Three miles is nothing, she thought as she began walking. Besides, there is no better way to see a new city than on foot.
28
Her satchel clutched against her chest, Rachel ran out of the Doe Memorial Library onto University Drive. Though it had only been two months since she’d begun university, she felt totally at ease in her new life, as if she’d been a student for years. Not only did she enjoy her classes and her job shelving books at the library, but she’d made good friends and had thrown herself into college life, including writing articles for The Daily Cal, the student newspaper.
Now, her heels chafed against the leather of her new shoes, which she’d purchased with some of the money Jacob had given to her. They were the first pair of new shoes she’d had in years and the stiff leather blistered her feet. At the moment, however, Rachel was too excited to let that stop her. Her meeting with The Daily Cal’s editor had gone better than she’d expected. She plucked off her shoes and continued running uphill, her mind replaying the conversation about the article she’d just been asked to write. This would be the first major piece she had been assigned to write for The Daily Cal. It was an opportunity to prove herself as a feature writer on campus.
As she neared Gayley Road, she came upon groups of students heading in the same direction, to the Hearst Greek Theater. The big rugby game against Stanford University, an annual tradition, was slated to begin soon. Situated in the hills above campus, this imposing amphitheater had more than seven thousand seats. It was built in the grand Greek revival style with a row of tall columns. Arriving at the gate, Rachel was dismayed to see it swarming with boisterous students waiting to get in. She squinted and looked for her friends.
“Rachel!”
She spun around and saw Laura, her closest university friend, walking toward her. Behind Laura were their other friends, Beth and Joanne. Sharing several classes, the group of four often did things together.
“Why aren’t you wearing your shoes?” Laura asked Rachel.
Rachel lifted her skirt and displayed her wounded feet.
The girls made faces and looked away.
“You ran here barefoot?” asked Beth.
“My new shoes hurt my feet,” explained Rachel. She held up her shoes and shrugged.
“You certainly are odd, but in a good way,” joked Laura.
“Let’s get in so we don’t miss the beginning,” said Joanne.
“You don’t fool me,” said Beth to Joanne. “We all know you just want to watch Robert. You don’t give two cents about rugby.”
“I do, too,” said Joanne, indignant. “It just so happens that Robert is teaching me the rules so I can follow the game better.”
“Good,” said Rachel. “You can tell me what’s going on. I don’t know a thing about rugby. This is the first game I’ve ever seen.”
“Well, I don’t know a lot yet,” stammered Joanne. “Robert’s only told me a couple of things.”
“Like what?” demanded Laura.
“Umm, you can’t run forward with the ball,” said Joanne.
Beth snorted. “Anybody who watches five minutes of rugby can see that.”
“Come on,” said Rachel. “Let’s get to our seats. I have big news, but I don’t want to tell you until we’re sitting down.”
“First, put on your shoes, Rachel,” said Laura. “Or your feet will get trampled in there.”
Rachel stuck her feet into her shoes and clenched her hands into fists when the leather rubbed against her blisters. She hobbled into the theater behind her friends, and made her way to the only empty seats in the top row.
“Now, what’s your news?” said Laura the minute they were seated.
The stadium continued to fill with students, many raising banners supporting either University of California or Stanford.
Rachel cleared her throat and gave her friends a sly smile. “I have been given an assignment to write a feature article in The Daily Cal.”
Laura shook Rachel’s shoulders excitedly. “That’s amazing! I knew you’d get it.”
“What is it? What’s the article?” asked Beth.
“I’m going to interview a woman interested in paleontology who has just donated money to build a museum of zoology for the university,” said Rachel.
“Paleo-what?” said Joanne.
“Paleontology. Her name is Annie Alexander and she’s hunted for fossils all over the world,” Rachel continued. “I have some information about her.” She pulled a folded sheet of paper from her satchel and flattened it in her lap. “She trained as a nurse, went on a bicycle trip through Europe, and has sailed on the Pacific Ocean.”
“How old is she?” said Laura. “A hundred?”
“It’s funny, her last name being Alexander,” said Joanne. “Like your beau.”
Rachel blushed.
“She makes me feel lazy,” said Beth.
“I know. I can’t wait to meet her,” said Rachel.
“Look!” Joanne pointed at the field below. “The teams are coming out!”
Rachel stuck her paper back into her satchel and leaned forward to see the athletes marching onto the field. The Stanford team came first, in white and red shirts with red shorts. Stanford fans stood and cheered as they entered. The California Golden Bears appeared next in their blue and gold striped rugby shirts and blue shorts, bringing University of California students to their feet, roaring. Rachel joined in, clapping her hands and cheering. Though she didn’t know much about the sport, the sense of camaraderie was contagious.
I can’t believe I’m sitting here in such a magnificent sports stadium watching a rugby game with a group of girlfriends. I never imagined my life turning out like this, with so many choices and possibilities. I can’t wait to tell Alexander about my assignment. And I must get started on my British Literature essay, and finish reading my book for American Lit.
She watched as the match started, her mind racing with plans and ideas. She jolted upright when the players jumped onto one another, forming a strange mound in the middle of the field.
Rachel tapped Laura on the shoulder. “Do you know what’s going on?”
“No idea,” laughed Laura. “But it’s a lot of fun.”
“Definitely!” exclaimed Rachel. She sat back and took it all in, the confusing game, the cheering people, the big sky.
⚓ ⚓ ⚓
Rachel sat at the oak desk in her room and reread her essay on Anna Karenina for her Russian literature course. Not only was this still her favorite book, it reminded her of home, her father, and Mikhail. It was the book she’d argued about with Mikhail in Kishinev on the last day of his life. Mikhail had criticized Anna Karenina for leaving her loveless marriage. Rachel had defended her, saying that Anna should be with the person she loved, that happiness was more important than doing what society expected.
Her lips curled up, thinking about their debate and how stubborn they’d each been. Then Mikhail had kissed her. Her brow creased as she recalled how frightened she was that someone would see them, a Jewish girl and a Russian boy, kissing. For months, Rachel worried that this kiss had led to Mikhail’s murder.
Her eyes fell on the chess set on the corner of her desk. In two days, Alexander would be coming for a weekend visit, as he often did, and they’d have a rematch. So far, he’d won every game, but Rachel was determined to change this, sooner or later. She glanced at the clock on her wall and jumped up. Almost nine-thirty. Her class began at ten o’clock.
“I can’t be late again,” she muttered to herself. She stuffed her essay into her satchel.
Rachel ran down the flight of stairs and out the door of the boarding house on Addison Street where she lived with five other students. She almost collided with her landlady, Mrs. Ross.
“You really need to keep better track of your time, dear,” Mrs. Ross called out.
“I
’m trying,” said Rachel.
She ran east along Addison for three blocks, against the wind, unaware that she was being followed. When she reached Oxford Street and dashed under the Sather Gate entrance to the university, Rachel stopped to catch her breath.
“Rachel, is that you?” said a deep voice in Russian.
Goosebumps broke out on her neck. She turned slowly to face a thin man with disheveled long hair and whiskers. Standing beneath the magnificent arched granite and bronze Sather Gate, he looked like a common beggar.
He moved closer. At once she recognized his onyx eyes, though they were heavier and more solemn than she remembered. The impish glint was gone, along with his youth.
“Sergei? Is it really you?” she whispered in Russian.
“I told you I would find you.” He swallowed. “You’re so beautiful.”
Rachel blushed, dropped her satchel and opened her arms. Sergei hesitated, then stepped toward her. Rachel held him tight, breathed him in. He smelled of soap and tobacco. He seemed smaller than he’d been in Russia, as if part of him had remained there. His arms draped loosely around her waist. They both let go and stood back.
“I thought you were exiled to Siberia,” said Rachel.
“I was.”
“Then, how did you get here? How did you find me? Why did you stop writing?”
“It would take years to tell you everything,” he said. “Nucia told me where to find you.”
“You’ve seen her and Marty…Menahem?”
“Yes. Menahem looks good. He seems happy.”
“I hated leaving him to come here—”
“I know, but he has Jacob and Nucia. And now a new baby.”
“They’re going to adopt him once they become citizens.”
“Nucia told me. I’m happy for him.”
“Jacob loves him like a son.”
“I know.”
An awkward silence. They had never been at a loss for words in Kishinev. Now, with so much to say, so much to fill in, they had become shy with each other.
“You did it,” he finally spoke. “You’re in university.”
“And you got away from that horrible factory.”
“That was nothing compared to what happened after.”
“Tell me.”
He gazed past her at the campus. “You’re late. You ran so quickly from your boarding house that I had a hard time catching up with you.”
“I was late for a class and have an essay to hand in.”
“Then you should go. We can talk later. I’m not leaving until tomorrow.”
“But you just got here.”
“I’m going to head to the east coast, to New York. There are more jobs out east.”
“I wish you’d stay,” said Rachel, “for a little while.”
He hesitated before responding. “Are you still writing?”
“I’ve had some articles published in The San Francisco Bulletin and a few in the university’s newspaper. I’ve even been given a byline.”
“What do you mean?”
“My name has been printed at the top of my articles.”
“I knew you’d become a famous writer.”
“I’m not exactly famous, but I am learning and getting better. What about you? Have you been drawing?”
“I don’t think I’ll ever draw again.” The bitter edge to his voice made Rachel shudder.
“Come with me to turn in my paper,” she suggested. “I want to show you something.”
“What about your class?”
“I’ve never missed a lecture, not even when I was sick. But you’re here for such a short time. I can skip this one.”
Sergei shrugged and shuffled along beside her. Rachel tried to get a glimpse of his hand, which had been mangled in a factory accident, but the sleeves of his shirt fell to his knuckles, obscuring it. As they walked north along a path, Rachel saw people watching them with obvious curiosity. She realized how out-of-place Sergei was, how scruffy he looked compared to the students with their neatly cut hair and well-fitted clothing.
“Guess I don’t look much like a student,” said Sergei, as if he’d read her mind.
“There’s no uniform here,” said Rachel. “You can dress however you want.”
“Really?” said Sergei, in a tone that implied he didn’t agree.
Rachel spied Laura, standing with a group of students in front of South Hall. She grabbed Sergei’s hand and led him toward the expansive red brick building. Through his muslin shirtsleeve, she could feel callouses, hard as stones, on the palm of his hand. As they neared the building, Sergei wrenched his hand from hers.
“Laura,” she called out as she approached South Hall.
Laura waved and stepped away from her friends to greet Rachel. Sergei hung back, as if he had no desire to meet Rachel’s friend.
“Can you turn my essay in for me?”
Laura stared at Sergei. “Who is he?”
“A friend. From Russia.”
“Looks like he just got off the ship.”
“He’s been through a lot.”
“Just a friend?”
“He was…we were…it’s complicated,” Rachel stammered.
“Give me your paper,” said Laura.
Rachel pulled it from her satchel and handed it to her.
“Now go, but later I want to hear all about him.”
“You will,” said Rachel.
She returned to Sergei, who appeared as uncomfortable as a cat in the rain.
“Where are we going?” he asked her.
“You’ll see.” She began walking in the direction they’d come from, then veered right. The campus became more rugged the farther they went. They came upon a wooden footbridge that spanned a fast-moving creek.
“Strawberry Creek,” explained Rachel. “My favorite place on campus.”
Sergei followed her over the bridge into a lush, forested area. A gingko tree rose proudly from the ground.
Rachel knelt by the edge of the river. “This reminds me of Kishinev, the good parts.”
Sergei crouched down beside her and dragged his fingers through the clear water. A school of minnows swam by, their tiny, dark shapes moving in unison.
“We spent a lot of time on water,” Sergei mumbled.
“Who were you with?” asked Rachel. “Where were you?”
“I was with another exile escaping across the rivers in Siberia.” He cupped his hands under the water, then cleansed his face. A thick, jagged scar stretched across the palm of his right hand.
“Does it still hurt?” She ran her finger lightly over his scar.
Sergei opened and closed his hand. “No. It just gets stiff in the cold.”
“Maybe you’ll be able to draw again one day.”
“It’s not because of my hand that I don’t draw,” he said gruffly, pulling his hand away from her.
“Oh.” Rachel turned her head to hide her disappointment. A black salamander with a reddish-brown stripe scurried across a few leaves that had fallen to the ground.
“I thought…” Sergei began. “All I could think of was finding you. The whole time I was in exile, thoughts of you kept me going.”
“Me, too,” said Rachel. “When I got lonely in Shanghai, and after the earthquake that shattered our new lives here, I often thought of you.”
He jerked his head up and looked around, as if he was afraid of someone or something.
“You don’t have to worry,” said Rachel. “People here don’t care if Jews are friends with gentiles.”
“Much more divides us now,” said Sergei. “Too much has happened to me. Too much time has passed.” He touched her hair. “I hardly even recognized you.”
“We can get to know each other again. And what about your dream of being an archit
ect? You could get a scholarship, go to school here.”
Sergei shook his head, stood and tossed a pebble into the creek. “I’m not ambitious and idealistic like you. America is not a perfect world. I can’t go searching for impossible dreams. Besides, I need to find a job soon, so I can bring my mother and sister over.”
“How are they?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been able to write to them for a couple of years. They probably think I’m dead.”
“You must write them.”
“Not until I can afford to send for them. Not until I can make promises I can keep.”
“You kept your promise to me and Marty.”
Sergei threw another stone. It bounced off a rock and plunged into the water. “Menahem, Marty, barely spoke to me. He looked at me like…like I was a freak. Maybe I am.”
“Don’t say that. He remembers what you did for him. I know he does. It just might take him a little while to get to know you again. He was so young when he last saw you.”
“I don’t want him to remember. If all that is gone from his mind, then he’s better off. That’s why I won’t see him again. I don’t want to stir things up for him—or for you.”
Sergei paced along the edge of the creek, back and forth like a restless fox. He turned his head left and right, constantly on alert, never letting his guard down.
Rachel watched him for a few minutes, with an uncomfortable heaviness in the pit of her stomach. “What about me? Do you want to see me again?”
He stopped pacing. “I don’t fit into your world here.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I’m happy I was able to find you. I’m relieved you’re doing so well.”
“But?”
“But you know I can’t see you again.”
“Why?”
“We’re different now. You’re a good person. You’re going to be a great writer some day. You deserve happiness.”
“You’re a good person, too.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know what I had to do to get here. You don’t know the nightmares that keep me up at night, what I wish I could change about my past.”
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