Rachel's Hope Read Online Free PDF Page A

Romania, Germany, England, and Poland. Sometimes, when I walk through the market and hear so many different languages, I’m not sure where I am!
    Though the people living in our house are kind, I am reluctant to get close to anyone. I dread the thought of having to say good-bye to friends again. I still feel sad at having to leave Shprintze in Shanghai, and you know how hard it was to abandon Chaia in Kishinev. I will forever remember her, and often wonder if she ever recovered from her injuries from the riot.
    I am grateful to have a roof over my head, but will not feel like an American until we live in our own home. Here, in this boarding house, people are coming and going at all times of the day, and there is a sense of impermanence.
    This is the most I’ve written since arriving! After working twelve hours a day, cleaning a house that is so big my voice echoes when I speak and attending classes three nights a week to learn English, I am too tired to even think about writing. I long to read English better, without having to look up words every minute. I long for the time to write about this vibrant city where Jews live peacefully alongside gentiles, where some Jews are prominent businessmen, where potential seems to be limited only by ambition. Would you believe that the mayor of San Francisco is Jewish?
    Menahem is doing well but struggling to be accepted. He is in a school attended by students from many countries, so that he gets to know different children. Spring Valley School was built during the gold rush in California. Menahem thinks there is still much gold to be found here. He says that one day he’s going to find it and buy an automobile for me with the money he gets! I tell him that he can make me just as happy by learning English and staying in school.
    You would prosper here. I’m as sure of this as I am of being blown over by a stiff breeze. The wind here is fierce, and the chilly days as gray as tobacco smoke. Yet geraniums thrive in this climate, blooming in vivid reds and pinks that remind me of Russian wild flowers.
    I miss you, Sergei, and worry that we may never see one another again, separated as we are by such a big ocean. I hope you’re well. Please write me as soon as you get this letter.
    As ever,
    Rachel
    P.S. Menahem wants me to tell you that some day he’s going to drive with you in an automobile (like the picture he has drawn for you)! I hope his wish comes true.
    Rachel chewed on her bottom lip to keep from laughing out loud. She’d come to Marks Brothers Ladies Wear and Children’s Wear on Fillmore Street, to choose American clothes for Menahem. He had grown out of all his trousers and shirts, and Nucia was too busy with work to make new ones for him. But seeing Menahem now, in a boy’s white sailor suit with pink trim, Rachel thought seriously about begging Nucia to make his clothes.
    â€œI look like a girl,” complained Menahem. He tugged at the sailor collar and crossed his legs in a failed attempt to hide the knickerbockers that went to his knees. Long socks, which emphasized his skinny legs, completed the outfit. His hair had been cut short, to the base of his neck, and his face had a healthy glow.
    â€œThis is what all the young boys wear,” said Mr. Marks, the store owner.
    â€œDo the boys at school dress like this?” Rachel asked Menahem.
    â€œSome do,” admitted Menahem. “But I’m not going to school dressed this way.”
    â€œIt doesn’t really suit him,” said Rachel to Mr. Marks. “Do you have anything else?”
    Mr. Marks scratched the top of his head and adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles. “Older boys wear breeches and tunics.”
    Rachel shrugged her shoulders and opened her palms, showing that she had no idea what he meant.
    Mr. Marks disappeared into the racks of boys’ clothing. A woman carrying an armload of clothing bumped into Rachel. The store was teeming with shoppers