As she stood in front of Sergei, he was struck by the serenity in her face. Though he knew many women were risking their lives and freedom by distributing the contraband Iskra, it still shocked him to see one now.
“Matushka,” said Sergei to the woman. Mother. This was the password he had to give in order to receive the newspapers.
The woman held out a satchel as dark as her dress. Sergei handed her his empty bag and took her heavy satchel, weighed down with copies of the latest edition of Iskra. The woman turned and walked alongside the river, disappearing into the shadows like a ghost. Sergei slung the bag over his right shoulder and climbed up to the street. The strap dug into his shoulder. He wondered how far the woman had carried it.
A policeman, smacking his club into his hand, paced up and down the sidewalk, on the lookout for trouble or vagrants. The officer stopped when Sergei appeared.
Sergei looked him in the eye. “Good evening.”
The officer scrutinized him, his eyes lingering on the satchel.
Sergei started to open his mouth, to offer a false explanation for the satchel’s contents. Then he remembered Savinkov’s warning not to offer any information unless requested. Sergei pressed his lips together. A drop of perspiration from his forehead fell onto the bridge of his nose.
After what seemed like an eternity, the officer nodded at him and continued down the street. Sergei resisted the very strong urge to run as fast as possible. Instead, he walked slowly in the opposite direction.
⚓ ⚓ ⚓
Two weeks later, Sergei tried to push through the angry mob that blocked the road like a brick wall. He gave up and retreated to another street less crowded with strikers. There were so many Moscow factories on strike it was hard to tell where one ended and another began. Protesters flowed together like the current of a turbulent river, moving steadily and quickly over the ground. Thirty thousand workers were now on strike in Moscow, demanding better living conditions and a democratic government. This differed from the Petersburg strikes where workers were asking for better wages and working conditions within factories.
His stomach grumbled as he moved past the closed-down shops with empty shelves. Windows were varnished with frost. Winter would be here soon, bringing its usual bitter cold and blustery wind. Sergei felt dizzy and leaned against a telegraph pole until the spinning subsided. Food had been scarce since the railway workers’ strike. Supplies couldn’t get into the city. Shops had been drained of food, clothing, and necessities. The lack of medicine forced the hospital to close.
“Shut down the government…down with the tsar…we want the right to vote…give us a Duma with actual power…workers of Russia unite…” The words rang out continuously as Sergei made his way to Gorky’s house, weaving his way through the surging mob.
A baby’s shrill cry pierced the early evening air. Sergei twisted his head and spotted a panicked mother trying to calm her baby in the crowded street. The child’s face appeared pale and drawn. Blue veins almost punctured his temple as he wailed. The infant was hungry.
Sergei turned away in frustration. How terrible for a parent, not to be able to feed a child. He shoved his hands in his pockets and quickened his pace, not slowing until he reached Gorky’s house.
“Moscow has fallen into chaos,” he said as soon as he walked inside.
Savinkov and Gorky sat at the table with a bottle of vodka. The hum of the crowd outside filtered through the window.
“Sit, my friend,” said Gorky, pulling out a chair. “This is what we have been waiting for.”
Savinkov poured himself a glass of vodka and ran the palm of his hand over his hair, which shone with pomade.
“We need to do something big,” said Gorky. “The streets are full of people demanding change. Moscow is paralyzed, but the authorities are hiding, waiting until our energy and resources are depleted.”
“What do you propose?” asked Savinkov.
“We must form a soviet council in Moscow,” Gorky responded. “An organization, not controlled by the government, that speaks for workers. This has already been accomplished in Petersburg.”
“We have the Social Democratic Party,” said Sergei, referring to the revolutionary party established to combine the many rebellious Russian groups into one organization. “Why can’t we work within that?”
“Because we need an independent party, dedicated solely to obtaining democracy for all Russian people,” Gorky replied. “We need to organize strikers, and we must urge our supporters not to pay taxes to the government.”
“The time has come for big actions with even bigger consequences,” added Savinkov.
“You’ve said this before,” argued Sergei. “And we’ve committed the worst possible crimes in the name of the party. Yet nothing has changed.”
“How can you say that?” said Savinkov. “After all these protests! The people of Moscow have come together to demand freedom. This would not be possible without the revolutionary bombings and assassinations carried out by the Combat Organization.”
“I disagree,” said Gorky. “The pen is the mightiest weapon, much more powerful than any bomb. It is the circulation of Iskra and the words of our fellow revolutionaries that have armed the people and given them the hope and courage to fight. This is precisely why everything written in Russia is censored,” continued Gorky in a voice filled with vigor. “Even the authorities recognize the power of language. Words have fired up the people.”
“We must continue circulating Iskra, but this is not enough,” said Savinkov. “More people need to know what’s happening and how they can join the fight for freedom.”
“What do you propose?” asked Sergei. “More newspapers, until all of Russia is covered in ink?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Gorky. “I think we need a leaflet, smaller than Iskra, easy to conceal, that can be distributed more easily to the greater population of Russia.”
“Excellent!” said Savinkov. “It could be used to announce upcoming strikes and the whereabouts of supplies to make protests successful.”
“How will we ever pay for this leaflet?” asked Sergei. “We can barely afford to publish Iskra.”
“I will put up the money,” said Gorky without hesitation.
Sergei’s eyebrows shot up. How could Gorky afford such an expense?
Savinkov raised his glass. “To Gorky…the tyranny will fall…”
“And the people will rise,” said Gorky.
“And the people will rise,” Sergei echoed.
⚓ ⚓ ⚓
“The tsar has signed an Imperial Manifesto!” shouted a jubilant man in the street. It was the thirtieth of October, almost a month since Gorky had proposed leaflets for the Russian people. “He’s guaranteed civil liberties for all Russian citizens and legal power for the Duma.”
Sergei was on his way back to Gorky’s house after meeting with a new factory manager interested in receiving Iskra. He stopped and joined the crowd to hear what was being said. The man’s words sounded far away and muffled, as if he were speaking from the other side of a wall. Sergei strained to hear the fellow again, to make sure he’d heard correctly.
“The tsar has given in to the people,” came the same voice. “Freedom is ours!”
Sergei stood on his toes to try and match the speaker with the voice, but to no avail. Too many people stood between him and the baritone-voiced man.
“An Imperial Manifesto…” “Our struggle is over…” “The tsar has answered the people…” Elated voices rippled through the mass of people as they digested the news.
Sergei squeezed through the throng. “Have you heard?” he asked, darting inside Gorky’s house. “The tsar has signed a manifesto giving the people what we’ve been asking for.”
“Savinkov is bringing a copy of this document,” said Gorky, looking up from his writing. “I will reserve judgement until I see
the terms of this supposed manifesto.”
“You sound skeptical,” said Sergei, walking over to the bookshelves.
“I don’t believe the tsar would bend so easily, my friend,” said Gorky.
Sergei turned and faced him. “You are the smartest man I know, but I hope you’re wrong. I want to get on with my life, to do more with my time than protest.”
An hour later, the door burst open. Savinkov marched in like a general preparing for battle. “Just as you thought, Gorky.” He spread a number of pages of foolscap on the table and pointed at one line. “It claims there will be freedom of conscience, speech, assembly, and association. There is the promise that all classes will be able to participate in the Duma, a group of people chosen to represent the people and limit the authority of the tsar.” Savinkov continued, “But the tsar can veto any legislation passed by the Duma, and authorities can continue arresting anyone for speaking or writing against the government.”
“This proclamation is merely a slight dilution of power, not a full reform in favor of the working people as we have demanded,” stated Gorky as he waved Savinkov away and examined each page of the copied document.
Then he stepped back and poured himself a glass of vodka. He drained it in seconds. “I’m afraid this is exactly what I expected, a meager attempt to pacify the people.”
“So nothing has really changed?” said Sergei. “Out on the streets, people who don’t know the details of this proclamation are cheering the tsar and believing they have new rights.”
Savinkov dropped heavily into his seat and folded his hands together. “When people find out the truth behind this document, things will get worse.”
“Much worse,” added Gorky.
⚓ ⚓ ⚓
Sergei couldn’t move his arms or his legs. Something hard and sharp dug into his skin, cut off his circulation. His hands and feet were shackled. When he tried to break free, the shackles grew tighter. The sound of chains clattering grew louder until they encircled him. An explosion. Smoke filled the air, and body parts, torn and bloody, flew past him—hands, legs, an ear, a foot. Chains slithered around him like snakes, squeezed him tighter and tighter until he couldn’t breathe. He gagged; couldn’t get enough air; couldn’t escape the chains.
Sergei bolted upright and clutched his neck. Perspiration coated his entire body and his throat was parched. He peered around the room. Savinkov lay beside him, snoring robustly. Sergei remembered he was in Gorky’s house and exhaled with relief.
I will never be free from guilt, he thought as he wiped his brow. Even though I am not behind bars, guilt is suffocating me, destroying me from the inside.
Sergei lay down but remained awake until daylight streamed through the window.
PART TWO
Summer 1905
Naturalization, with us Russian Jews, may mean more than the adoption of an immigrant by America. It may mean the adoption of America by the immigrant.
—Mary Antin, The Promised Land, 1912
8
“Marty! What happened to you?” Nucia dropped the dress she was mending for Mrs. Haas and ran to him. She held his face in her hands.
Rachel looked up from her geography book. Blood gushed from Marty’s nose and a disturbing blue-gray shadow radiated around his left eye. He had told Rachel and Nucia he was going to the park with his friend, Dan.
“Who did this to you?” asked Rachel, jumping to her feet.
“I don’t want to tell you,” he said in a sullen voice. He jerked his head out of Nucia’s grasp.
“Has he hurt you before, this boy?” asked Nucia. She dabbed at his nose with a wet rag.
“No.” Marty clamped his mouth shut.
“We need to put ice on your eye,” said Rachel. “I’ll run to the Blooms’ store.”
“I don’t need ice.” He backed away from Nucia and lay down on the floor, his head turned toward the wall as he tried to hide his face.
Rachel exchanged a worried look with her sister. Nucia went back to her mending and Rachel tried to concentrate on her schoolwork, American geography, which usually fascinated her. But tonight, after seeing Marty’s injured face, she couldn’t focus on it. Marty had been acting strangely over the last few weeks, ever since Jacob had taken a second job at night, stocking shelves in a canned food warehouse. She and Nucia worked long hours, after which she attended classes three nights a week and spent every spare moment reading everything she could get her hands on. Nucia mended other people’s clothes for extra money. Much of the time, none of them were around for Marty.
Coming to America has given us the freedom and safety we need, but we have had to sacrifice our time with Marty to pay the rent and keep ourselves clothed and fed. He must feel neglected.
She got out of her chair and knelt down beside Marty’s small form on the floor. When she ruffled his hair, he shrank back.
“I think I know why you’re angry,” she said to the back of his head.
No response.
“We are all so busy working and you are left alone much of the time.”
No answer.
“Is that the reason?”
Marty did not move.
“It won’t be like this forever. I promise that once we have some money saved and a flat of our own, we will have more time for you.”
The boy said something without lifting his head, his voice muffled.
“What?”
He raised his head. “I want to get a job.”
Rachel stifled a grin. “But you have a job. You have school.”
“What is the point of school?”
“The point? The point is you’ve learned English well, the language of America—”
Marty twisted his neck and frowned at Rachel. “Then why do I have to keep going to school, if I know English?”
“To be able to finish high school and maybe even university so that you can earn money with your brain and not hard labor.”
“I’m not smart enough, and it takes too long to do all that school.”
Rachel stood and put her hands on her hips. “You are very smart, especially at mathematics.”
“You see how tired Jacob is when he comes home,” added Nucia. “He can barely stand up. If he had the choice, he would prefer work that is easier on his body. But he did not have the opportunity to go to high school.”
“I want to make money so Jacob doesn’t have to work so hard.”
Rachel couldn’t help but smile. “That’s very thoughtful, but Jacob wants you to stay in school.”
Marty exhaled noisily.
“What would your grandmother want you to do?” asked Rachel.
Marty turned back to the wall. “Go to school,” he said sheepishly.
“How about if I take some time from my studies on Saturday night and we go to the skating rink?” Rachel suggested.
“Jacob too?” Marty sat up.
Rachel cringed at the sight of his swollen eye. “I think we can talk Jacob into coming, and Nucia.”
Nucia nodded.
“All right,” said Marty.
“No more fighting with the boys?” asked Rachel.
“I’ll try.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll try not to fight, but I can’t promise. You always say you shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“True,” agreed Rachel, struggling to keep a straight face. “But I think you could keep from fighting, if you really wanted to.”
Marty thought about it for a moment. “I’ll do my best. But if someone starts fighting me, can I fight back?”
“You should get away as fast as you can,” interjected Nucia.
Rachel waited until Nucia had turned back to her needle and thread. “Don’t listen to Nucia,” she whispered to Marty. “Fight back as hard as you can.”
⚓ �
�� ⚓
At the corner of Steiner and Post Streets, Dreamland Roller Skating Rink seemed anything but dreamy from the outside. The plain, oversized gray building with narrow, dark windows looked rather ominous. Inside, however, Marty found himself in a winter wonderland of fake snow and elaborate paintings of mountains above the oval skating surface.
Jacob paid ten cents each to cover the cost of skate rentals and rink time for the four of them. The man behind the counter grunted, his cigarette hanging loosely from the corner of his mouth. He asked for their shoe sizes and handed out skates, designed very much like Russian ice skates, except wheels were attached to their shoes instead of blades.
“Since we know how to ice skate, maybe this will be easy,” said Rachel, as they sat on a long bench to buckle up their skates.
“I think it will be different,” said Jacob, rolling the wheels with his fingers.
“I have never been ice skating,” said Marty.
“Really?” said Rachel and Nucia. In Russia, children learned to skate as soon as they could walk.
“My grandmother worried I’d fall through the ice,” Marty explained.
Rachel looked away from the boy, so he wouldn’t see the sorrow in her face. He had missed out on so much, losing his parents at such a young age.
“I will teach you, Marty,” announced Jacob. “Soon you will be skating faster than any of us.”
Marty grinned and bent over to do up his skates.
Rachel’s feet slid back and forth over the ground before she even reached the rink. She grabbed hold of Jacob to steady herself. When she stepped onto the rink, her feet slipped out from under her body. She landed on her tailbone with a thump.
Marty, still standing outside of the rink, laughed.
Rachel pulled herself to her feet, hanging onto the outside railing. “Your turn,” she challenged him.
Marty stuck one foot onto the rink as if he were dipping it in water to determine the temperature. He rolled his foot back and forth a few times before bringing his other foot forward. With one hand on the railing, he moved forward gingerly, testing his balance.
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