“It won’t be easy,” Sergei began, “getting the papers out to readers without drawing suspicion.”
“When everything is easy, my friend, one quickly gets lazy,” Gorky retorted.
“We must be smarter than the police.” Savinkov tapped his head with his index finger. “We must make our deliveries in the early evening, when there are people all around, before the streets are cleared of everyone except officers.”
“Moscow workers are the lowest paid in all of Europe,” Gorky explained to Sergei. “We need to circulate these papers to every Moscow factory so that workers see the benefits of coming together to fight for better wages and shorter hours.”
“I know what it’s like to work in a factory,” said Sergei. He massaged his sore arm. “I will help.”
“Let’s drink to that,” said Savinkov. He sauntered into the kitchen as if it were his house and not Gorky’s, returning with three glasses and a bottle of vodka.
“Not for me,” said Sergei. He’d given up drinking after realizing how much it changed him into a person he detested.
Savinkov shot him a look of disbelief, filled two glasses, and handed one to Gorky. The two men held them up.
“To your health,” said Gorky.
“To your health,” Savinkov repeated.
They poured the alcohol down their throats and smiled with satisfaction.
Ten minutes later, Sergei brought his satchel to the room he would be sharing with Savinkov on the second level. The room, which had one shuttered window, contained only two mattresses that lay side-by-side on the floor. Sergei lay down on the bare, lumpy mattress. He tossed and turned to find a comfortable position. As he drifted into sleep, he couldn’t help but wonder if Rachel would be proud of him for getting in deeper with revolutionaries. Or if she’d be angry with him for risking his freedom once again.
3
Sergei Khazhenkov
Barracks No. 6
Putilov Plant
47, Stachek Avenue
Petersburg, Russia
March 8, 1905
Dearest Sergei,
We are finally settled in San Francisco, yet it’s still hard to believe we are really in the land of freedom! In some ways life is better here, but in others it’s a little disappointing. We live in a boarding house in a crowded area of the city filled with people from places like Romania, Germany, England, and Poland. Sometimes, when I walk through the market and hear so many different languages, I’m not sure where I am!
Though the people living in our house are kind, I am reluctant to get close to anyone. I dread the thought of having to say good-bye to friends again. I still feel sad at having to leave Shprintze in Shanghai, and you know how hard it was to abandon Chaia in Kishinev. I will forever remember her, and often wonder if she ever recovered from her injuries from the riot.
I am grateful to have a roof over my head, but will not feel like an American until we live in our own home. Here, in this boarding house, people are coming and going at all times of the day, and there is a sense of impermanence.
This is the most I’ve written since arriving! After working twelve hours a day, cleaning a house that is so big my voice echoes when I speak and attending classes three nights a week to learn English, I am too tired to even think about writing. I long to read English better, without having to look up words every minute. I long for the time to write about this vibrant city where Jews live peacefully alongside gentiles, where some Jews are prominent businessmen, where potential seems to be limited only by ambition. Would you believe that the mayor of San Francisco is Jewish?
Menahem is doing well but struggling to be accepted. He is in a school attended by students from many countries, so that he gets to know different children. Spring Valley School was built during the gold rush in California. Menahem thinks there is still much gold to be found here. He says that one day he’s going to find it and buy an automobile for me with the money he gets! I tell him that he can make me just as happy by learning English and staying in school.
You would prosper here. I’m as sure of this as I am of being blown over by a stiff breeze. The wind here is fierce, and the chilly days as gray as tobacco smoke. Yet geraniums thrive in this climate, blooming in vivid reds and pinks that remind me of Russian wild flowers.
I miss you, Sergei, and worry that we may never see one another again, separated as we are by such a big ocean. I hope you’re well. Please write me as soon as you get this letter.
As ever,
Rachel
P.S. Menahem wants me to tell you that some day he’s going to drive with you in an automobile (like the picture he has drawn for you)! I hope his wish comes true.
Rachel chewed on her bottom lip to keep from laughing out loud. She’d come to Marks Brothers Ladies Wear and Children’s Wear on Fillmore Street, to choose American clothes for Menahem. He had grown out of all his trousers and shirts, and Nucia was too busy with work to make new ones for him. But seeing Menahem now, in a boy’s white sailor suit with pink trim, Rachel thought seriously about begging Nucia to make his clothes.
“I look like a girl,” complained Menahem. He tugged at the sailor collar and crossed his legs in a failed attempt to hide the knickerbockers that went to his knees. Long socks, which emphasized his skinny legs, completed the outfit. His hair had been cut short, to the base of his neck, and his face had a healthy glow.
“This is what all the young boys wear,” said Mr. Marks, the store owner.
“Do the boys at school dress like this?” Rachel asked Menahem.
“Some do,” admitted Menahem. “But I’m not going to school dressed this way.”
“It doesn’t really suit him,” said Rachel to Mr. Marks. “Do you have anything else?”
Mr. Marks scratched the top of his head and adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles. “Older boys wear breeches and tunics.”
Rachel shrugged her shoulders and opened her palms, showing that she had no idea what he meant.
Mr. Marks disappeared into the racks of boys’ clothing. A woman carrying an armload of clothing bumped into Rachel. The store was teeming with shoppers because of the store-wide sale. Rachel eyed the floral-patterned skirts in the woman’s arms with envy. She longed to touch the fabric, to try on some skirts, to buy at least one.
“This might be more what you’re looking for,” said Mr. Marks, appearing with a white shirt and chocolate-brown short pants. He handed them to Menahem who took them gratefully and rushed into the curtained dressing room to change.
“Why don’t boys wear pants that go down to their feet?” asked Menahem, when he opened the curtain a moment later, wearing the new clothing. The pants ended at his knees, like the sailor pants, but the darker color made him look older. The shirt had a stiff collar and buttoned up the front. The socks were the same color as the pants.
Mr. Marks shrugged in response to Menahem’s question.
“I think you look good,” said Rachel. “Much better.”
“I guess so,” said Menahem. He turned around in front of a looking glass. “I don’t look Russian anymore.”
Rachel detected a hint of sadness in his voice, as if he was caught between his desire to fit in here in America and his need to keep his Russian identity.
“You still look Russian,” she said to him. “You always will. No matter how long you live in America, you will always be Russian.”
“Might I suggest a sweater which can be worn on colder days?” asked Mr. Marks. He held up a tan wool sweater with brown buttons.
Menahem put in on over the shirt. It hung loosely over his shoulders and the sleeves were long, past his wrists.
“I like that there’s room for you to grow,” said Rachel. She looked at the ticket attached to one sleeve to see the price. Twenty-five cents. This would bring the total cost to one dollar and fifty cents, in addition to the dollar for the
leather lace-up shoes.
“We’ll take it,” she said to Mr. Marks. “The sweater and everything.”
“Can I wear it home?” asked Menahem.
“I don’t see why not,” said Mr. Marks. He removed the price tickets and handed them to Rachel.
Rachel and Menahem wove their way through the aisles and the people to the cash desk, where a long line had formed. Rachel counted out coins and gave them to Menahem for his clothes.
“You wait here,” she told him. “I just want to look quickly at the women’s clothing.”
“But Nucia said—”
Rachel dashed off to the women’s section, ignoring Menahem’s objections. She calculated how much money she had to spend. Menahem’s clothing had cost fifty cents less than Nucia had expected. Surely her sister wouldn’t mind if that went toward a skirt for herself. And there was the fifty cents she had squirreled away since they’d arrived, accumulated by foregoing treats when Jacob had given her and Menahem money to spend on ice cream, Dr. Pepper soda, and candies.
She wormed her way to the front of a group of women in the skirt section of the store. The colorful fabrics reminded her of the thread store her mother had loved in Kishinev. Rachel recalled the last time she’d gone to that store for her mother, when the owner had called her a “stupid yid.” Rachel shut her eyes to block out that memory, then took in the attractive ankle-length skirts. She was immediately drawn to a periwinkle blue skirt with tiny white flowers. She removed it from the row of skirts, held it to her waist, and peered into a looking glass. She immediately felt prettier.
“That would look beautiful with this shirtwaist.” A petite saleswoman held up a long white shirt, tailored like a man’s, with a high collar.
Rachel took the shirtwaist from the saleswoman, and held it up with the skirt. “I love it,” she said. “How much are they?”
“Ordinarily, they’d be seven dollars together, but the sale price is three dollars and fifty cents,” she said. “And there’s the corset.” She rummaged through another display. “The S-shaped corset is two dollars right now.”
Rachel’s face fell. “I don’t have enough money.”
“For the corset?”
“For any of it.”
“That’s too bad,” said the woman brusquely. She took the garments from Rachel.
Rachel watched as the woman put the clothing back in the display and moved onto another customer. Three dollars and fifty cents, thought Rachel. At the rate I’m saving, I’ll be old and gray before I can afford such nice clothes. She returned to Menahem, still waiting in line, paid for his breeches, shirt, sweater, shoes and socks, and trudged home. The coins in her pocket jingled as she walked, an annoying reminder of her inability to afford stylish clothing. Though she was free to be whatever and whoever she wanted to be in America, the bitter chains of poverty still held her captive.
⚓ ⚓ ⚓
Temple Sherith Israel rose grandly a hundred and forty feet above California Street, crowned with a dome that shone as the sun set. With more than a thousand seats, it was a complete contrast to Rachel’s shul in Kishinev, a small, one-room building as plain and simple as black bread.
Rachel and her family were at a Friday evening service at Sherith Israel. They sat with Mr. Bloom, proprietor of the kosher grocery, and his congenial wife, Esther. Rachel glanced sideways at her sister. Nucia’s forehead was creased with perplexity as the passionate, olive-skinned rabbi gave his sermon in English. Fortunately, the Blooms translated the words into Yiddish for Rachel and her family.
This Reform Sabbath service bore little resemblance to the services they had attended in Russia or even in Shanghai. The prayers were mostly in English, not Hebrew. Men and women sat together, and the wearing of yarmulkes—skullcaps worn by Jewish men at most religious services—was optional. In fact, as Rachel surveyed the backs of men’s heads in front of her, she saw only a few covered heads.
Rachel had insisted on attending Sherith Israel, though it was a good distance north of Market Street, because of its Reform service and Rabbi Nieto’s reputation for interesting sermons. Only she hadn’t been completely honest with Nucia, telling her that Sherith Israel was an Orthodox synagogue and, therefore, worth the forty-five minute walk each way. Nucia said they couldn’t take the trolley because it was shabes, but Rachel had seen many members of the congregation get on the trolley after each service.
Rachel returned her gaze to Rabbi Nieto, standing at the pulpit, framed within an elaborately carved arch. Gas lamps, the only source of light, hung on both sides of the pulpit, and immense organ pipes descended from the high ceiling. The bold opulence amazed Rachel. In San Francisco, Jews could build grand buildings like Sherith Israel with its plush red-velvet seats, impressive organ, and bright stained-glass windows. Here, one could show pride in being Jewish.
After the service, they stepped out of the synagogue onto California Street with the Blooms, discussing the rabbi’s lecture on how Judaism must keep up with the times.
“I think the rabbi is right,” said Rachel. “Judaism needs to become more modern, if it is going to survive here in America.”
“I agree,” said Jacob. With his clean-shaven face and short hair, he barely resembled the person he’d been in Shanghai. He looked more American than Russian, and his jovial personality had flourished since he’d started working for himself. “I used to resent all the rules and traditions that controlled me like a strap.”
“But encouraging unmarried men and women to socialize, is this really necessary?” asked Nucia. “And telling us that we needn’t dress as we did in the old world, that I can remove my headscarf and still be seen as a proper married Jewish woman. I still can’t believe you talked me into attending this shul, Rachel.”
Rachel stifled a giggle. “What is the harm? Besides, the Blooms have been going to Sherith Israel for ages, right Mrs. Bloom?”
Mrs. Bloom hesitated before answering. “Yes, but I don’t want to cause arguments in your family,” she said in Yiddish.
“You cover your hair, Mrs. Bloom,” said Nucia. “Why do you go to a Reform synagogue?”
Mrs. Bloom brought her hand to her head and smoothed her shawl. “Because I like Sherith Israel and Rabbi Nieto. I like being able to choose how I want to be Jewish.”
They all stopped at a corner where a trolley was turning in front of them.
“Uncovering your hair or even eating food that’s not kosher doesn’t make you less Jewish,” said Mr. Bloom. He had begun selling non-kosher as well as kosher food in his store, because of the demand for non-kosher food from his Jewish customers. “It’s what you feel and believe on the inside that counts.”
“These traditions are the only link we have to Russia,” said Nucia. “By holding onto them, we are keeping our memories alive.”
“You can still keep your traditions here in America,” said Rachel “Look around!” Rachel pointed at the myriad of people strolling along the sidewalks on both sides of the street. “There are men with beards and others without, boys dressed in their finest who have come from shul, and yet down the street…” Rachel gestured to the side street on their right, where a group of boys, casually dressed, was throwing balls to one another.
A horse and carriage drove past, carrying a woman in a pretty, ruffled blouse and a flowered hat, secured with a ribbon around her neck. A group of women crossed the street, coming toward them, speaking in Polish. Right behind them were a Chinese man and woman. The man was holding a small child in his arms.
“Don’t you see how different people look from one another here?” Rachel said to Nucia. “You can dress however you like, speak in any language, practice any religion, be who you want to be here in America.”
Nucia stared at the vibrant scene unfolding in front of her. “I see, but it is difficult for me to accept these differences. Maybe it’s just hard for me to change.”
“It isn’t easy for any of us,” said Mrs. Bloom, giving Nucia a maternal hug. “Tomorrow we’ll have you over for supper and I’ll cook some of your favorite foods from home, yes? A herring salad with beets, chicken soup, and gefilte fish.”
“I will help you cook,” said Nucia.
“I will help you eat,” said Menahem.
They all laughed, Mr. Bloom loudest of all. Rachel wondered why he and Mrs. Bloom had no children. Since arriving, the Blooms had become their closest friends, adoptive parents almost, because of their age and years of experience living in San Francisco. Rachel had asked Mrs. Bloom’s advice about choosing a synagogue and Jacob had sought Mr. Bloom’s opinion about starting his own business. The Blooms lived in a large flat above their shop, and often gave leftover meat and fish from their store to Nucia. Their Saturday evening meals together had become a tradition that Rachel looked forward to every week. Tonight, being the Sabbath, they could not cook, and their evening meal would be bread and cold vegetables. Rachel, resigned to a cold, tasteless meal tonight, began counting the hours until the end of shabes.
⚓ ⚓ ⚓
“I want to change my name,” Menahem announced in English the next evening during their supper with the Blooms.
Nucia, who’d been eating soup, sputtered. Her face turned red as she choked on the broth.
Jacob patted her back until she stopped.
“Are you all right?” asked Mrs. Bloom. She stood at the stove, removing potatoes from boiling water.
“It’s nothing. Menahem,” said Nucia, her voice hoarse, “just surprised me.”
“Me, too,” said Rachel.
“I think you’d better explain,” Jacob said to Menahem.
“Menahem sounds strange at my school,” he said. “The teacher’s always saying it wrong and most of the boys have American names.”
Mrs. Bloom placed a white oval plate on the table, with skinned, boiled potatoes arranged in a pyramid. She fetched a platter of roast chicken and set it down. Then she took her seat at the end of the table.
Rachel's Hope Page 3