“I was just thinking about someone.” She forced a half-smile.
“Let’s talk about something else, then,” said Alexander. “What do you do, besides school?”
“I work.”
“Where?”
“I have to go now,” Rachel said, putting a sudden end to the conversation. She stood and gathered her notebook and pencils.
“I’m sorry,” said Alexander. “It is no business of mine, what you do. I just wanted to keep talking to you.”
One of Rachel’s pencils rolled onto the floor. She bent down to get it but Alexander moved faster. He handed Rachel her pencil.
“It’s fine. I just don’t like what I do right now.”
“Well then, what do you want to do?”
She paused. “I want to go to university, but it is taking longer than I expected.”
“University? That is a big dream.”
“I will go to university,” she said, bracing herself for a debate. Even in America, men who attended university greatly outnumbered women. The miles between Russia and America had not closed the distance between men and women as much as she’d hoped.
Amusement flickered in Alexander’s dark eyes, sending a quick rush of anger through Rachel’s veins. She turned her back on him and stuffed her books into her satchel.
“Wait,” said Alexander. “I didn’t mean to offend you.” He came up beside her and put his hand on her satchel. He stood a head taller than Rachel. “Please, listen to me.”
“You were laughing at me,” she said. “You think I’m foolish. I can see it in your face.”
“No, I was surprised, that’s all. Most girls I meet dream of marriage, not education. You are different. I like that.”
Rachel studied his earnest face.
“Ask me what I’m planning to do,” he challenged her.
“All right. What are you planning to do?”
“My brother and I are going to open a restaurant and serve the best food in all of San Francisco.”
“What?” said Rachel, crinkling her forehead.
“You see!” Alexander pointed at her triumphantly. “You’re just as surprised as I was when you said you were going to university.”
They walked, side-by-side, out the classroom door.
“What kind of food will you serve in your restaurant?” asked Rachel as they made their way down the quiet hall.
Alexander frowned. “This is the big question right now. My brother wants to have only Russian food, but I want to open a restaurant that will serve a mix of food—Italian, Polish, and American.”
“That sounds ambitious, too,” said Rachel. “How can you make all these different meals in one kitchen?”
They opened the school door and descended the steps. Alexander turned to face her, walking backwards, his face flushed.
“It will be the biggest kitchen ever, with many cooks,” he said, his voice rising excitedly. “Instead of having to choose one restaurant with one particular food, you will be able to come to mine, where everything will be offered on the menu.”
“When will you open your restaurant?”
“It takes money and we need to find the very best location. Right now we are saving and looking for the right place.” He turned around, facing the same direction as Rachel.
“And you and your brother will need to agree on what kind of food to serve,” said Rachel.
“Yes.” He sighed. “I must learn about running a business also. So many people have failed here, but I won’t let that happen to me.”
“That’s how I feel about university,” said Rachel. “People often say they are going to apply. Then they change their minds because it takes so much time. They want to earn money quickly. I would rather be poor and in school, than rich and doing a job I detest.”
“You will succeed,” said Alexander. “I am as sure of this as I am that my restaurant will be a great success.”
Rachel shifted her satchel to her other shoulder. “Right now I need to pass the history exam.”
He gave her a lopsided smile that made her shiver. Rachel tucked strands of hair behind her ear.
“Would you like to have a cup of coffee with me?” he asked.
“I don’t drink coffee,” said Rachel.
“I’m sure we can find a place that has other things. Tea maybe.”
“Tea would be fine,” said Rachel, stunned at the words coming from her mouth. Nucia would surely disapprove if she knew Rachel had just agreed to go out alone in public with a man, a stranger.
Alexander held her elbow as they walked down the street. Her skin burned and her heart began to pound against her chest. The February air had cooled since Rachel had arrived for her class two hours earlier, yet she felt warm walking beside him.
“What other classes are you taking?” Alexander asked when they came to a busy corner and waited for a couple of cars to drive by.
“Geography,” Rachel replied. “It’s hard for me, memorizing all those place names and facts. Next term I’m taking English, my favorite subject.”
They crossed the street and Alexander steered her to the right. “I’m taking English now, and I’m afraid it’s not going well.”
“What is your favorite—”
“Math,” he said, anticipating her question. “I love solving problems, and answers can only be right or wrong. There is no in-between like in English, where you are graded on your ideas.”
“I never thought about it like that,” said Rachel. “I just know that I’m better at writing than memorizing.”
They had arrived at California Café and Bakery, a well-lit restaurant with round tables scattered throughout. Alexander chose a table near the window and ordered a cup of tea for Rachel and a coffee for himself. Rachel admired his self-assurance as he spoke affably to the waitress.
“I work at Schindler’s Dining Room as a cook,” he said, after taking a gulp of coffee.
Rachel laughed self-consciously. “I am a dreadful cook. Thank goodness my sister cooks or we’d all starve!” She added some sugar to her tea and stirred it.
Alexander finished his coffee and glanced around the bakery. “What do you do when you aren’t working or in school?”
Rachel brought her tea to her lips, but it was too hot to drink. She blew on it and set it back down. “I read, but there’s never enough time for books. And even when I do have a few spare minutes, I’m so tired I can’t keep my eyes open.”
“I go to the Nickelodeon every chance I get,” said Alexander. “Have you been?”
“Only once, but I will go again soon.”
“Maybe we can go together some time,” suggested Alexander. “I could take you.”
Rachel’s hands shook as she brought her cup of tea to her mouth. Still too hot. “I will go when I can pay my own way.”
Alexander’s eyebrows shot up with alarm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that. I just thought it would be fun to go with you.”
Rachel set her cup down. “I’m such an idiot. I always assume the worst—that people look at me with pity. I am a poor immigrant, but I’m also proud.”
“Pride is good,” said Alexander, “but too much will cloud your judgment.”
Rachel took a sip of tea. “You’re right. My father used to say that temper gets you into trouble—”
“Pride keeps you there,” said Alexander, finishing her sentence. “My father used to tell me the same thing.”
Rachel looked at him with astonishment. He seemed so familiar to her. Part of her wanted to crawl into his arms and the other part wanted to run away before she got in too deep.
“Is something wrong?” he asked her. “You look worried.”
“I’m just tired. I have to go now.” Rachel stood. “Thank you for the tea.”
“Let me walk you home.”
“Are you sure I can’t walk you?”
“I’m sure.” She started toward the door then paused. “By the way, I clean houses,” she told Alexander.
“That is good, respectable work,” he said sincerely.
Rachel shrugged.
“Can I see you again?” asked Alexander.
She looked at him and felt all lit up inside, as if she’d awoken from a deep sleep. “I’d like that.” Rachel turned and walked out of the café, a smile edging across her face.
21
“We need another boat,” said Cyril. He and Sergei lay on the riverbank to dry.
The current had caused them to drift to the Amur River, the longest river in far-east Russia. The deep water shone like a mirror, the reflection of soaring larch trees casting a clear image on the surface. White-capped mountains rose around them in the distance. The air had cooled with the raw wind that chapped their skin. Sergei stirred and rubbed his arms to keep warm. He slept fitfully as the late afternoon sun dried his clothes.
“I’m starving,” said Cyril, more loudly.
This time, his voice woke Sergei. “Me, too.”
They got to their feet and scoured the area, finding a few dried-out mushrooms and some gooseberries.
“I wish we had a net for fishing,” said Cyril. “There are salmon swimming in the river.”
Sergei began to salivate at the thought of salmon.
“Hand me your overcoat,” Cyril said.
Sergei picked up his gray overcoat, which he’d spread out in the sun to dry. He gave it to Cyril who proceeded to button it and tie off the top using the sleeves.
“We’ll use your overcoat as a net,” Cyril explained.
“But I’ll need it tonight,” said Sergei.
“We’ll share mine.” Cyril pulled the knot tight. He waded into the river and held the overcoat in the water.
“Aha!” Cyril pounced on a fish. After a lot of splashing, Cyril was drenched and the overcoat came up empty.
It took more than an hour, but eventually Sergei’s coat held a thrashing fish. Cyril climbed out of the water and hit the fish with a rock until it stopped moving.
Sergei and Cyril tore at the skin with their fingers, and broke off hunks of the pink flesh. They ate every bit of the fish, down to the white bones. A chorus of howling wolves serenaded them from the distance as they ate.
“This was a better meal than we ever ate in exile,” said Sergei.
“I think they were trying to starve us to death.” Cyril sat back, resting his torso against a tree. “It feels good, this new freedom.”
Sergei lay on his back and patted his full abdomen. “I won’t feel free until we’re out of Russia, out of the reach of Cossacks and police.”
“It’s going to take months, a year maybe,” said Cyril, “but we’ll get there.”
Sergei watched the sky turn dark. Stars glittered above him. He wondered if Rachel ever looked up at the sky from America, if she saw the same stars, if she was safe.
⚓ ⚓ ⚓
They came to a clearing in the forest, dotted with crudely built log shacks. Colorful homespun clothing hung from tree branches. An elderly woman stepped out of her door, saw Sergei and Cyril, and rushed back inside.
Cyril knocked on the door of the woman’s shack at the edge of the clearing. “We have come to ask for help,” he called out.
No sound came from inside.
Sergei glanced down at his gray trousers and shirt, the exile’s uniform that had probably frightened the woman.
“We are not criminals,” said Cyril to the closed door. “We were banished for speaking out against the government, not for crimes against others.”
“Who are you?” asked a raspy voice.
An elderly man in a long tunic stood behind Sergei and Cyril. He held a long branch, carved into a walking stick, in his right hand.
“We are political exiles,” Cyril began, “trying to escape from Russia. We have harmed nobody, committed no crimes.”
The old man eyed them blankly.
“We need warmer clothes to get through the winter,” said Cyril. “We will pay you nine rubles for your help. I wish it could be more, but it’s all we have.”
“Come.” The man gestured for them to follow him into his rickety shack.
Inside, the old woman sat on a barrel, embroidering a bright red shawl with yellow thread. Her hands, knotted with swollen veins, shook when they entered.
“It’s fine,” the old man reassured her.
She went back to her embroidery, but watched them from the corner of her eye.
The old man put some logs in the stove. The smoldering embers ignited, and the fire flared up, producing a comforting warmth that Sergei hadn’t felt in a long time. He held his hands in front of the stove and let the heat penetrate his skin. The old man filled a samovar with water and set it on the stove.
“Sit, sit,” the old man said, lifting a bench from the corner.
Sergei hurried over and took one end of the bench. He and Cyril sat on it and the man pulled up a three-legged chair on which he balanced with ease.
“First, we have tea. Then we will get you new clothing,” the old man said.
“Wonderful,” said Cyril. He leaned in closer to the stove, his face flushed from the heat.
Sergei’s eyelids began to droop as he grew warm. He tried to force them open, but they were too heavy. His head sunk forward. His arms hung limply. The conversation between Cyril and the old man soon became an unintelligible murmur to Sergei. Then everything went dark.
⚓ ⚓ ⚓
Wind pounded against the walls of the shack. Sergei awakened from his spot on the floor, his body at an odd angle. His neck ached from the cold. Beside him, Cyril slumbered. Sergei propped himself up on his elbows. The fire had gone out, taking its warmth with it. On the other side of the stove, the old man and woman slept.
Sergei put on his shoes and went outside to examine the terrain in daylight. Harsh wind smacked his face. Frost glazed tree trunks and the ground. A train clanged by, so loud it seemed as if it would appear through the woods.
When Sergei went back inside, the old man stirred. Sergei put some logs in the stove, trying to be as quiet as possible. His hands were cold and stiff. He dropped a log on the floor.
Cyril bolted upright. “What’s wrong?” he called out.
“Nothing,” said Sergei. “Go back to sleep.”
Cyril yawned and stretched. “It’s time I got up.”
The old man woke up. He prodded his wife and told her to get some food ready.
“We don’t have much to eat, but we are glad to share it with you,” he said to Sergei and Cyril.
The woman rose and immediately went to work cutting bread.
“You need your food,” said Sergei. “We can find something later.”
“I insist,” the old man said. “You must fill your stomachs before you leave.” He went over to a shabby trunk and began to pull out trousers and coats. “Try these on.” He gave the garments to Sergei and Cyril with shaky hands. “They were my son’s.” The old man gazed through the window as if his son were standing there. “He protested against the government and got himself exiled to Yakutsk. He died on the way.”
The old woman sniffed back a sob.
“I’m sorry,” said Sergei.
“That’s horrible,” said Cyril. “He is one of the many heroes who have died for the cause.”
The old man looked at Sergei. “Please, put on the clothes.”
Sergei searched for a private spot to change.
“Don’t worry,” said the man. “My wife will not look.”
Cyril and Sergei turned their backs to the woman and quickly removed their exile uniforms. As Sergei replaced h
is with the threadbare trousers and shirt, he straightened his spine and held his head high.
The old man picked up the discarded clothes and pitched them into the fire. They all watched the flames burn the fabric.
“Now I really feel as if we’ve left exile behind,” said Cyril.
“I’m so glad I will never see those clothes again,” said Sergei, gratefully.
“Food is ready,” said the old man. “Come.”
The woman had set out a plate of black bread on the table. There were also boiled eggs and glasses of steaming tea.
Sergei devoured a piece of bread and an egg and sipped his tea. This is all I really need, he thought. A warm room and food. I could be content to stay here for a while, but it is not safe. The longer we are in one place, the bigger the chance of someone revealing us to the police.
“It’s time to go,” said Cyril, once he’d finished eating.
Sergei dropped nine rubles onto the table, leaving them with three for the remainder of their journey. “Thank you for all your help,” he said.
“Wait,” said the man. He lifted a bulging satchel onto the table. “This is from us.” He held the satchel upside down, releasing wax candles, a matchbox, a kerosene lantern, bread, two tattered sheepskin overcoats, scarves, gloves, a net to catch fish, and a blanket.
“This is too generous,” said Sergei.
“It is necessary if you want to travel through Siberia in winter,” said the man.
“We are grateful and will never forget you,” added Cyril. He took a cobalt-blue scarf and wrapped it around his neck.
Sergei put on a pair of gloves and wrapped a red scarf around his neck. For a moment, his mind returned to Kishinev and the day he’d found Rachel’s red shawl in the snow where Mikhail had been killed. He’d carried her shawl with him for weeks to remind him of Rachel.
The old woman pushed five rubles back to Sergei. “We don’t need much,” she said in a papery-thin voice that sounded as if it hadn’t been used in a long time.
The old man nodded in agreement.
“But we promised you nine rubles for your help,” said Cyril.
“I never agreed to take them.” The man walked over to the door and held it open. “Be safe.”
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