Sergei opened his mouth to argue, but the old man’s face was stiff with determination.
“You are good people,” said Sergei.
“It’s what my son would have wanted.” He clutched Sergei’s hands. “You remind me of him.”
Feeling the man’s hands covering his made Sergei wish that this man was his father. He didn’t want to let go.
“Come, Sergei,” said Cyril, waiting outside.
The old man released Sergei’s hands. “Go,” he said.
“I don’t even know your name,” said Sergei.
“That is for the best.” The old man pushed him gently, yet firmly, through the door. “Travel safely,” he whispered.
Sergei didn’t look back until he and Cyril had been walking for almost thirty minutes. The gray light of day flickered through the trees.
⚓ ⚓ ⚓
Snow fell for a week without letting up. They hibernated in a cave like bears, sleeping most of the time, rising only to eat bread, to suck on snow, and to relieve themselves. As the days wore on, Sergei found it harder to pull himself over the pile of snow blocking the cave’s entrance. Sometimes, before he fell asleep, he wondered if he would have the energy to wake up again.
One morning, the snow stopped. A brilliant, light blue sky rose over the endless white tundra.
“We should go, before another blizzard comes,” said Cyril.
“I think we should just stay here until winter’s over,” said Sergei.
“Until April, when the marching parties of exiles begin again? We might as well turn ourselves in.”
“What if we can’t find shelter tonight?” asked Sergei.
Cyril regarded Sergei with scorn. “If I’d known you were such a coward, I never would have agreed to escape with you.”
Sergei’s stomach twisted when Cyril called him a coward. It was the same word his father had used before he’d left Kishinev, the last word his father had said to him.
“I’m ready to go,” he announced to Cyril.
They continued eastward through the pine-covered slopes of the Amarzar ridge. The sunny sky was deceptive. The air had turned bitterly cold. The snow crunched beneath their feet and when they exhaled, smoky swirls danced before their eyes. On their right, the river lay still with a thick glittering layer of ice. Tree branches, loaded with snow and ice, drooped down to the ground.
“We need to find something to eat,” said Cyril, after they’d been walking for hours. Long blue shadows of trees stretched out onto the snow.
Sergei set down the satchel and rummaged through it until he found the net. They went to the river where Cyril pounded on the ice with a rock to make a hole. Sergei stuck the net through the hole and shifted it around.
“Maybe you should keep it in one place,” Cyril suggested after Sergei had been trying without luck for a long time.
Sergei held the net still. Nothing.
“Let me try,” said Cyril.
They exchanged places. Cyril sprawled on the ice and hung the net into the water.
“This isn’t going to work without bait,” said Cyril after an hour with no fish. His eyelashes were frozen. He stood and stuffed the net back into the satchel. “We’ll try again later.”
They kept going, finding it more difficult as the ground became icier. Sergei tried to put his empty stomach out of his mind, but his energy began to falter. He stumbled and fell a couple of times. He glanced sideways at Cyril, also struggling to stay on his feet.
The ground gradually became more even and the mountains faded into the distance. Sergei surveyed the river, which opened to a flat terrain as far as he could see.
“Give me the net,” said Cyril.
Sergei handed it to him. Cyril knelt down on the river’s frozen surface and pounded out a large hole. He crouched over the hole and swung the net back and forth.
“I’ll find a place to sleep while you’re fishing,” Sergei said.
Cyril nodded.
With more level terrain, the possibility of finding a cave seemed remote. Instead, Sergei hunted for boulders that would shield them from the wind. But he couldn’t find more than two together.
“I caught something!” Cyril called.
Sergei rushed back to the river where Cyril proudly held a thrashing speckled burbot in the net.
“We’ll save some of the flesh for bait,” said Cyril, once the cod-like fish had died, and they were cutting it open with a jagged shard of ice. “Any luck finding shelter?”
“Only a couple of rocks,” said Sergei. “We’ll have to keep a fire going all night to make sure we don’t freeze.”
“We’ll take turns watching it,” said Cyril.
Sergei’s teeth chattered and his body shivered as he tried to sleep that night. He began to lose the feeling in his hands and feet, and jumped up every few minutes to help his blood circulation. Cyril fed the fire with twigs to keep it going. Throughout the long night, flames sputtered and crackled. Neither Cyril nor Sergei ever slept.
PART FOUR
Winter 1907
Americanism is a question of principle, of purpose, of idealism, of character. It is not a matter of birthplace or creed or line of descent.
—Theodore Roosevelt, President of the United States of America, 1901-1909
22
“Looks like the bandshell is all fixed up,” said Alexander in English, the only language he and Rachel now used. He stood, with Rachel and Marty, at the Spreckels Temple of Music in Golden Gate Park. An oval stone stage, flanked with columns on both sides, it had been severely damaged in the earthquake. It was Saturday afternoon, the Jewish Sabbath, and Rachel and Marty had chosen to go for a walk with Alexander instead of attending synagogue services with Jacob and Nucia.
Marty ran up the steps leading to the stage and cupped his hands around his mouth. “What do they do here?” he called out to Alexander.
“Concerts mostly,” Alexander shouted back.
Marty belted out the words to the national anthem, which he’d recently memorized, with resounding pride.
“You should’ve told him the stage was for dancing, or mimes,” said Rachel, grinding her teeth as Marty sang off key, at the top of his lungs.
“He’s not hurting anybody,” Alexander laughed, holding out his palms to show that the area was deserted except for them.
Rachel turned to view the gardens facing the bandshell. The winter air was crisp, and fluffy clouds dotted the sky.
Marty hopped down the steps on one foot and ran to the trees.
“Before the earthquake, I came here every Sunday afternoon in the summer to hear the Golden Gate Park Band,” said Alexander. “It was the best part of my week.”
“I would love to hear them,” said Rachel. “Do you play an instrument?”
“The balalaika, but they don’t have it here. Someday, I would like to learn the guitar.”
“My father played the fiddle,” said Rachel. She buttoned her sweater to ward off the sudden chill in the air. “I would listen to him for hours. His music softened the harsh edges of the day.”
“That is what I like about music,” said Alexander. “Playing music makes me feel happy and takes away the emptiness I sometimes feel.”
Rachel raised her eyes to meet his. “I hope you are able to play the guitar one day.”
“I hope you will be there to hear me when I do,” he said, moving closer to her.
Their eyes locked. For a moment, it seemed to her that they were the only two people in the world. Rachel felt Alexander’s warm breath on her cheeks. She saw a tiny scar above his upper lip that she hadn’t noticed before. He smelled like soap and coffee. She remembered that he drank three cups a day, one in the morning, one at noon, and one at night. Rachel had tried coffee once but found it too bitter for her liking.
Alexander tilted his head forward
, toward Rachel’s, as if he was going to kiss her.
“Alexander,” shouted Marty, breaking the spell between them. “Come chase me!”
Alexander’s head jerked back. Rachel wished Marty had better timing.
“Go,” said Rachel. “He won’t give up until you run after him.”
Alexander gently touched Rachel’s cheek with his fingers. Then he sprinted after Marty, who took off toward Stow Lake. Rachel, blushing, turned and gazed at the bandshell stage. Alexander was a musician. Father used to say that music made the world a better place, that he could be content as long as he had his fiddle.
Marty’s laughter interrupted her thoughts. He and Alexander were wrestling on the ground. Rachel watched them rolling around, Marty shrieking with joy. She sat on the steps, closed her eyes, and raised her face to the sky.
⚓ ⚓ ⚓
“I want to go to Star Nickelodeon tomorrow afternoon,” announced Marty at dinner. “There’s a funny show playing. All the guys have seen it but me.”
“Tomorrow?” said Nucia, looking up from her cabbage soup. She and Jacob sat across from Rachel and Marty. “Shabes afternoon?”
Marty nodded and chewed his fish. His lips were still swollen from a ball that had hit him in the mouth at school.
“That’s shabes, Marty,” said Jacob. “You know you can’t watch a show on shabes.”
“We traveled on shabes to get here,” said Marty.
“Out of necessity,” Jacob told him. “We couldn’t very well stop the train or the ship for two days a week.”
“We do lots of things we didn’t do in Russia,” argued Marty. “Rachel cut her hair, and we went for a walk last Saturday instead of going to the synagogue.”
“You and Rachel went for a walk,” Nucia corrected him. “Jacob and I went to shul.”
Rachel stared at her soup, avoiding Nucia’s irate gaze. She recalled Alexander’s face, so close to hers, and felt a delicious shiver from her head to her toes.
“Even my Jewish friends are going to the show tomorrow,” pleaded Marty.
“I’m sorry, Marty,” said Jacob. “But we really don’t have the money for a show this month. It’s been expensive, getting the shop going.” He had been working fourteen-hour days serving customers, making deliveries, stocking shelves, and searching for new and unusual foods to sell in the delicatessen, which served both kosher and non-kosher food. He and Mr. Bloom planned to hire somebody to help, but they wanted to be sure the business was secure before paying an extra salary.
“I can pay for myself,” said Marty. He slunk back as if he regretted his words.
Rachel, Jacob, and Nucia froze.
“How do you have money?” asked Jacob.
Marty squirmed in his chair. “I just do. It’s only a nickel.”
“Did you steal it?” asked Jacob.
“No!”
“Then how did you get it?” asked Nucia.
Marty didn’t respond. He kept his eyes on his plate.
“Are you fighting again?” asked Rachel, remembering the times Marty had come home from school with bruises and cuts on his face and hands.
Marty’s head snapped up. “It’s not what you think.”
“Then tell us,” said Jacob. He set down his spoon and rested his elbows on the table.
“Nobody gets hurt badly when we fight. We do it for fun,” Marty began. “And the winner gets to keep all the money.”
“What money?” said Rachel.
“People bet on who they think will win the fight,” explained Marty.
“So you’re gambling and fighting?” Jacob rose over the table like a dark shadow.
Marty winced.
“What about your teachers?” asked Nucia. “What do they say about this?”
“We fight after school, at the park,” said Marty.
“Why?” asked Rachel. “You have enough to eat, clothes, a roof over your head.”
Marty bowed his head and mumbled.
“What did you say?” asked Rachel.
He lifted his head. “I’m a good fighter. All the guys say so. They like me more when I win.”
Rachel cradled her head in her hands.
Jacob sat back down, but didn’t take his eyes off Marty.
“I have to practice fighting if I’m going to be a champion boxer like Abe Attell some day,” said Marty. His face grew animated as he spoke. “He’s so rich, he can buy anything he wants.”
“Can he buy a new brain after his head is bashed in so many times he can’t think?” scoffed Jacob.
Marty looked as if Jacob had just knocked him off his chair.
Nucia came around the table, beside Marty, and put her hand on his back. “We don’t want you to get hurt. Please, no more fighting.”
“But all the guys will make fun of me. They’ll call me a sissy for stopping.”
“Do you remember, back in Russia, when people called us names for being Jews?” asked Rachel.
Marty nodded.
“And you remember the fighting in Kishinev, how awful it was and how it solved nothing?”
“But this is different,” said Marty.
“Is it? Should we have stayed in Russia to prove we’re strong and brave?”
“No.”
“So you don’t think we’re cowards?”
Marty shook his head emphatically.
“What you think about yourself is more important than what others think,” said Rachel.
“If the other boys give you a hard time for not fighting, tell them you have better things to do,” said Nucia. “Just walk away.”
“But I need to practice—to get better,” said Marty. “Just like I practiced reading and writing English.”
“You can’t compare writing to fighting,” said Rachel. As the words left her lips, she realized that she might be wrong. Maybe Marty needed to fight in order to fit in and to feel good about himself, just as she needed to write. Marty’s path was different from hers. It might seem trivial to her, but it was important to him. Marty needed to find his own way to becoming an American.
⚓ ⚓ ⚓
Outside, the early March air was brisk and the sky was overcast. Rachel buttoned the front of her coat and headed toward Geary Street and the Benkyodo Candy Factory where she was meeting Alexander. This was the area where Japanese immigrants, dislocated by the earthquake, were settling. It had been her idea to meet there, since she wanted to purchase some treats for Marty. He’d been coming home straight from school for a few weeks, and had been working hard at his studies.
She entered the double doors of Benkyodo Candy Factory with a giddy sensation. The smell of cinnamon and fresh dough greeted her. Rachel had never set foot in this candy store before, but she’d watched people walking out with ear-to-ear smiles and paper bags stuffed to the brim with treats.
On the left side of the store, stood a Japanese man with his hair slicked back, and a boy, dressed in white, behind a mahogany sales counter. The man bowed his head and said good evening in stilted English.
“Good evening,” replied Rachel. She moved to the glass cases on her left beside the sales counter, and peered at the trays of little buns.
“Manju and mochi,” said the man. “Japanese specialty.” He reached down and pulled out a tray containing different colored buns.
“Very good,” he said, waving his hand over the tray. “Three for a nickel.”
“My favorite is peanut butter manju,” said Alexander, entering the store.
Rachel’s heart skipped a beat. He looked handsome in his blue-and-white striped shirt and oat-colored trousers. “Marty loves peanut butter.”
The Japanese man pointed at a row of pink buns. “Peanut butter manju.”
“They’re pink,” said Rachel. “What are the ones that look like pancakes?”
“Doray
aki,” said the man. “Made with red beans.”
“Choose three different ones,” suggested Alexander. “Marty is bound to find one he likes.”
“Good idea,” said Rachel. She chose a dorayaki, a peanut butter manju, and an imo, with lima beans and a cinnamon coating.
Back on the street, Alexander linked his arm through Rachel’s. Her skin warmed to his touch. They turned left at Fillmore Street, which bustled with activity. People walked casually in both directions, and some had gathered in front of restaurants to talk.
“My parents sold my balalaika at home and sent me the money for my birthday,” said Alexander.
“Your birthday? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I forgot myself, until the letter from my parents arrived. Here, the days are so busy they blend into one another.”
He steered her along the crowded sidewalk.
“When was your birthday?” Rachel asked him.
“Yesterday. Without my mother here, it was just an ordinary day. My brother didn’t remember, but he is very busy.”
“I suppose I’m lucky to have Nucia,” said Rachel. “She is sometimes too strict, but she never forgets a birthday or a holiday. And even though we have so little money, she somehow makes the day special.”
“I miss that,” said Alexander. “The traditions we had as a family back home. We went to my grandparent’s house when my grandfather was still alive and played games and ate until we could hardly move.”
“What games did you play?” asked Rachel.
“All kinds, but chess was my favorite.”
“You play chess?” asked Rachel, stopping. “My father taught me. He used to beat me, but I was getting better when…” Her voice trailed off as her mind returned to Kishinev and the pogrom that had killed her father. All that had remained of their chess game were six pieces—five rooks and a knight—all of which had been left behind when she departed Kishinev.
Alexander gripped her arm tighter, as if he sensed her sadness.
“I have a chess set,” he said. “I can bring it to your flat one day.”
“It’s been so long,” murmured Rachel. “What if I’ve forgotten how to play?”
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