Rachel's Hope (5 page)

Rachel shook her head.

Anna clasped her hands in her lap.

“Why would you go back to Russia?” asked Nucia.

“I'm going to write about the workers' strikes.”

“You're a writer?” asked Rachel.

“Yes, I cover women's stories for the
San Francisco Bulletin
and
California Woman's Magazine
.”

“I have read articles in the newspaper about women wanting to vote,” said Rachel.

“And wanting to get elected to government,” said Anna.

Rachel chortled. “Back in Russia I would have been happy with permission to go to university, or to travel without a note from my father.”

“Russia is not safe now,” Nucia added. “Especially for Jews.”

“Nucia's right,” said Rachel. “I just read in the
San Francisco Call
that there were riots in fifty Russian villages in April. More than five hundred Jews were killed. And I hear that the police and the Cossacks are shooting people in Petersburg just because they are asking for better working conditions and better wages. Will you be safe there?”

“I'm a journalist,” said Anna. “The Russian authorities know better than to go after an American reporter.”

“I want to be a journalist like you. But first I have to learn to write better in English and finish school,” said Rachel.

Anna laughed. “You know, we can help each other out.”

“How?”

“I need to work on my Russian,” Anna continued, “and I will help you with your English.”

“I would like that.”

“Let's meet tomorrow night at Coppa's on Montgomery Street.”

“I will find it,” said Rachel.

“Seven o'clock.” Anna got to her feet. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

Rachel and Nucia continued down the bleachers.

“I think she's crazy to go to Russia,” said Nucia.

“I like her,” said Rachel. “I'm glad I fell on her today.”

5

N
ervous about her meeting with Anna, Rachel's hand shook as she opened the door of Coppa's. A dense, smoky light assaulted her eyes when she stepped into the overcrowded café, and spirited voices rang out from every corner. Biting her lip, Rachel stood by the door and scanned the place to find Anna.

Anna, sitting at a small table, beckoned for her to come over. Rachel made her way through the cluttered restaurant.

“You're here,” said Anna, rising to greet Rachel. Anna looked like the women on the cover of fashion magazines in her long skirt, the color of fresh grass, belted around her tiny waist, and her butter-yellow blouse adorned with small, white buttons.

Rachel nodded and crossed her arms so that her hands covered the mended holes on both elbows of her sweater. She sat across from Anna and suddenly felt shy. A glass of tea appeared in front of Rachel. She took a sip and savored the warm chai as it trickled down her throat.

“I'm so happy you came,” said Anna. She reached down and pulled out a stack of newspapers from her satchel. “I thought we could start your English lesson with some of these articles.” She passed one to Rachel.

“Free Russia,” said Rachel, reading the sizeable headline. “What does it mean, Friends of Russian Freedom?”

“That's the group that publishes this English newspaper every month,” explained Anna. She sipped her tea. “We're fighting for the Russian people's right to freedom and self-government.”

Rachel turned these words over in her mind. “Why do people in America care about the Russian people?”

“Because we read with horror about the lives of Russian peasants, how they work hard all their lives, yet end up with nothing. We hear about the factory workers' strikes for better working conditions and how they are killed by the tsar's soldiers. And we hear about the terrible massacres of Jews in cities and small towns.”

“That is why we left,” said Rachel. “There was a massacre in my town of Kishinev. Many Jews were killed or hurt, including my best friend. My father was killed. Our home was destroyed.”

Anna covered her mouth with both hands and gaped at Rachel. “I'm so sorry.”

“I can talk about it now without falling to pieces,” said Rachel. Her eyes took on a faraway look. “But when I found my father…” she shuddered. “I didn't think I could go on living after seeing him lying there. I missed him so much. I still do,” she said softly.

“What was he like?” asked Anna.

Rachel closed her eyes and saw her father's face. “He used to tell me stories when I was little.” She opened her eyes. “He always listened to me, even if I spoke nonsense. And he was brave.” Her voice faltered. “My father lost his life because he wanted to make sure everyone in our house was safe.”

“He sounds like a remarkable person,” said Anna. “I wish I could have met him. I wish that that the Kishinev massacre had never happened.”

Rachel blinked and looked squarely at Anna. “The massacre wouldn't have started if not for the Kishinev newspaper editor. He wrote lies about Jews in his paper, stirring up a hatred against us so fierce and so strong that it couldn't be stopped.”

“I have read about such horrible events,” said Anna. “And I often think it could have happened to me, if my family had not left Russia years ago. That's why I want to go back, see the truth for myself, and write about what I find.”

“I plan to write about the Kishinev massacre one day,” said Rachel with vehemence. “I want to let people know about this bad editor and how he used words to turn people against one another. That's what has kept me going all this time. I dream of being a writer, like you, to tell the truth and make sure people don't forget what happened to us.”

“You will succeed,” said Anna. “I can see your determination.”

“What does it mean, determination?”

“A strong mind. You won't give up.”

“Yes, but I am not so strong.” She paused. “My friend, Sergei, who is still in Russia, is much stronger than I am.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Sergei Khazhenkov and the last time I heard from him he was fighting for the rights of the workers in Petersburg. He wrote to me about the terrible conditions in the factory he worked in, how people were hurt every day. He damaged his hand in a machine and was worried he wouldn't be able to continue his job. I have not heard from him in a while, and I'm afraid that something bad has happened to him. I'm afraid he's been involved in the strikes.”

“Sergei is important to you?”

Rachel's face reddened. “He became my friend while we still lived in Kishinev. He was one of the few Russians who stood up for the Jews of the town. He rescued Marty, when his grandmother was beaten to death. Marty would have spent years in an orphanage, but Sergei brought him to us when we were leaving Kishinev. Marty is now as much my little brother as if he'd been born to my parents.”

“Why didn't Sergei come with you?” asked Anna.

“He is not Jewish.”

“So?”

“We could not be together, a Russian and a Jew.”

“Things are changing here in America.” Anna leaned forward. “Can you keep a secret?”

Rachel nodded.

“I am seeing someone who is not Jewish.”

Rachel's eyes widened. “You are?”

“Nobody knows. Nobody understands, except maybe you.”

Rachel felt as if she'd been given a gift. Having Anna confide in her made their friendship real and solid. “I won't tell a soul,” she said in earnest to Anna.

Anna took out a notebook and flipped to a blank page. “Tell me everything you know about your Sergei and I will do my best to find him when I'm in Russia.”

“Would you do that?”

“I promise.”

⚓ ⚓ ⚓

Rachel covered her eyes with her hand to keep out the glare of the setting sun. No sign of Marty. She'd come to Buena Vista Park to bring him home for supper. He had said he was going to the park after school with his friends to play baseball. A patch of trees soared tall on her right and a creek meandered from the trees to the south end of the park. She squinted and saw something move on the other side of the creek. Stepping closer, she heard vigorous shouting of boisterous boys. Following these sounds, she walked over a bridge that led to a makeshift baseball field.

One team of boys, scattered in the field, had taken off their shirts. The other team, sitting on the ground in a row, wore shirts that had come untucked from their knickers. Marty, sitting cross-legged on the ground, looked a lot smaller than the other boys. His gaze was fixed on a copper-haired boy, wearing a shirt, who stood holding a long dowel-shaped piece of wood. Rachel thought it looked almost like an oversized rolling pin. A shirtless boy threw the ball and the copper-haired boy swung the wood. There was a cracking sound as the wood and ball met. The copper-haired boy took off, running toward a red shirt on the ground. The ball soared through the air. A shirtless boy caught it and whooped with glee. The copper-haired boy stopped running and scowled.

Marty picked up the wood and stood facing the shirtless boy holding the ball. Forgetting all about Nucia and Jacob waiting back at home, Rachel sat on a grassy spot and watched. Marty swung at the ball and missed. A boy kneeling behind him caught the ball and threw it back to the boy who'd thrown it. The boy threw it at Marty again. Again he missed. Seconds later, Marty missed the ball for the third time. “Strike three, you're out!” yelled the boy crouching behind him.

“Come on, Marty, you can do better than that!” snarled a boy on his team.

Marty dropped the bat. He returned his spot on the ground, a defeated expression on his face, and started coughing uncontrollably. Since they'd come to San Francisco, he'd been prone to coughing fits that started unexpectedly and wore him out. But unlike Rachel's mother, who'd coughed and grown sicker by the day, Marty seemed healthy otherwise.

“Marty!” called out Rachel, as his cough abated.

He looked in her direction and gave her a feeble wave.

Rachel continued watching, trying to decipher the rules of the game. Now she wished she'd listened more closely when Marty had explained baseball to her. The boys changed places, with the shirtless ones moving to the ground and Marty's group taking the field. Three boys stood at piles of clothing and the other ones, including Marty, spread out over the grass. One brawny boy clenched the wood and swung, hitting the ball past the boys in the field. Cheers erupted from his teammates. He ran to all the clothing on the ground and waved his arms above his head when he returned to where he'd started.

Ten minutes later, the game ended, with the boys dispersing in various directions. Marty, his shoulders slumped, made his way to Rachel.

“I don't like baseball,” he said. Dirt and perspiration were smeared on his forehead.

“Why not?” she asked as they started for home.

“I'm no good at it.”

“You'll get better.”

“How do you know?” he asked. “I've been playing every day and still can't hit the ball.”

Rachel bit her bottom lip. She couldn't think of anything to say to make Marty feel better. She couldn't give him advice, since she didn't even understand the game. She couldn't promise he would improve. Unlike his growing command of English, baseball seemed to be a problem he couldn't overcome.

“Why don't you ask Jacob for help?” she said.

“He's too busy and he doesn't know the first thing about baseball.”

“Can't you play another game?”

Marty shook his head. “Baseball's the only thing boys here talk about.”

Rachel stopped before going into their flat. “I know from reading the newspaper that baseball is not the only sport for boys. You need to try different games and find which one you're good at.”

“Who would I play with, if everyone else is playing baseball?”

“I'm sure there are boys at your school who play other sports,” suggested Rachel.

“I only know the ones who play baseball.”

Rachel groaned. “Stop being so difficult.”

“What do you mean?”

Rachel glanced at his small, dirty face, looking up at her as if she knew all the answers. “Nothing. Let's just go home for supper before Nucia gets angry.”

“The only other sport I've seen is football,” said Jacob at dinner after hearing about Marty's dilemma. “And you're too small and too young.”

“There's nothing else?” asked Rachel.

Jacob opened his mouth then clamped it shut.

“What is it?” Nucia asked him.

Jacob straightened his shoulders. “I was just going to mention boxing but—”

“Boxing!” said Rachel. “You must be joking.”

“I didn't mean Marty should take up the sport, only that it is popular in the city.”

“Absolutely not,” said Nucia.

“I have to agree,” added Rachel. “Boxing is the last sport I'd want for you, Marty.”

“What's so bad about boxing?” he asked.

“It is dangerous, not to mention violent,” said Nucia.

“I'm afraid Nucia and Rachel are right,” said Jacob. “Boxing is not a good idea.”

“Then I'll never make any friends,” said Marty. He poked at his chicken with his fork. “Not if I don't get better at baseball.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself,” said Jacob. “You only just started, and you're playing with boys who have grown up here. They have played baseball for years. They didn't always know how to hit the ball.”

“That's right,” said Rachel. “You came really close to hitting the ball today.”

“You mustn't give up now, when you've already spent so much time practicing,” added Nucia.

Marty looked dubious. “What if I never get better?”

Rachel's shoulders stiffened, thinking about this prospect, seeing him holding the bat and missing the ball. Every time. In front of all the other boys.

Jacob slid his glass of tea in front of Marty. “Look at this glass,” said Jacob. “Is it half full or half empty?”

Rachel's lips curled up. She remembered her father using the same analogy when she was upset about a teacher who marked her writing harshly.

“The glass is half empty,” she'd mumbled to her father as she stared at her essay, mutilated with marks from her teacher.

“How can you say that?” her father had asked. He took the paper from her hands, reading the teacher's thoughtful comments on her paper. “Can you not see the opportunities this teacher has given you? Don't you see that he wants more from you, that he is pushing you to work harder and do better?”

Rachel had examined the teacher's comments more closely. “I suppose he could be right about a few things,” she acknowledged.

“So, is the glass half empty or is it half full?” her father had asked her again.

“Half full,” she'd replied.

Now, Marty scrutinized Jacob's glass. “It's both,” he said. “It's half full and it's half empty.”

Jacob snorted and dragged his glass back. Rachel and Nucia looked at one another and burst out laughing.

“You're too sharp for me,” said Jacob. He finished his tea and placed his glass back on the table. “Now it's empty,” he said.