Cyril opened a door and rubbed his hands together with glee. Inside, shelves were piled with cartons of flour, potatoes, oranges, and nuts. Cyril reached to the highest shelf and knocked over a carton of flour. The lid came off and both he and Sergei were instantly covered in fine white powder.
“They must keep the meat somewhere else,” muttered Cyril. “Somewhere cold.”
“We don’t have time to look further,” said Sergei. “Let’s just grab some oranges and nuts and go.”
“Oranges and nuts?” Cyril scowled at Sergei. “They’ll fill me up for a minute.”
A light suddenly shone in their eyes. A man dressed in white with a moustache that curled up at both ends, held a kerosene lantern. He looked just as startled as Sergei and Cyril.
“We don’t want to cause trouble,” said Cyril, in Russian. He stepped forward.
“No!” said the man. He held up the palm of his hand to stop Cyril from coming closer.
The man said something to them in English. He sounded frightened.
Sergei glanced down, saw his clothes covered in flour, and realized they must look like ghosts.
“We’re hungry,” said Sergei.
The man turned his head and shouted. Footsteps sounded. More men appeared at the doorway of the galley. Voices erupted into a confusing babble.
“They’re going to throw us off the ship,” said Sergei to Cyril.
“We don’t know that,” said Cyril.
Sergei attempted to whisk the flour from his clothes, but all he managed to do was create a white cloud. He felt as if his heart was in his throat.
Seconds later, the men at the door parted to let someone through. A man with a white, brimmed cap strode into the galley with an air of authority.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” he asked in Russian with an American accent.
“I am Cyril and he is Sergei, and we mean no harm,” Cyril began. “We escaped exile in Siberia and have no money for the passage to America.”
“You crossed Siberia on your own, without horses?” The man removed his cap and ran his hand over his smooth scalp.
“We had a rowboat, until it was destroyed by a giant fish,” explained Sergei. He went on to describe their treacherous journey across the steppes.
“An amazing story,” said the man when Sergei had finished. He introduced himself as Captain O’Brien and explained that he’d learned the Russian language because he’d been an officer in the American navy, stationed in Japan during the Russo-Japanese War.
“How old are you?” O’Brien asked Sergei.
Sergei had to think about this for a minute. “I will be nineteen this year.”
O’Brien’s hazel eyes shot open with surprise. “Come. Get cleaned up. I want to introduce you to a few people.”
“You aren’t going to throw us off the ship?” said Cyril.
“Not a chance,” said O’Brien. “I think you two deserve medals for what you’ve been through.”
Sergei scrutinized O’Brien’s face to see if he was telling the truth. He had lived in fear for so long, unable to depend on anybody but himself, he had forgotten how to trust. But O’Brien seemed genuine, the way he made direct eye contact, unlike Savinkov, whose eyes had flitted everywhere when he talked. There was sincerity in O’Brien’s voice, and it reminded him of the old man who had helped them during their trek through Siberia. I may as well trust him. Either he’ll keep his word and let us stay aboard, or he’ll toss us into the sea.
O’Brien took them to a small room with a toilet and a narrow stall. He turned a lever and water poured from tiny holes in a round metal contraption that hung from the ceiling.
“Indoor rain,” said Cyril.
O’Brien chuckled. “It’s a shower. There’s soap and towels and clean clothes on the stool.” He motioned toward the stool beside the shower. “I’ll be in the corridor when you’re finished.” He backed out of the room and shut the door.
Sergei held his hand under the water. “It’s warm!” He peeled off his clothes and positioned himself under the shower. The dirt ran from his body. Sergei let the water rush over him, filling his pores and crevices until the skin on his fingertips began to pucker. When he finished, he was was a shade lighter and he felt as if he’d shed ten pounds. While Cyril showered, Sergei changed into the clothes left by O’Brien: navy trousers, a cream-colored shirt, and stiff black shoes that cramped his feet.
After they had dressed, they re-joined O’Brien, who guided them to a group of uniformed sailors near the back of the ship. The sailors’ mouths hung open as O’Brien spoke to them in English. They stared at Cyril and Sergei as if they were wild boars.
“These men are going to take up a collection of money for you,” O’Brien explained to Sergei and Cyril. “So you have something to get started with in America.”
“A collection?” said Cyril. “Why would they want to help complete strangers?”
“Because of what you’ve been through,” said O’Brien. “One man said he feels lucky to be born in a free country, and he wants you to experience America without being worried about money as soon as you step off the boat.”
“I can’t accept charity,” said Sergei. “We’ll never be able to repay them.”
“They have no interest in repayment,” said O’Brien. “Instead, you could do the same for someone else one day. Once you are established, you will give help to another person who needs it or donate to a worthy cause.”
O’Brien led them away from the sailors.
“Sergei, we have no money,” said Cyril. “If they can collect just a little amount, it could mean the difference between sleeping on the streets, and going hungry before we get jobs. How can we find work if we’re starving and exhausted?”
“Cyril is right,” added O’Brien.
They stood against a railing, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The anxiety that knotted every cell of Sergei’s body began to recede.
“I suppose a little help wouldn’t be so bad,” he said. “Just enough to tide us over.”
“Finally,” Cyril said.
“Come.” O’Brien marched forward. “I have many more people for you to meet.”
O’Brien introduced them to some passengers, the steward, and even the cook, all of whom were fascinated by their experiences.
“They’re staring at us as though we are heroes,” said Sergei to O’Brien. “What exactly are you saying about us?”
They’d arrived at the dining hall for supper, their first full meal in months. Long, rectangular tables draped in white linen tablecloths were arranged in three columns. White candles in brass candlesticks stood in the center of each table. As he took his seat beside Captain O’Brien, Sergei realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat at a table for a meal, or the last time he’d used a fork and knife.
“Nothing but the truth,” said O’Brien. “I don’t think you realize just how remarkable your story is, escaping from exile in Siberia. Russia is so far away, so fascinating to Americans. Being political exiles, with such an adventure to tell, makes you quite intriguing.”
⚓ ⚓ ⚓
San Francisco Bay. It stretched out in front of Sergei like a Chagall painting, beautiful and surreal all at once. Hills rose over the city much like those he’d seen in Vladivostok. But this was America.
Sergei felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see O’Brien.
“I have a list of people who can help you,” he said, handing Sergei a piece of paper with a dozen names.
“And here is the collection money for you and Cyril.” O’Brien gave Cyril a bulging envelope. “Everyone on the ship wanted to contribute, the cook, the purser, and all the passengers and crew.”
Sergei stared at the envelope stuffed with a thick wad of American bills.
“That’s a lot of money,” said Cyril.
“Too much,” said Sergei.
O’Brien put his hand over Sergei’s. “You would offend a lot of people if you don’t accept this gift. Everyone on this ship wants you to succeed. You’ve struggled hard to get here. Spend this money wisely. Make us all proud.”
Sergei raised his eyes to meet the captain’s. “Do you think you could do me one more favor and help me find someone in San Francisco?”
27
Winter 1908
Anna Strunsky
c/o Mr. and Mrs. Strunsky
42 Central Park West
New York City
January 2, 1908
Dear Anna,
I’m finally starting university and wish you were here to see me off! Truly, I do not think I would be in this fortunate position without your help and never-ending faith in me. I leave tomorrow for the University of California in Berkeley, where I will be studying Comparative Literature. The list of books I’ll be reading is so long, I wonder how I’ll finish them all on time. I must admit, I’m nervous about doing well. I am so competitive that I fear it darkens my character. If somebody does better than I do on an essay or exam, I actually loathe them for a short time. Then I recover my good humor and am happy for their success. But secretly, I want to do better than they do next time!
My new friend Alexander tells me I am my own worst enemy! I have not told you about him because I’ve wanted to keep him to myself. I worry that if I start talking about him, or count on him too much, he will vanish like feathers in the wind. You would like him, for he is an independent sort who speaks his mind, no matter the circumstances. He is also quite willing to argue with me, which I find both amusing and exasperating.
The other day, we got into a spirited debate about women’s rights. He said he supported women’s right to vote, but didn’t think we should be elected into government positions. As you can imagine, his opinion irritated me no end, and I began rambling on about accomplished women such as Jessica Peixotto, who graduated with a PhD from the University of California in Berkeley in 1900. And Selina Solomons, who gave an unforgettable speech at the Pacific Women’s Congress about women who have achieved higher statuses than men. And Rachel Frank, who has actually preached in synagogues. With a condescending smile, Alexander listened to me until I was hoarse, before telling me he agreed with me all along. He said he just wanted to see what kind of argument I could make. I was so angry I wanted to strangle him. But then I thought about how I should have known his true feelings, how I should never have doubted his support for women. We had a good laugh!
I must finish packing my trunk for my new home at a boarding house across the Bay. I still can’t believe this day is here. If only my father were here now. This was his dream for me and I am determined to make him proud.
I am so excited about your upcoming visit. There is so much more I want to say but not in a letter.
Your friend, Rachel
The ferry’s horn bellowed, announcing the imminent departure for Oakland. Rachel glanced back at the ferry and then at Nucia, holding her three-month-old baby boy, Henry, bundled in a creamy white blanket that Mrs. Bloom had knit for him. The gusty wind blew Nucia’s braid sideways. Henry whimpered.
“You look exhausted, but happier than I’ve ever seen you,” Rachel said to her sister.
“Becoming a mother has been the best thing that has ever happened to me,” Nucia proclaimed, yawning. “I just wish he’d sleep more than three hours at a time.”
“Can I hold him once more before I leave?” asked Rachel.
Nucia placed Henry into Rachel’s outstretched arms.
“I’m going to miss you so much,” Rachel told him.
He cooed at her, as if he understood, his wide green eyes looking up at her.
“You’ll see him often enough,” said Jacob, joining them after loading Rachel’s trunk onto the ferry. Marty, who had helped Jacob, stood beside Rachel, making faces at Henry. The baby squealed at him in delight.
“Maybe I shouldn’t live in Oakland,” said Rachel. “I can stay here, with all of you, and still attend university.” She gave Henry a kiss on his soft, rosy cheek and reluctantly gave him back to Nucia.
“Don’t be silly,” said Nucia, her voice wavering. “You would be exhausted taking the ferry every day. Besides, you already have a rented room and a good job at the library.”
Jacob pressed a ten-dollar bill into Rachel’s hand. “It’s from the Blooms and us.”
“This is far too generous,” said Rachel. “I can’t accept this. You’ll need it for the baby.” She tried to give it back, but Jacob pushed her hand away.
“The deli is doing well,” he said. “Much better than we ever expected.”
“I like knowing you have a little extra money,” added Nucia.
“A little extra?” gasped Rachel.
“Treat yourself to something nice,” said Jacob.
Rachel flung her arms around Jacob. “Take good care of my sister,” she said.
“You know I will.”
“Do you really have to go?” asked Marty.
Rachel embraced him. “It’s not so far; just a ferry ride away.”
“But I won’t see you every day,” said Marty. He pulled away from her.
“No, you won’t.”
Jacob placed his hands on Marty’s shoulders.
“You said you would never leave me,” cried Marty.
The ferry’s horn sounded again.
“I’m not leaving you,” said Rachel. “I’m going to school across the Bay. I’ll see you on weekends, and you can always come visit me.”
“Can I?” Marty asked Jacob.
“Of course.”
“When Henry gets bigger,” added Nucia, “he’s going to need you to teach him how to walk and play games and read.”
Marty peered at Henry. “I guess I will be pretty busy, looking out for him.”
Rachel and Nucia exchanged amused smiles.
“Promise me you’ll be good,” said Rachel.
“I promise,” said Marty solemnly.
Now that she was a mother, Nucia had become less strict with Marty and had given him more space to make his own choices. As a result, they were getting along much better. And Marty had spent a lot of time practicing his baseball skills with his friend, Dan. Marty was much more confident and happy.
The ferry’s horn blew at full volume. Rachel eyed the two-level vessel. Black clouds puffed from the smokestack. She turned and grabbed Nucia’s arm. They had never been separated before. Rachel suddenly felt as if she was losing her last link to Russia.
“You’re going to do so well,” said Nucia. She squeezed Rachel’s hand. “Father and Mother would be proud of you right now.” Rachel sniffed back her tears.
Jacob interrupted them. “Look, Rachel, someone else is here to say good-bye to you.”
Nucia gently pushed her toward Alexander, who was coming their way. Rachel had been dreading this moment for weeks. Standing just inches from him, she studied his face, searing it into her memory so that she could recall it in an instant.
“I have something for you.” Alexander thrust the familiar leather case that contained his walnut chess set into her hands.
“No,” she said. “It’s yours. You brought it from Russia.”
“You love the game as much as I do,” said Alexander. “I want you to have it, and when I visit you at Berkeley, we can play chess together. It will save me from bringing it every time I come.”
“But it’s your family’s,” she protested. “It should stay in your family.”
Alexander hesitated before speaking. “Someday, when you’re ready, I hope it will be in our family.” He pulled her into his arms.
“San Francisco won’t be the same without you,” he whispered into her ear.
“I’m scared,” she confessed. “What if i
t’s not as good as I’m expecting? What if I’m not smart enough?”
“You’re the smartest person I know,” he said. “It will be better than you think. You’ll see.”
He took her face in his hands and kissed her. As their lips parted, Rachel felt a surge of doubt and fear.
“I’ll see you next Sunday,” said Alexander. He stepped back, picked up her valise and handed it to her. “Remember,” he said, “I believe in you.”
Rachel nodded, her lips still warm with the taste of him, and boarded the ferry without looking back. When it glided away from the dock, she watched the Ferry Building, with its distinctive clock tower, slowly fade into the horizon. She gripped the railing and peered down at the turquoise water smacking and frothing against the ferry. Rachel didn’t raise her head until the boat thumped against the Key Route Pier in Berkeley.
San Francisco was still visible in the distance, a jumble of foggy silhouettes. The ferry ride had taken only twenty-five minutes, which both calmed and frightened Rachel. If life as a student became rough, it would be very easy to return to her former world.
She turned around. The Berkeley hills rose in the distance, a stark contrast to the flat land near the water. For several minutes, Rachel watched people disembark with certainty, as if they knew exactly where they were going and how to get there. Her heart raced and her palms began to sweat. In the distance, she heard the faint sound of a violin, playing Tchaikovsky, the 1812 Overture, her father’s favorite piece. She could almost hear his reassuring voice telling her not to be afraid, and feel his hand on her shoulder, nudging her forward.
Rachel walked off the ferry, in the direction of the music. She went from the ferry slip to the adjoining train station. There, between two tracks, stood a boy, not more than twelve or thirteen years old, playing the violin. His shirt was patched at the elbows and he had a faraway look in his eyes, as if the music took him to a better place. His hat lay upside down on the ground, with a few coins inside. Rachel listened to him play until he’d finished the piece. She crouched down and put a nickel in his hat, the fare for her train ride three miles north to the university campus.
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