“I think he’s a natural,” said Jacob.
Marty let go of the railing and continued, slowly, holding his arms out for balance.
“How can he do that?” asked Rachel, still holding on to the railing.
“Some people just have good balance,” Jacob explained. “You can’t teach someone that. Either they have it, or they don’t.”
Marty’s feet began to slide. He waved his arms like a bird flying against the wind, trying to keep his balance, but fell backwards. He glanced over his shoulder, waved, and stood up again. He continued skating slowly.
“Let’s see if I can do this,” said Jacob. He stepped onto the rink and, using the handrail for stability, skated around the perimeter. Once every few feet, he let go, skated on his own a little, then grabbed the railing once more.
“I’m not sure I even want to try,” said Nucia, watching Jacob moving precariously around the rink.
“We can’t just stand here,” said Rachel. She took a deep breath, and moved forward holding on to the railing, every muscle tensed as she persisted. Following Jacob’s example, she let go of the railing occasionally, grabbing it when she felt the floor sliding away.
When she reached the other side of the rink, she rested. Nucia still stood where she had been left. Rachel skated around to her sister, still clutching the railing. “I’ve got you,” she said, putting her arm around Nucia for support.
Nucia let go of the railing, teetered from side to side, and fell, bringing Rachel down with her. Laughing, they stumbled to their feet and made it about five feet before collapsing. They continued this way around the arena, until they were back to where they’d started.
“I’m finished,” said Nucia, wiping her damp forehead. She quickly stepped off the surface and began removing her skates.
Rachel skated five times around the rink before her muscles ached and perspiration dribbled down the back of her neck. She joined Nucia and watched Jacob and Marty wobble beside one another.
“Marty is happier than he’s been in weeks,” said Nucia.
“Thank goodness he can skate so well,” said Rachel. “It would have been terrible if he’d spent the evening on his bottom, like me.”
By the time Jacob and Marty finished, Marty’s cheeks were red and the circles under Jacob’s eyes seemed to have faded.
“Look,” said Marty after they’d removed their skates and were about to leave. He pointed at a poster of a bare-chested man with intense eyes in short pants, his hands covered in leather boxing gloves. Words on the poster identified the man as Abe Attell, the Little Hebrew boxing champion.
“He must be a professional fighter,” said Jacob. “Mr. Bloom told me boxing is a big sport here. They fight for money.”
“Can we go to the boxing match?” asked Marty.
“Absolutely not,” said Nucia in a firm, no-arguments voice.
Jacob shrugged and resumed walking.
“Please,” said Marty to Nucia. “Just one fight?”
“I’m sorry, but the idea of watching grown men fight for money is revolting to me,” said Nucia.
Marty trudged down the street, miserably. Rachel felt as if all the good that came from their skating adventure had vanished.
⚓ ⚓ ⚓
Rachel fidgeted in her front-row seat at the Turk Street Temple, a German Jewish congregation. She had strained her back earlier in the day moving a table for Mrs. Haas, and it was difficult to find a comfortable position. Rachel had come to hear Anna speak to a group of wealthy German Jews about the horrible working and living conditions in Russia. Unlike the Russian Jews, who had greater difficulty adjusting to life in America, German Jews, who’d arrived in San Francisco ten years earlier, had readily embraced their new country, and were now a part of San Francisco society. Members of this congregation had taken leadership roles in the larger community. One man at this meeting led the German Benevolent Society, while two others had been leaders at the prestigious Concordia Club, where Jews gathered for social events throughout the year.
“The downfall of Russia has been thrown upon the screen of men’s minds,” began the chairman of this assembled group. He spoke in English but with a heavy German accent that made him hard to understand.
Rachel sat still and rigid, to lessen her back pain.
“I am inspired, and am sure you will be, too,” explained the chairman, “by this little Russian girl whose body seems inadequate for the great pulsing soul it holds.” He turned to Anna, sitting behind him and motioned for her to come forward.
Rachel saw annoyance flicker in Anna’s eyes at being called a “little Russian girl,” but she joined the chairman on the stage and gave him a demure smile.
“After you hear Miss Anna Strunsky speak about the plight of the Russian people, please dig deeply into your pockets to help them,” he urged.
A couple of men chuckled. Rachel twisted her neck to look back at the audience, at least a hundred people with unreadable faces. She began to worry that Anna wouldn’t reach this crowd, that they would not be interested in what she had to say. I could never speak to a large group of people. I would probably stand there like an idiot and lose my voice.
“Two months ago, seven thousand Russians banded together and decided to cause trouble,” Anna began, her voice vibrant with passion. “Their target? Synagogues and Jews, especially rabbis. If Rabbi Nieto or Rabbi Voorsanger, pillars of our San Francisco community, happened to have been in one of these villages, they, too, would likely have been beaten to death by these savages.”
The temple grew silent. Rachel could hear the short, faint breathing of the man behind her.
“A reporter in Russia wrote that a group of Jew-baiters destroyed the altar of a synagogue and beat the rabbi until he was a pulp of unrecognizable flesh and bones.” Having gotten their attention, she paused. “With scenes like these occurring weekly throughout Russia and no intervention from the anti-Semitic Russian government, it is no wonder that the people, ordinary people like you and me, are taking matters into their own hands. The revolution in Russia is real, and it is the vanguard of a revolution all over Europe.”
Anna told the rapt audience how this rebellion had been brewing since the dawn of the nineteenth century, when serfs were freed but remained in poverty; economic slaves without the right to own land.
“Then came Vera Zasulich, the twenty-eight-year-old daughter of a captain, who shot and wounded the governor of St. Petersburg in 1878, because he had given the order to flog a political prisoner for rude behavior. A jury acquitted her. In retaliation, that became the last trial by jury in Russia.”
Rachel could hardly believe her ears. Even though she had studied Russian history in Kishinev, she had never heard about Vera Zasulich. Such stories were not part of the school program, nor were they in textbooks that had to be approved by the government. The Russian establishment did not want to celebrate revolutionaries like her. It is ironic, thought Rachel, that I must come to America to hear true stories about Russia’s history.
Anna asked if there were any questions before she finished. One row ahead of Rachel, a man identified himself as a reporter for the San Francisco Bulletin. He asked what Anna hoped to achieve in Russia, and scribbled furiously in his notebook as she explained how she wanted to bring attention to Russia and its ordinary citizens, who had none of the rights Americans enjoyed.
‘Though Russia is far in distance,” said Anna, “its people are no different from us in their desire to feed, clothe, and educate their children. They want to live in a free society where leaders are elected and where laws are made in a democratic fashion.”
Anna’s speech will be in the newspaper, thought Rachel. Not only did Anna write the news, now she was the news.
“Before concluding, I want to introduce you to one of our newest residents who has come to San Francisco all the way from Russia,” said Anna. “Rachel Pask
ar.”
“What?” gasped Rachel. She shook her head at Anna.
“It’s all right, Rachel. Please come up here to the stage,” said Anna.
Feeling as if she had rocks in her shoes, Rachel plodded up to the front and stood, frozen. She winced as pain cut through her back. One hundred pairs of eyes stared at her as if she were an important person. Anna put her arm around Rachel, slightly easing the tension in her shoulders.
“Rachel and her family endured a terrible massacre in their small Russian town, just like the one I described. But afterwards they were fortunate enough to escape to Shanghai. Rachel had to give up going to school to help provide for her family and to save for passage to America. Now she lives here in San Francisco, still working hard but also going to school,” explained Anna. “She has great ambitions to become a writer and has even had an article published in a local paper. Her strength humbles me, and I’m proud to call her my friend.”
Rachel’s stomach flip-flopped as a thunderous applause broke out, and the audience stood to honor her. She had done as Mr. Ezra had suggested, rewritten her article about Jewish women in San Francisco and sent it to the weekly Emanu-El newspaper. The editor had responded within a week, sending her a dollar for the story and advising her that he would make the necessary corrections to her English. “In spite of your grammatical and spelling errors,” he wrote, “I can see you are a talented writer, and I encourage you to submit again in the future to our Emanu-El publication.” As she listened to the applause, Rachel felt proud of her accomplishment.
People began funneling down the aisles toward Rachel and Anna to shake their hands. Rachel found herself looking into their eyes, seeing compassion and respect reflected back at her. “Proud to know you,” said one man. “You have the courage of ten men,” said another. She wanted to say that she had done nothing extraordinary, that thousands of people had endured even worse circumstances; that she was grateful to be in America. But she was overcome with shyness.
As the crowd filed by, they contributed generously to the donation bucket held by the chairman. By the time the building had emptied, the bucket was filled to the brim with money.
“I’m so happy that you were successful,” said Rachel to Anna. “But hearing you speak and seeing this money means you will be leaving soon.”
“In two weeks,” said Anna.
“I don’t know what I’ll do without you,” said Rachel.
“You’re not rid of me just yet,” said Anna. “And there are still a couple of things I want to do with you.”
“What?”
“Meet me tomorrow at three o’clock, and you’ll see.”
“I’ll have to leave work early.”
“Just say it’s a matter of life and death,” said Anna.
“I did hurt my back today.”
“Then you shouldn’t be working at all tomorrow. Take the day off and spend it with me. Noon at 1010 Fillmore Street.”
“I will.” Rachel embraced Anna and headed outside to the trolley stop. For the entire way home, all she could think about was Anna and her mysterious plans for the next day.
9
Koblik’s Bookstore stood prominently at 1010 Fillmore Street. It was eleven-thirty and Rachel stood outside the shop, peering through the window at the books on display. Mr. Koblik himself was outside as well, unfurling the off-white awning so that it stretched across the sidewalk. A light rain had begun, gently wetting Rachel’s face and hands.
She’d done as Anna had suggested, sending word with Nucia that she was too sore to work today. With the flat to herself that morning, she’d read the newspaper and worked on an essay for her English course. For the first time in a long time, Rachel felt relaxed, not racing to get everything done. Her back even felt less painful.
“Why don’t you come inside and have a look,” suggested Mr. Koblik, a lean man in a freshly pressed suit and tie. “You’ll get drenched if you stay out here much longer.”
The rain had increased, so Rachel walked into the shop behind Mr. Koblik and headed directly to the magazine racks. She opened the latest edition of California Women’s Magazine and scanned the contents, looking for Anna’s most recent article. There it was, “National Council of Jewish Women Votes No for Suffrage” by Anna Strunsky. Rachel ran her index finger over Anna’s name, and read the article, paying particular attention to how Anna had structured the piece. She noted how the first sentence, which Anna had explained was the most important, captured the discord of the meeting. In fact, from the powerful quotes Anna used, it was clear that the women’s inability to agree on what needed to be done had led to the unsuccessful vote. Reading this, Rachel felt as if she were back at the Emanu-El meeting. Anna had not only given a vivid description of the women, but of the synagogue as well.
“You’re early!” Anna squeezed Rachel tightly, scrunching the magazine.
“Oh, no!” cried Rachel. “I don’t have enough money to buy it and it’s all wrinkled.”
Anna snatched it from Rachel’s hands. “I’ll get it for you.”
“No, Anna!” Rachel tried to grab the magazine but Anna held it over her head.
“You need to study magazine pieces, especially mine, to learn how to write,” said Anna.
“Especially yours?” laughed Rachel. “Nobody could ever accuse you of being modest.”
“Modesty will get you nowhere.” Anna dropped the magazine on the counter. “Now, you listen to me, Rachel Paskar. I am going to buy this magazine for you today, and I am going to buy a book for you, too.”
Rachel opened her mouth to object.
“Don’t say a word,” ordered Anna. “Just listen. I want to buy a book for you, any one you want, to thank you for helping me with my Russian. This is not charity. It is a gift; the kind that people give one another to say thanks.”
“Really?” said Rachel “Any book I want?”
“Well,” Anna put her hands on her slim hips. “That was easier than I thought.”
“Nobody has given me a book since my father…” Rachel paused. “He bought me Anna Karenina, my favorite book. It was destroyed in the massacre.”
Anna touched Rachel’s shoulders gently. “I would be honored if you’d let me buy Anna Karenina for you.”
“I don’t know what to say,” said Rachel.
“Don’t say anything,” said Anna. “Just accept the book. Your father would want you to have it.”
Mr. Koblik moved out from behind the counter and went straight to a shelf in the middle of his shop. He peered at the spines and pulled out a blue-gray book with gold lettering. “Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy,” he said.
“I’ll take it and the magazine,” said Anna.
Rachel’s hands shook when Anna handed the book to her. She lifted the cover delicately, as if it were fragile, and caressed the title page. The one her father had given her had been written in Russian. This English edition would be a challenge, reading it in her new language, but she could hardly wait to start.
“This is the best gift you could give me,” said Rachel, once they were out of the bookstore. “I can’t think of a better surprise.” She held the book and magazine to her chest.
“I’m glad,” said Anna. “But there’s more.”
“Oh, no.” Rachel shook her head. “I won’t let you spend another cent on me.”
“That’s too bad. I was going to take you to lunch.”
Rachel pondered this idea. “Only if you let me take you to supper one day, when I can afford it.”
“I would be delighted.” Anna locked arms with Rachel and led her down the street to a restaurant with curtains in the windows. A man wearing a white apron over black trousers seated them at a table by the window. Rachel watched the people strolling outside with satisfaction on her face.
“This is the first time I’ve ever been to a restaurant here,” she told Anna. “I
feel like royalty with everyone outside looking at me.”
Anna lifted her eyes above the paper menu. “Did you eat in restaurants in Russia?”
“Once. My father took us for my mother’s birthday. He thought it would be nice to have someone else cook for her.”
“Did she like it?”
“Not at all. She found fault with everything: the food, the cleanliness. I felt terrible for my father, but he didn’t seem to mind.”
Anna dropped her menu and folded her hands together. “Let me order for you. I want you to try real American food.”
Rachel glanced at the menu. She had been trying to figure out what passed for kosher, but Anna had a way of persuading her to do what she wanted. Besides, Rachel had wanted to try more American food for a while. That was difficult because Nucia did most of the cooking and refused to venture far from their traditional fare. Rachel agreed to have Anna order for her.
Leafy greens on a white plate appeared minutes later.
“Granada salad,” Anna explained. “Lettuce with pomegranate seeds.”
Using her fork, Rachel picked up some lettuce and the small, red seeds. The lettuce was crisp and mild, but the pomegranate seeds burst with unexpected tartness in her mouth.
“You like it?” asked Anna.
“Very much,” said Rachel. She continued eating, savoring the new flavors that awakened her taste buds. She had never eaten raw lettuce before. Normally, her meals started with hot soup.
Next, came a circular piece of meat in a bun with Saratoga chips—crisp, strangely shaped things that tasted like salty potatoes—on the side.
“These are delicious,” said Rachel.
“Try the hamburg steak,” said Anna. She took a bite out of the bun with the meat inside.
Rachel did the same and found it was unlike any type of meat she’d ever eaten. It tasted a bit like meatloaf, but the texture of the meat was different, crumbly inside and crusty on the outside. The rich, beefy flavor lingered on her tongue.
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