Read Rachel's Hope for Free Online Page B

piece,” said Mr. Bloom to his wife. “He’s a growing boy.”
    â€œOr two big pieces,” said Menahem, now known as Marty. “I think I feel a lot of growing inside me today.”
    â€œDon’t be greedy, Menahem,” said Nucia.
    Menahem eyed her expectantly.
    â€œI mean Marty.”
    Rachel laughed, along with everybody else. But later that night, when she tucked the boy into his improvised bed, she noticed how much he had changed since she first met him in Kishinev. She saw how the bones in his face were more prominent, how his eyes had taken on a permanent look of skepticism, how fear and tragedy had left their imprint on him. In a way, she felt as if she was saying good-bye to Menahem, to the little boy she knew in Russia. Though it saddened her, calling him Marty for the next chapter in his life made perfect sense.
    âš“ ⚓ ⚓
    Rachel yawned. It was after eight o’clock and raindrops pelted the window like stones. She recited the sentence written on the blackboard at the front of the room in the First Chinese Baptist Church, which held free English classes for new immigrants. Nucia sat in the desk beside her. Jacob, exhausted from his long day of delivering heavy barrels of food to stores, had remained at home with Marty.
    The teacher, a plump woman with lemon-yellow hair tied in a severe bun and skin as white as cotton, asked Rachel to read the English sentence she had written on the blackboard.
    â€œIn the summer, fog comes in the afternoon,” Rachel said aloud.
    â€œDo you understand what this means?” asked the teacher.
    â€œYes,” answered Rachel.
    â€œVery good,” said the teacher with a satisfied smile.
    Rachel took a deep breath and watched as the teacher wrote another sentence on the board. A scrawny young man with pockmarked skin read this one out loud, pausing between each word. “It does not snow in San Francisco.”
    The teacher praised the man and asked the students if they liked snow. Rachel craned her neck to see if any of the twenty students would answer. The whole idea of voicing opinions in class still seemed odd to her. In Russia, teachers spoke and students listened. Personal views didn’t matter unless you were a grown man. To speak your mind as a student had not been acceptable.
    â€œNucia?” asked the teacher.
    Nucia clenched her hands and blushed. “I miss the snow,” she said, her voice faltering between each word.
    â€œAnd?” The teacher raised her brow.
    â€œI like to slide down the hill of snow. It is fun.”
    The teacher nodded and crossed her arms over her chest.
    â€œI like to make balls of snow and throw them,” said Rachel, when the teacher looked at her.
    Laughter rang out through the class and people began speaking excitedly, some in their own languages and others in English. Rachel listened to the people speaking English, pleased to find she understood what they were saying. Every day, after cleaning the Haas home, she poured over the newspaper, the San Francisco Call , with a dictionary she’d borrowed from Mrs. Bloom. At first, it had taken more than an hour to read and understand one article. Now, she could read three or four articles quite fast and only used the dictionary for big words.
    â€œOne at a time,” the teacher said, raising both arms like an orchestra conductor. The skin under her arms jiggled as she moved.
    The laughter quieted.
    â€œI like to skate on the river in the winter,” said a girl about the same age as Rachel.
    Rachel’s stomach curdled. The image of Mikhail skating alone on the river that fateful day so long ago in Kishinev cut into her thoughts like a sword. She saw his pale face as he skated backwards, away from her. Later, when she returned to the river for her shawl, she had seen him being stabbed to death by a policeman. Mikhail lying in his own blood. Nausea gripped her throat and she grew pale.
    â€œRachel,” asked