“Marty would love this,” Rachel said to Anna between bites. “He would eat meat for breakfast if he could.”
Anna smiled. “Hamburg steaks are my favorite, but my mother refuses to serve them at home.”
“Why?”
“She says they’re for working people; people who can’t afford steaks.”
Rachel’s stomach tightened. For the first time since she’d met Anna, she felt the economic inequality between her family and the well-to-do Strunskys.
“I’m sorry,” said Anna. “I didn’t mean anything by that. My mother can be a real snob, but you know I’m not.”
“It’s all right,” said Rachel, pasting a fake smile on her face. “It’s not like my family’s poverty is a secret.”
“Just remember, my parents brought us over from Russia with only a few dollars in their pockets,” said Anna. “My father worked at two jobs, just like Jacob. It took years for him to save enough money to open his first liquor store. And though I don’t like the fact that he sells alcohol, it is legal, and it has enabled us to live a comfortable life.”
“I know it will take time for us to get where we want to be,” said Rachel. “I just don’t have much patience.”
“You’re exactly like me,” laughed Anna. “My father says I have the patience of a starving tiger. Now, hurry and finish eating. I have another surprise for you.”
⚓ ⚓ ⚓
Rachel pressed her face to the trolley window and watched the city roll by as she and Anna headed toward the business district. It had stopped raining, but the streets still had a silvery sheen to them. They passed familiar landmarks—a Polish delicatessen, an Italian barbershop, a German bakery, a Ukrainian hardware store—before reaching more unfamiliar buildings in the financial center of the city. The spire of the Ferry Building jutted higher than any other building. Beyond the skyline was the bay, a flat, light blue expanse. Beyond it, the Berkeley Hills stretched up into the murky clouds.
“We get off here,” said Anna, pulling Rachel to her feet when they reached Folsom Street.
“Where are we going?” asked Rachel.
“You’ll see,” said Anna giving her an evasive smile.
A few minutes later, Anna stopped outside a five-story brick building with dark windows.
“This is it,” said Anna in a buoyant voice. “The San Francisco Bulletin.”
Rachel creased her brow. “Do you have to hand in a story?”
“No.” Anna opened the door and marched inside as if she owned the building.
A young man greeted Anna. He sat at a spacious desk, located underneath a chandelier. A spiral staircase with iron railings was behind him.
“Good afternoon, George,” said Anna. “This is my friend, Rachel Paskar.”
“Pleased to meet you,” he replied.
“Yes. I mean, good to meet you, too,” said Rachel. She brushed a stray piece of hair from her eyes.
Anna continued up the stairs to the second floor, one enormous room that hummed with the sound of typewriters and smelled of tobacco. People worked at desks in the center of the room, heads bent over their Underwood typewriters, oblivious to Anna and Rachel. A mist of cigarette smoke hung in the air. Rachel could not peel her eyes away from the reporters, mostly men in suits and a few women in dark, tailored dresses. Anna walked briskly past the desks to the far side of the room and knocked on a door in the corner with EDITOR written in block letters. A muffled voice told them to enter.
“Anna, good to see you.” Rising from his desk, a white-haired, bespectacled man greeted Anna effusively.
Framed covers of Bulletin issues lined two walls, and newspapers and books were stacked all over the floor.
“Hello, Hugh. This is my friend, Rachel, whom I’ve told you about,” said Anna.
Hugh took Rachel’s hands and clasped them in a friendly manner. “I’ve heard so much about you, Rachel.”
Rachel, was speechless, meeting the editor of such an important mainstream newspaper.
“Rachel had no idea I was bringing her here today,” said Anna. “She’s a bit overwhelmed.”
“I promise I won’t bite,” teased Hugh. He let go of Rachel’s hands and gestured to the chairs facing his desk. “Sit down, please.”
Rachel sat down gratefully, placing her book and magazine on her lap. Anna dropped into the chair beside Rachel, giving her an encouraging smile.
“You’re all booked for your trip?” Hugh asked Anna.
“I’ve got my tickets and my papers,” Anna replied.
“No second thoughts?” asked Hugh.
“None. In fact, I feel more confident than ever, thanks to Rachel.” Anna turned and smiled at her. “Because of her help with the language, I might even pass as a Russian citizen.”
“I’m not sure whether to thank you for assisting Anna, or to be angry with you for helping her leave us,” said Hugh in a stern voice.
Rachel’s shoulders tightened and her eyes shifted from Hugh to Anna.
“Don’t take anything he says seriously,” said Anna. “Hugh, behave. Rachel is not used to your sarcasm.”
Hugh held out his hand to Rachel. “My apologies. I am truly grateful to meet you.”
Heat crawled up her neck as Hugh studied her with penetrating eyes.
“Anna has shown me your article in the Emanu-El weekly,” he continued, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands behind his head. “Well done.”
“Rachel’s also written for a newspaper in Shanghai,” said Anna. “What’s it called, Rachel?”
“Israel’s Messenger,” said Rachel, her voice getting stronger.
“What kind of articles?” asked Hugh. He removed his spectacles, breathed on each lens, and rubbed them with a wrinkled cloth.
Rachel cleared her throat. “It’s a local Jewish newspaper, written in Yiddish, reporting on international news. While I lived in Shanghai, I wrote about Jews leaving Russia and what it was like for the Jewish refugees arriving in Shanghai.”
“Rachel’s been reading the Bulletin since she arrived here,” said Anna. She turned to Rachel and nodded at her, urging her to say something.
Hugh returned his spectacles to his face and looked at Rachel expectantly.
“I…I really like the articles about politics and women. I was particularly interested in the recent story about Bertha Suttner, the first woman to win the Nobel Peace Prize.”
“Well, I can certainly see Anna’s influence on you,” said Hugh.
“Rachel has her own opinions,” said Anna. “All I’ve done is help her with English. She’s a fast learner. You should see the books she’s reading after just learning English.”
“Anna has also taught me a lot about writing,” added Rachel.
“You couldn’t have a better teacher,” said Hugh. “Anna is an excellent journalist.”
“Rachel hopes to be a full-time writer one day,” said Anna.
“After I finish university,” added Rachel.
“Good, good,” said Hugh. He got to his feet and moved toward a stack of newspapers in the corner of his office. “You represent a growing segment of the population; young, educated female immigrants. I’d be delighted to have you write for me one day.”
Rachel wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. Did he mean what he said?
Hugh returned to the desk with an armful of newspapers. “Here are some back issues with features about immigration. You can read them to get a better idea of the kinds of pieces we publish.” He placed the newspapers on the desk in front of Rachel and resumed his seat. “If you have any story ideas that you think might be good for the Bulletin,” Hugh continued, “come talk to me. I’m always willing to listen to new suggestions.”
“She should also start writing letters to the editor, don’t you think?” said Anna. “That’s a good way to get her name in p
rint.”
“Excellent idea,” agreed Hugh. “That would certainly be a good way to position yourself as a strong, female immigrant voice.”
“Thank you both so much for your encouragement,” Rachel said.
Anna gave her an affectionate squeeze.
Hugh replied, “You can thank me by filing a good story for us one day.”
Then he turned to Anna. “And you, Anna, am I going to see you again before you go?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure,” said Anna.
“More importantly, have you told your father about your trip to Russia?”
“Your father doesn’t know you’re going to Russia?” asked Rachel, surprised.
Anna shifted in her seat. “Not exactly. He thinks I’m going to Geneva, to interview Russian political exiles.”
“Anna.” Hugh shook his head. “You must tell him the truth.”
“He would do whatever he could to stop me,” said Anna, rising to her feet. “Now, Hugh, we’ve taken enough of your time.”
Rachel picked up her book and newspapers and made her way to the door, behind Anna.
“It was good meeting you, Rachel.” Hugh accompanied them to the door. “Don’t be a stranger. I really would like to see you write for me.”
“Thank you, again,” said Rachel. “I will stay in touch.”
After they said good-bye, Rachel felt as if she were walking on air.
“I hope I made a good impression. I won’t be able to sleep for days, I’m so excited. This was the best surprise ever,” she said.
“I haven’t done much,” cautioned Anna. “You still have to come up with a good story and write it well. Hugh accepts only the best.”
“I can’t believe you haven’t told your father the truth,” said Rachel to Anna as they descended the stairs. “You are not going to let him find out when he reads the newspaper and sees that you are corresponding from Russia, are you?”
Anna didn’t respond. She increased her pace.
“You are,” said Rachel.
Anna stopped and pivoted around to face Rachel. “My father never questions what my brothers do, only what I do. He is overprotective of me because I’m a woman. Doing what I need to do, even if it means lying to my parents, is the only way I know to live my life.” She stopped talking and resumed walking very quickly down the street.
As she hurried to keep up with her friend, Rachel mulled over Anna’s predicament. Though life was infinitely better for women in America than in Russia, men still had more opportunities here.
“I understand,” said Rachel. “I won’t say a word. I just wish it didn’t have to be this way.”
“So do I,” said Anna.
⚓ ⚓ ⚓
Standing outside the Strunsky’s opulent Victorian home on Golden Gate Avenue, Rachel had second thoughts about entering. She had been here several times to tutor Anna with her Russian, but this house was still intimidating with its ornate pillars and its intricately carved trim around the windows. It was the day before Anna’s departure and her parents were throwing a going-away party for their daughter for what they thought was a short trip to Geneva.
Rachel wasn’t nervous about the event itself, but she was uneasy about lying to Anna’s family. I could always tell Anna I wasn’t feeling well, she thought. But then I’d be lying, too. And I wouldn’t get to say good-bye to her. With a strong sense of dread, Rachel ascended the wood steps and knocked on the door.
The house bustled with people. Tables in the large front room were laden with sweet and savory treats—lemonade, baked apples, cold sliced beef, iced tea, purple grapes, and baked rhubarb dessert. Rachel took a glass of lemonade and a plate of baked rhubarb from the uniformed maid. The ice-cold lemonade tasted sweet. Rachel sipped it and set the glass down on a nearby table. She brought a forkful of the baked rhubarb to her mouth. She’d never tried it before, but after her first bite of the tart fruit, baked with sugar and butter, Rachel decided it was the best thing she’d eaten yet in America. She finished her rhubarb, scraping the plate with her fork to get every last bit. Then she picked up her lemonade and went looking for Anna.
She saw a few familiar faces—some women from the National Council of Jewish Women meeting and some men from the Turk Street Temple, Anna’s sister and brother, and Anna’s parents. She found Anna in the rear sitting room that overlooked the garden, surrounded by a number of wide-eyed men, like a queen with her loyal subjects.
“Rachel, it’s about time you got here,” said Anna. She scooted over, providing a tiny spot for Rachel to sit beside her on the sofa.
Anna introduced Rachel to her friends. Their names buzzed around her head like flies. She nodded politely, knowing she’d never see any of them again.
“Rachel has been helping me speak Russian,” said Anna.
“Did Anna ever stop talking long enough to listen to you?” joked one of the men with heavily lidded eyes and a prominent Adam’s apple.
“I bet she knows just enough to ask for the toilet and the nearest restaurant,” said another man with a dark complexion and a head that looked too big for his shoulders.
Anna rolled her eyes at Rachel. “Can you believe these idiots?” she said in Russian.
“I think you frighten them,” Rachel replied in Russian. “They’re not used to women like you.”
“I am special, aren’t I?” said Anna, knowing they couldn’t understand her.
The men looked from Rachel to Anna, confusion written all over their faces. As the two friends continued to speak in Russian, the men got up, one by one, and drifted into the crowd.
“That was so much fun!” Anna laughed. “I am going to miss you.”
“Life will be so quiet with you gone,” said Rachel.
“You’ll be busy with school and work. I’ll be back before you know it.”
“How are you tonight, Miss Paskar?” Anna’s father interrupted them. He filled up the sitting room with his considerable size. He was dark-haired, like Anna, and over six feet tall. The way he looked at Rachel reminded her of her own father.
“I am well,” Rachel replied, in English.
“I don’t suppose you can convince our Anna to stay here and forget about this foolish trip to Geneva,” he said, stepping closer to the window. He held his hands behind his back and surveyed the garden.
“Father, please,” said Anna. “You promised.”
“You can’t blame a father for wanting his daughter to be nearby and safe.”
Anna rose and went to him. She wrapped her arm around his waist. The two of them stood, gazing out at the garden. Rachel, feeling guilty for knowing about Anna’s deception, was about to get up and leave, when Anna’s mother sashayed into the room.
“I don’t know why we bothered to have this party, when you’re hiding back here, Anna,” said her mother. She sounded exactly like Anna, but that was where the similarity ended. Mrs. Strunsky was fair with flaxen hair and deep-set hazel eyes. She reveled in her role as wife and mother, a life Anna staunchly renounced on many occasions.
“Rachel, dear,” Anna’s mother continued, “why on earth are you back here when there are so many interesting and eligible young men at the party?”
“I really just want to see Anna,” said Rachel.
“Let them be, Esther,” said Mr. Strunsky. “It’s Anna’s last night. She can spend it wherever and with whomever she wants.”
Esther sighed and seated herself on the sofa, holding her sapphire-blue dress out to avoid wrinkles. She smelled of fresh lavender. “It does feel good to get off my feet for a minute.”
“Your dress is beautiful,” said Rachel.
“Thank you.” Anna’s mother smiled and folded her hands in her lap. “You look tired, my dear.”
“I’ve been busy,” said Rachel.
“She works during the day and goes to school at night, Mo
ther,” said Anna. “Remember, I told you that the last time you saw Rachel and said she looked tired.”
“That’s right,” said Anna’s mother. She turned to Rachel. “Perhaps you’re doing too much, dear. You really should take care of yourself.”
“I’m fine,” said Rachel.
“Mother,” said Anna. “You need to stop interfering.”
“It’s all right,” said Rachel. “It’s nice, actually. My mother would have said exactly the same thing.”
Anna’s mother pressed her palm against her cheek. “I’m sorry, for reminding you—”
“I don’t mind.” Rachel swallowed. “I think of her a lot, especially when I do something for the first time. When I ate my first banana, I wondered what she would have thought of it, whether she would have enjoyed it like Nucia, or hated it like Marty. The first time I saw women her age, in American clothing, I tried to imagine how she would look here. If she would have wanted to wear modern dresses as I do, or if she would have stuck with her Russian clothing like my sister.”
An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. Rachel, afraid she had said too much, moved to get up.
“I’m certain your mother would be quite proud of you, dear,” said Anna’s mother tenderly.
“And your father,” added Mr. Strunsky.
Rachel’s eyelashes grew moist. “I know,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
Anna’s mother put her arm around Rachel and drew her near. “I hope you will still come around while Anna is in Switzerland. I’ll be terribly lonely with her so far away.”
“I’d like that,” said Rachel. “Very much.” She lifted her head and saw that Anna’s mother’s eyes also glistened with tears.
10
Fall 1905/Winter 1906
Sergei carefully stacked dynamite in the wood box, preparing it to be transported to the impending Moscow revolt. Though a dozen people had converged on Gorky’s small home, and bombs were being built in the basement, it seemed eerily quiet. Only the occasional sound of a pot clanging in the kitchen or a subdued conversation broke the uneasy silence.
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