Rachel's Hope by Shelly Sanders Page A

permission to go to university, or to travel without a note from my father.”
    â€œRussia is not safe now,” Nucia added. “Especially for Jews.”
    â€œNucia’s right,” said Rachel. “I just read in the San Francisco Call that there were riots in fifty Russian villages in April. More than five hundred Jews were killed. And I hear that the police and the Cossacks are shooting people in Petersburg just because they are asking for better working conditions and better wages. Will you be safe there?”
    â€œI’m a journalist,” said Anna. “The Russian authorities know better than to go after an American reporter.”
    â€œI want to be a journalist like you. But first I have to learn to write better in English and finish school,” said Rachel.
    Anna laughed. “You know, we can help each other out.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œI need to work on my Russian,” Anna continued, “and I will help you with your English.”
    â€œI would like that.”
    â€œLet’s meet tomorrow night at Coppa’s on Montgomery Street.”
    â€œI will find it,” said Rachel.
    â€œSeven o’clock.” Anna got to her feet. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    Rachel and Nucia continued down the bleachers.
    â€œI think she’s crazy to go to Russia,” said Nucia.
    â€œI like her,” said Rachel. “I’m glad I fell on her today.”

5
    N ervous about her meeting with Anna, Rachel’s hand shook as she opened the door of Coppa’s. A dense, smoky light assaulted her eyes when she stepped into the overcrowded café, and spirited voices rang out from every corner. Biting her lip, Rachel stood by the door and scanned the place to find Anna.
    Anna, sitting at a small table, beckoned for her to come over. Rachel made her way through the cluttered restaurant.
    â€œYou’re here,” said Anna, rising to greet Rachel. Anna looked like the women on the cover of fashion magazines in her long skirt, the color of fresh grass, belted around her tiny waist, and her butter-yellow blouse adorned with small, white buttons.
    Rachel nodded and crossed her arms so that her hands covered the mended holes on both elbows of her sweater. She sat across from Anna and suddenly felt shy. A glass of tea appeared in front of Rachel. She took a sip and savored the warm chai as it trickled down her throat.
    â€œI’m so happy you came,” said Anna. She reached down and pulled out a stack of newspapers from her satchel. “I thought we could start your English lesson with some of these articles.” She passed one to Rachel.
    â€œFree Russia,” said Rachel, reading the sizeable headline. “What does it mean, Friends of Russian Freedom?”
    â€œThat’s the group that publishes this English newspaper every month,” explained Anna. She sipped her tea. “We’re fighting for the Russian people’s right to freedom and self-government.”
    Rachel turned these words over in her mind. “Why do people in America care about the Russian people?”
    â€œBecause we read with horror about the lives of Russian peasants, how they work hard all their lives, yet end up with nothing. We hear about the factory workers’ strikes for better working conditions and how they are killed by the tsar’s soldiers. And we hear about the terrible massacres of Jews in cities and small towns.”
    â€œThat is why we left,” said Rachel. “There was a massacre in my town of Kishinev. Many Jews were killed or hurt, including my best friend. My father was killed. Our home was destroyed.”
    Anna covered her mouth with both hands and gaped at Rachel. “I’m so sorry.”
    â€œI can talk about it now without falling to pieces,” said Rachel. Her eyes took on a faraway look. “But when I found my father…” she shuddered. “I didn’t think I could go on living after