“The mines at Kara,” mumbled Andrei. “Hell on earth.”
Rudolph buried his head in his hands.
“There must be something we can do,” said Sergei.
“Once the police have made up their minds—” Cyril’s voice broke.
“It’s a death sentence,” Andrei began. “I’ll never last at a mine.”
Sergei lowered his eyes. Andrei was right. Stronger and bigger men had lost their lives working in the mines. They were factories of death.
⚓ ⚓ ⚓
A loud bang woke Sergei from a deep sleep. He’d been dreaming about finding Rachel in America, seeing her ahead of him, never being able to catch up to her, and becoming hopelessly lost. When the bang jolted him awake, he’d been pivoting around in circles with unfamiliar buildings closing in on him, suffocating him, turning day into night.
He sat up, disoriented.
“What was that?” asked Cyril.
“Sounded like a shot,” said Andrei.
Sergei noticed that Rudolph’s cot stood empty. “Where’s Rudolph?” he asked.
“Oh, no!” Andrei leapt out of bed and rushed to the door with Sergei and Cyril at his heels.
Outside, the unmistakable smell of gunpowder brought Sergei to a dead stop.
“No, please, no,” said Andrei. He hurried to the outhouse, opened the door and fell to the ground in a heap.
Cyril peered into the outhouse and clamped his hand over his mouth.
Sergei looked over Cyril’s shoulder. Inside, Rudolph sat, slumped forward, blood gushing from the side of his head. At his feet lay a pistol.
“I knew he was upset about being sent to Kara,” moaned Andrei. “But I never thought he’d do this.”
“He didn’t say anything to you?” asked Cyril.
“Not a word,” said Andrei.
“Where did he get the gun?” asked Sergei.
Andrei shook his head.
“Why here, in the outhouse?” said Sergei.
“I think that’s the saddest part,” said Cyril. “That he chose such a filthy place to end his life.”
“I don’t think I can bear going to the mines without him.” Andrei stood and shut the outhouse door.
“What will you do?” asked Sergei.
Andrei took a deep breath and stared into the dark night. “I’m going to escape before they force me to go, before they discover Rudolph is gone.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Sergei.
“Me, too,” said Cyril.
“Let’s take Rudolph out of here so that nobody will know where he killed himself,” Andrei suggested.
The three of them searched for a secluded place in the nearby forest. They found a spot, under a towering birch tree with bark that glowed in the moonlight. With great difficulty, they extracted Rudolph from the outhouse and carried him to the spot where they placed him gently on the ground. They found enough brush, decaying branches, rocks, and dead leaves to cover him. Then they stood back.
“I can’t bear to leave him here,” said Andrei. “Even though he’s gone, it feels wrong.”
“Maybe we should say a prayer for him,” said Sergei.
“I thought you didn’t believe in religion and faith,” said Cyril.
“I don’t,” Sergei began slowly, choosing his words with care. “But it seems like the right thing to do.”
They stared at the covered body on the ground.
“Maybe we should just pray silently,” suggested Cyril.
The three of them bowed their heads.
Rudolph would still be alive if he lived in a country where people had the right to express their opinions, thought Sergei. Rudolph chose death over life because only in death can he be free. This is the tragedy of Russia.
“I’ll write to his family when we’re out of Russia,” said Andrei in a monotone voice.
“Don’t tell them he…you know…. Tell them it was an accident,” said Cyril.
Andrei nodded vaguely.
“Come.” Cyril tugged gently at Andrei’s arm. “We must plan our escape now.”
They trudged slowly back to their house and planned their seventeen-hundred mile route to Vladivostok.
⚓ ⚓ ⚓
Before daybreak, the three exiles, with a hand-drawn map and satchels filled with food, moved stealthily to the Chita River, where they hoped to find a boat. At the river, the rising sun cast a golden glow on the horizon. Sergei, Cyril, and Andrei stopped behind a row of pine trees and watched as fishermen, silhouettes against the light, loaded small rowboats with nets, lines, and bait. Sergei clenched his hands so tightly, his fingernails cut into his palms. Without a boat, he thought, we’ll never get out of here.
“Look,” whispered Cyril. He pointed to a rowboat in the middle of the fishermen, which appeared to be unclaimed.
“We can wait until they’re all gone and take it,” said Andrei.
“Too risky,” said Cyril. “Someone could come along and grab it before we get the chance.”
“Well, we can’t just get in it now, in front of them,” said Sergei.
“Why not?” Cyril looked at Sergei with defiance. “They’re all peasants. Unarmed. They can’t stop us.”
“I don’t know,” Andrei murmured.
Sergei looked at the empty boat, then over his shoulder through the trees. “Cyril’s right. We won’t get anywhere without taking chances.”
“Well, Andrei?” Cyril folded his arms together.
Andrei nodded his head slightly, as if he wasn’t entirely convinced.
“We’ll move quickly, confidently,” said Cyril. “As if we own the boat.”
“But they’ll know we don’t,” said Andrei. “They’ll know we’re stealing it.”
“By the time those fishermen recover from their shock at our boldness, we’ll be long gone,” said Cyril.
“I’m ready,” said Sergei.
“Let’s go.” Cyril marched out from the trees with long strides.
Sergei, his heart pounding in his chest, followed.
Without a word, Cyril and Andrei got into the boat.
“What do you think you’re doing?” asked a bearded fisherman beside them.
Cyril took the oars while Andrei sat across from him. Sergei untied the boat from the pine tree, tossed the rope to Andrei, pushed off from the riverbank, and climbed in.
“That’s not your boat!” someone yelled.
“Get out of there,” shouted a man, shaking his fist.
Cyril rowed quickly to put as much distance as he could between themselves and the fishermen, who were already calling for the police.
The chorus of fishermen faded as they skimmed the surface of the water. Sergei, his back and neck stiff and tense, did not turn around until the men’s voices had disappeared. The river was shallow at first, and Cyril kept getting the oars stuck in the mud. As they moved farther east, toward the Amur River, the water grew deeper. Cyril rowed faster. Sunrise gave way to day. Sergei relieved Cyril at the oars.
“How far do you think we’ve come?” asked Andrei.
“Hard to say,” said Sergei. “The river winds so much.”
“What do we do if the Cossacks see us? Wouldn’t we be better off in the forest?”
“It’s a lot faster by water,” Sergei replied as he rowed. “We talked about this.”
“I know,” said Andrei. “But I feel like a slug, surrounded by magpies.”
“In a way, that’s exactly what we are,” said Sergei.
They continued in silence, with only the sound of the oars swishing through the murky water and birds singing from the treetops. With autumn approaching, leaves had already begun to turn vibrant shades of gold, yellow, red, and orange. At some points the river narrowed so that Sergei could almost extend both of his oars and touch the banks on
either side. He imagined Cossacks wading into the water and grabbing them, or shooting them at close range.
After a couple of hours, they came upon some peasants fishing in the river. Andrei, who was rowing now, slowed down until they were barely moving as they approached the men.
“Good day,” said Cyril with a slight wave. “Keep rowing, Andrei,” he hissed under his breath.
Andrei picked up his pace.
The peasants watched them warily as the boat skimmed past.
“Dammit, Andrei, don’t ever slow down like that!” said Cyril when they were past the fishermen. “Wherever there are peasants, there is a colony. And where there’s a colony, there are Cossacks.”
“I’ll take over,” offered Sergei. “You’ve been at it a long time.” He moved to the middle of the boat, stepping carefully to avoid tipping, and took over the oars.
“I’m sorry,” said Andrei. “I got nervous.”
“It’s all right,” said Sergei. “Nothing happened, so just forget it.”
“This time,” said Cyril in an anxious tone. “Nothing happened this time. We can’t afford to make stupid mistakes.”
Sergei watched Cyril twitch with nervous energy as they made their way slowly along the river. He’s like a bomb, he thought, ready to explode at any minute.
They rowed all day and ate sparingly to conserve their supply of bread, cucumbers, and cabbage. At dusk, clouds rolled in, hiding the moon as it rose. They found a secluded location not far from the riverbank, secured the boat, and slept for a few hours.
A sharp noise woke Sergei.
Cyril cried out and thrashed loudly from side to side. “Don’t! Stop it! Let me go.”
Sergei rolled over on the bumpy ground and wondered what Cyril had been dreaming. Something horrible, no doubt, something secret, locked up inside of his mind. We all have our secrets, he thought. We all have scars.
⚓ ⚓ ⚓
They hadn’t been rowing for long next morning, when two sturdy, armed Cossacks appeared on the riverbank.
“Show your identity papers!” one called out.
“What are we going to do?” moaned Cyril. His face had turned white with fear.
Sergei considered jumping into the water and swimming. He squinted ahead and figured he’d make it twenty feet, at the most. Not far enough to escape.
“Keep rowing. We’ll pretend we can’t hear them,” said Andrei. He waved at the Cossacks.
The Cossacks gawked at each other with bewildered expressions as the boat moved past them.
“Come to shore. That’s an order,” shouted the same Cossack, in a louder voice.
Andrei held his hand behind his ear. “Can’t hear you,” he said, opening his mouth wide as if yelling, but speaking at a normal level.
The Cossacks gestured madly with their hands and pointed at the boat. Cyril increased his pace, rowing furiously and smiling, in the hope that the Cossacks didn’t notice his efforts. The river bent to the right and widened, enlarging the space between the Cossacks and the boat. Within minutes, the Cossacks were specks in the distance.
“That was close.” Cyril stopped rowing and hunched forward, exhausted.
Sergei took the oars and kept going. “We can’t stop. They could still catch us.”
“There will be more,” said Andrei.
Cyril breathed heavily, his shoulders rising and falling as he recovered from their narrow escape. Sergei rowed as fast as he could, mechanically, like a machine in the factory where he used to work. His shoulders grew numb and blisters formed on his palms, but he did not let up.
An hour later, more Cossacks appeared on the grassy riverbank ahead of them. This time, Andrei was rowing. He tried to paddle faster, but didn’t have the strength.
The Cossacks raised their pistols and aimed at them.
“Stop or we will shoot,” said the tallest Cossack.
Sergei peered ahead. The current intensified significantly. “We have to jump and swim underwater as far as we can,” he said. “When the current speeds up, we’ll be carried with it much quicker than their bullets.”
“I can’t swim,” admitted Andrei in a panic.
“We have no choice,” said Cyril. “Sergei’s right. This is the only way.”
“We have to jump now,” said Sergei, “before they decide to shoot. We’re dead as long as we stay in this boat.”
“I can’t do it,” said Andrei.
Sergei and Cyril looked at each other and frowned. They needed to act fast.
“Good luck, Andrei,” said Sergei.
“Whatever you do, don’t tell them our plans,” said Cyril.
“I won’t,” Andrei answered. “Good luck.” He would remain in the boat and wait for the Cossacks to pick him up.
Sergei and Cyril dove into the ice-cold water. Sergei heard shots above him. He swam as fast as he could, his body brushing against the muddy bottom of the river. From the corner of his eye, he saw Cyril. This gave him the energy to keep going, to keep holding his breath until he felt as if his lungs were going to burst. Finally Sergei rose to the surface, took a big gulp of air, and went under again. A bullet grazed the water on top of his head and he began to panic. He felt an overwhelming need for air and rose to the surface again. When his head burst from the water, a bullet shot past him, missing his right ear by inches. He breathed in and submerged again.
The current suddenly increased, launching him forward, headfirst. He straightened his legs and held his arms out in front and let the water propel him faster. Moments later, Sergei and Cyril rose to the surface far from the Cossacks and their weapons.
“We need to find something to hold on to,” said Sergei. “So we can float with the current.”
Up ahead, birch logs were caught in the roots of a fir tree. Cyril lunged forward and grasped one of the logs. Sergei followed him.
“Hurry,” urged Cyril. “They may be coming after us.”
“Just let me catch my breath,” said Sergei.
Cyril extracted a log from the roots. “We can hold on to this, as long as the current is strong.”
Sergei threw his arms over the log and it began to move with the current. His legs dangled behind him. The water held him up and carried him onward. His racing heart slowed the farther he moved away from the Cossacks. He relaxed a bit, until he thought about Andrei, whom they had left behind.
20
Fall 1906
Letter to the Editor: San Francisco Bulletin
RE: Chinese taking advantage of earthquake’s destruction, September 17, 1906
I took offense with your article about the Chinese people “underhandedly” bringing their relatives to San Francisco. Yes, it is tragic that City Hall and its Hall of Records were destroyed by the earthquake. And yes, it is clear that many Chinese people are now able to falsely claim citizenship, allowing them to bring more relatives from China, since there are no records stating otherwise. But to suggest, in this story, that “the Chinese population should be deported from the city to the edge of the county,” as if they were all criminals, is a gross violation of their rights as human beings. In fact the Chinese immigrants to America have made major contributions to the construction of the railway and to the mining industry. For this, they should receive respect for their labors. Instead, we have the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act, which is prejudicial and, in my opinion, should be repealed.
As a Jew from Russia, I understand what it is like to be persecuted for nothing more than being the “wrong” race. I, as well as every Russian Jew, lived under unfair laws imposed by the tsar, which took away our basic rights to vote, own land, go to school, and travel freely. We came to America, land of the free, to get away from these shameful restrictions. On our way here, the people of Shanghai, China took us in without papers, without money, without questions. They gave us refuge when we needed it most. They saved our liv
es and the lives of thousands of other refugees. The Chinese are a good, hardworking decent people who deserve better. Our great country of America should recognize this.
—Rachel Paskar
After class had been dismissed, Rachel stared numbly at the blackboard that was covered with important dates in American history. Numbers swirled around in her head like moths, forgettable and meaningless. She found memorizing so many dates and events a daunting challenge, but she needed to pass the exam to get her high-school diploma before she could apply for university.
“I feel so stupid,” mumbled Rachel in Yiddish.
“Pardon me?” asked a young man in Yiddish, sitting behind her.
Rachel swiveled around in her chair and raised her eyebrows. “You’re from Europe, too?”
The young man with thick, dark hair chuckled. He appeared to be in his early twenties, had a cleft in his chin and skin the color of honey. “A shtetl near Minsk. My name is Alexander.”
Rachel placed her hand on her chest. “Rachel from Kishinev.”
“Rachel from Kishinev,” Alexander repeated with deliberation, as if he were trying to memorize the words. His voice was warm and husky. “How long have you been here?”
“Two years. And you?”
Alexander’s lips moved silently as he deliberated. “Just over three years. I was eighteen when my brother and I arrived.”
“We should be speaking in English,” said Rachel in English. “Or we’ll never sound like Americans.”
“If you wish,” said Alexander, switching to English. “But I don’t want to forget my Yiddish either, in case my parents ever come here. They stayed behind with my grandmother, who was too old to travel.”
Rachel explained how she’d come with her sister, Jacob and Marty, how she had nobody left in Russia.
“It must be difficult, being without parents.” His sympathetic voice relaxed her and made her want to keep talking.
“It is,” she said, “and I often worry about the friends I left behind.” Rachel’s thoughts jumped to Sergei. She hadn’t thought about him in a long time. For some reason, Alexander made her open up about herself more than usual.
“Did I upset you?” asked Alexander. “You look pale.”
Rachel's Hope Page 17