do me one more favor and help me find someone in San Francisco?”