Rachel's Hope

by Shelly Sanders

  “Must be a large salmon or carp,” said Sergei. “I’ve seen lots over the last couple of hours.”

  “Good. We won’t have any trouble fishing for our supper.”

  Another thud, stronger and louder.

  “I don’t think that fish likes us being here,” said Cyril.

  “He’ll have to get used to us,” laughed Sergei. “We’re bigger than he is.”

  Another bang, this time right under Sergei, as if the fish didn’t appreciate his humor.

  Sergei jumped up, rocking the boat. “There must be more than one down there.”

  “Stay still,” cautioned Cyril. “We’ll be in the water if you jump like that again.”

  Sergei sat back down. A strong wallop thrashed the side of the boat. Sergei leaned over to look and froze. Staring back at him was the largest fish he’d ever seen. The open mouth revealed spikes for teeth. Long whiskers protruded from each side of its head. Judging from the dorsal fin sticking out of the water, the mammoth fish had to be about eighteen feet long. The fish submerged and disappeared underneath the boat, bashing it with its tail as it swam.

  “Can sharks live in freshwater?” Sergei asked.

  “Sharks? Of course not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Cyril stopped rowing and looked over the side. “I think you need more sleep, Sergei. Your mind is playing tricks on you.”

  “Just don’t take your eyes off the water.”

  Cyril shook his head and kept rowing. “We don’t have time for this. You’re the one who wanted to make it to Khabarofka in one week, remember?”

  “If this fish attacks us, we’ll be lucky to make it anywhere in one piece,” said Sergei.

  “The sun is making you see things that aren’t there.” Cyril chuckled and glanced over his left shoulder. “What…?” He stopped rowing. All the color drained from his face. “It’s a kaluga.”

  Before Sergei could respond, the fish swam into the side of the boat, rocking it precariously.

  “We need to get away from here.” Cyril attempted to row, but only one oar moved. He tried to lift the other one but couldn’t. “It’s got the oar,” he cried. “That thing is eating the oar!”

  “Can’t you pull it away?” asked Sergei.

  “Have you seen the size of this fish? It must weigh over a thousand pounds. There’s no way I can get the oar from its mouth.”

  “Just keep pulling. It will have to let go eventually.”

  “I wish I had a gun,” said Cyril. His arm twitched as he struggled to hold onto the oar.

  The fish let go of the oar but not before taking a chunk out of it. Cyril set both oars down at his feet and gripped the sides of the boat. Suddenly they rose up, out of the water. The fish had swum directly under them, pushing the boat upwards. It landed back in the water with a thump.

  Cyril and Sergei were afraid to move. The fish came at them again, this time from the side, with a big whack. They rocked so violently that their hands dipped into the water. Another hit from the other side spun the boat even faster and harder. And another push from under the bottom.

  The boat pitched to one side, spilling Sergei and Cyril into the water. It drifted nearby, upside down. The oars floated past.

  “Grab them,” said Sergei. He managed to snatch one.

  Cyril swam after the other and retrieved it.

  The kaluga still moved under the capsized boat, rocking it with its fins and tail. After a few minutes, it swam downstream. Sergei and Cyril put their oars on the boat, extended their arms across the bottom, and kicked toward the riverbank.

  “Where there’s one kaluga, there are many,” said Cyril, once they’d safely reached land and secured the boat. “How will we ever get to Vladivostok if we run into more of them?”

  “We won’t,” said Sergei.

  24

  Spring/Summer 1907

  Rachel Paskar

  5 Steiner Street

  San Francisco, California

  May 17, 1907

  Dear Rachel,

  I was so relieved to get your letter and to hear that you are doing so well. And congratulations on your article in the San Francisco Bulletin! I knew you could do it and I’m sure you will be writing more stories for them soon. As for me, I have never been so convinced that I am where I should be. There are so many stories to tell, too many for the newspaper articles I write.

  Yesterday, I went to Gomel to investigate a pogrom. A mob had burned and looted the Jewish quarter and killed many residents. Thanks to you, my Russian was good enough to interview some of the victims. Their stories will stay with me for a long time. I intend to write more about them when I return to America. I also spoke to General Orlov with the Imperial Russian Army, who claimed, “The Jews burnt the city to get the insurance.” I have never seen anybody lie so easily. He was so convincing, I think he believed his own words!

  When I went to the railway station in Gomel to return to Petersburg, I was overtaken by Jews begging me to tell them how to emigrate to America. I had to drop my role of objective journalist. I was seeing these people for the last time and I felt terrible that I could not do anything to help them, but report back to America about what I’ve seen. In some strange way, I feel I belong with them.

  With fond wishes,

  Anna

  Nucia reached around a tall crystal vase with a feather duster, brushing against it by accident so that it rocked precariously back and forth on the side table. She snatched the rim just before it fell.

  “How could you be so careless?” asked Rachel. She stopped sweeping the floor beneath the window of the elegant sitting room.

  “I…I’m not feeling well.” Nucia began dusting the piano, but dropped the duster on the floor. Her face turned white and she looked like she was about to faint.

  “What’s wrong with you today?” Rachel bent down and picked up the duster.

  Nucia leaned against the piano and caressed her lower abdomen with her left hand. She gave Rachel a shy smile.

  “You and Jacob,” gasped Rachel. “A baby?”

  Nucia cast her eyes downward at her belly. “In November.” She lifted her gaze. “But it was supposed to be a surprise. Jacob and I wanted to tell you and Marty together.”

  “You know we can’t keep secrets from each other. Remember, you were the first person I told about Mikhail.”

  “I remember,” said Nucia.

  A sober look crossed each girl’s face as they recalled that moment back in Kishinev, when Rachel had told Nucia she’d seen Mikhail stabbed to death by a policeman.

  “Don’t let bad thoughts spoil this moment,” said Rachel. “I am thrilled for you and Jacob. You’re going to be parents and I shall be an aunt!” She held out her arms to embrace her sister but hesitated, unsure if this would be good for the baby.

  “I won’t break,” giggled Nucia. She opened her arms and hugged Rachel.

  “Do you think Marty will be pleased?” asked Nucia when they’d released one another.

  “I’m sure of it,” said Rachel. “He’ll be a wonderful big brother.”

  Nucia’s eyes shone. Rachel had never seen her this happy.

  “Jacob is so excited,” said Nucia. “I’ve been worried about the expense of a baby, but he says the delicatessen is doing well, and that we’ll be fine.”

  “I can hardly believe it,” said Rachel. “You will be such a good mother.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Of course. You have been so good to Marty and to me.”

  Worry creased Nucia’s face. “When the baby comes, I won’t have as much time for Marty.”

  “He’s getting bigger every day. He’ll be able to help you, and I think he’ll be glad not to have you watching over him so closely.”

  Nucia chortled. “I have been hard on him, haven’t I?”r />
  The clock in the vestibule struck four.

  ‘We’d better get back to work,” said Nucia. “Or we’ll both lose our jobs and I won’t be able to clothe my own child.”

  “Aunt Rachel,” said Rachel as she swept the floor beneath the dining table. “I like how that sounds.”

  They rushed to finish cleaning before five o’clock.

  “Very nice,” said Mrs. Solomon, when she arrived home to inspect their work. She ran a white-gloved finger across the fireplace mantle, glanced at her finger, and smiled. Her shoes squeaked on the floor as she strolled from the sitting room to the dining room to the kitchen.

  Rachel stood rigidly beside Nucia in the hall as Mrs. Solomon conducted her inspection.

  “Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Solomon from the dining room. “There seems to be dust on the shelves of my cabinet.”

  Rachel rolled her eyes. She had not dusted the shelves, since they’d been done the previous week. She hadn’t wanted to take the time to remove all the plates and bowls again.

  Mrs. Solomon appeared, holding her gloved hand out. “You didn’t dust the shelves today?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Rachel. “The windows took longer than I expected. I’ll do the shelves next week.”

  “See that you do,” said Mrs. Solomon in a tone that warned Rachel she had one chance to make this right. Mrs. Solomon opened her purse, took out a rumpled dollar bill, and handed it to Nucia.

  The second Mrs. Solomon closed the door behind them, Nucia turned to Rachel. “We must do better next week.”

  “I’ll work harder than ever,” said Rachel. “No niece or nephew of mine is going to want for anything.”

  “I am so relieved you’re happy about the baby,” said Nucia, linking her arm through Rachel’s.

  “It is the best news you’ve given me since you said you and Jacob were going to be married.”

  “I will make a special supper tonight to celebrate,” said Nucia. “Navy bean soup and fried chicken, Marty’s favorite.”

  Rachel ran her tongue over her upper lip. “Delicious—” She slapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, no! I promised Alexander I would have supper with him tonight. Our class has been canceled because the teacher is sick.”

  “Just the two of you—unchaperoned?” asked Nucia. She withdrew her arm from Rachel’s and squared her shoulders to face her sister.

  “We won’t be alone. We’ll be in a restaurant.”

  “A restaurant?”

  “Alexander has waited patiently for me to agree to go to supper with him.”

  “He is the first man you’ve shown an interest in since…”

  Nucia’s unspoken reference to Sergei hung in the air like a cloud.

  “Yes,” said Rachel, “Alexander is different, older. And he’s Jewish.”

  “I do like that about him,” said Nucia. She turned and continued walking along the sidewalk.

  “Even if he’s more of an American than a Russian?”

  “Of course I would prefer a man for you like Father, with his quiet ways and unbreakable faith. But even Jacob, who often reminds me of Father, has changed since we came here.”

  “Maybe Jacob doesn’t pray every Friday night, or obey all the laws of the Sabbath,” said Rachel, “but he is still the same man, with the same integrity and love for you.”

  “True,” said Nucia. “And he will be a good father.”

  “The very best.”

  They had reached their building. Rachel bounded up the stairs first and said hello to Marty. Contrite since being punished for going to the boxing match, he sat quietly doing his lessons at the table. Rachel grabbed the clothes that Nucia had made for her and went into the hall bathroom to change.

  She put on the blue skirt that fell to her ankles, and her muslin blouse, which she buttoned right up to her neck. Fitted at the waist, it gave her an hour-glass silhouette. She ran a brush through her hair and pinched her cheeks to give them color. Then she set her hat on her head and returned to her room.

  Fifteen minutes later, a tapping sounded at the door. Nucia, her face flushed from cooking, stirred a pot of navy bean soup on the stove. Rachel opened the door and gestured for Alexander to come inside. Nucia set down her wooden spoon and wiped her hands on her apron.

  “Good to see you again, Nucia,” said Alexander.

  Nucia wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “Rachel tells me you are taking her to a restaurant.”

  “Can I come?” Marty chirped from the table. “I promise I’ll be good.”

  “Not this time, I’m afraid,” said Alexander. He reached into his pocket. “Rachel tells me you like chocolate.” He held out an entire Hershey’s chocolate bar.

  Marty jumped off his chair and darted over to Alexander.

  “Not so fast,” said Alexander. “I was hoping you could share this with Nucia and Jacob.”

  “How kind of you,” said Nucia, moving away from the stove.

  “It will be perfect for your surprise,” said Rachel to Nucia.

  “What surprise?” asked Marty.

  “Wait until Jacob gets home,” said Rachel. “He wants to tell you himself.”

  “I can’t wait that long,” moaned Marty.

  “You have lots of sentences to write for school,” said Nucia, looking over his notebook. “That will keep you busy until Jacob gets home.”

  Alexander handed the chocolate bar to Nucia. “I think this will be safer with you.”

  “Thank you,” said Nucia. “This will be an extra special treat tonight.”

  “We should get going,” said Rachel.

  “You’ll be home right after dinner?” asked Nucia.

  “Yes.” Rachel gave her sister a re-assuring smile and opened the door.

  “Are you going to come back soon, Alexander?” Marty called out as the door closed.

  Rachel poked her head in. “I’m sure he will.” Then she shut the door and lifted her skirt to descend the three flights of stairs. She stepped forward but the toe of her pointy shoe caught the hem of her skirt. She braced her arms to regain her balance but began to topple forward.

  Alexander, standing behind her, grabbed her waist with both hands and pulled her back until both feet were on the stairs.

  “These miserable shoes,” said Rachel, re-arranging her hat, now perched at an awkward angle. Alexander’s hands were still around her waist. “They pinch my feet and the heel is too high. I’d much rather be in bare feet.”

  Alexander released her waist but held her arm as they continued down the stairs. Rachel lifted her skirt so high her long black stockings were clearly visible.

  They reached ground level and emerged onto the street. The ever-present fog blanketed the sky. Alexander led the way to Powell where they took the trolley north to Broadway. The driver clanged the bell at every stop along the way, and the trolley became crowded.

  Alexander draped his arm over Rachel’s shoulder. She liked the nearness of him, how he could be so close without making her feel suffocated. And she liked how she could be herself with him. They exchanged contented smiles before gazing out the window. His close presence made Rachel shiver.

  “Something wrong?” asked Alexander.

  “Just a bit chilly.”

  He pulled Rachel closer to him, sending warmth throughout her body.

  The trolley jerked to a stop at Broadway.

  “This is where we get off,” said Alexander.

  Alexander laced his fingers through Rachel’s and they walked east for two blocks. Alexander stopped in front of a lavish two-story building with a glass front at the corner of Broadway and Kearny. “This is it, my favorite Italian restaurant.”

  “It looks terribly expensive,” said Rachel. The restaurant, located in a well-appointed brick building, had a large window at the front and fancy letters in the sign
above.

  “I’m paying,” said Alexander. He opened the door for Rachel.

  She stepped back.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “I don’t want you to spend so much money on me, and I can’t afford such a fine restaurant.”

  He let go of the door. “I work, remember? I want to take you here.”

  Rachel didn’t budge. An older couple emerged from the restaurant, talking and laughing, and headed down the street.

  “Sometimes you have to let people do nice things for you,” said Alexander.

  Rachel looked unconvinced.

  “You’d be doing me a favor. I can’t eat alone in a restaurant. I’d look like an idiot.”

  Rachel chuckled. “I wouldn’t want that.” She reached for the door. Alexander beat her to it and held it open. Inside, a white world greeted them—white tablecloths, linen napkins, and candles. The staff was dressed in crisp white uniforms. The place smelled of garlic and fresh tomatoes.

  “I’m afraid to touch anything,” Rachel confessed, once they were seated at a table for two in the middle of the airy room. “Everything is so neat and clean.”

  Alexander unfolded his napkin with a flick of his wrist and set it on his lap. Rachel tried to do the same thing, but hit her right hand on the table when she flicked her wrist. She peeked left and right to see if anybody had noticed, and clutched her throbbing wrist with her other hand. Alexander, his eyes dancing with amusement, handed Rachel his napkin, picked hers up from the floor, and arranged it on his lap.

  The tables surrounding them were filling up with people who looked at ease in their formal attire.

  “I don’t think I should be here,” said Rachel in a low, urgent voice.

  “Nonsense,” said Alexander. “This is exactly where you belong.”

  A silver-haired waiter with a bland expression arrived with their fancy menus. Rachel studied the various options: fish in butter sauce, clams and mussels in broth, cabbage, bread and cheese, soup…

  “What are Sand Dabs?” she asked Alexander.

  “Small fish that come right out of the Pacific Ocean,” he replied. “They’re really good.”

  “Oh. And linguini?” she asked, pronouncing the word incorrectly as “lingineye.”