Rachel's Hope Read Online Free

from the train appeared from the station and gave Sergei a look of annoyance. The skin beneath his eyes was shadowed and wrinkled. “Where have you been? I’ve been searching all over for you?”
    â€œDo you know him?” asked the officer, shaking Sergei when he spoke.
    â€œHe’s my nephew, Yuri Brovkin,” said the old man. “And I am Dimitry Kalyayev.”
    The officer examined Sergei and the old man, as if he were trying to find a resemblance between them. “Why weren’t you with him?”
    â€œHe was asleep when we arrived, so I woke him and told him to meet me on the platform,” Dimitry replied.
    â€œWhere are you headed?” asked the officer.
    â€œHere, Moscow.” Dimitry handed the officer some money, a bribe.
    The officer glared at Sergei.
    Dimitry handed the officer more money.
    Sergei held his breath.
    The officer shoved Sergei toward the old man. “Keep an eye on him,” he said. “Next time I might not be so kind.”
    The officer mounted the horse and rode off, kicking the animal’s sides with a vehemence that made Sergei’s insides prickle.
    â€œWhy did you help me?” Sergei asked Dimitry when they were alone.
    â€œI recognized you from the photo in the newspaper.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    The old man removed a folded newspaper from under his arm and pointed to an article about the Combat Organization’s activities, with members’ names beside their photos. Sergei’s identification photo from the factory had been published, a grainy picture showing his black hair and defiant expression. Though Sergei now wore a beard, Dimitry had recognized him.
    â€œIf I were a younger man,” said Dimitry, “I’d be the first to join the Combat Organization.”
    â€œWhat am I going to do?” gasped Sergei. “Where will I go?”
    Dimitry ripped a page of the newspaper, scribbled something in the margin, and handed it to Sergei. “Go here. It’s a safe house with other revolutionaries.”
    Sergei examined the address and crude map Dimitry had drawn of Moscow, a succession of concentric rings with the Kremlin and Moskva River in the center.
    â€œHow do I know I can trust you?”
    â€œWhat other choice do you have?” Dimitry turned and started to walk away. The light from kerosene lanterns hanging from poles above him cast a warm glow on his silhouette.
    Sergei watched Dimitry disappear into the intricate fabric of Moscow. He peered at the map and headed south, toward the factory district, crossing a bridge over the Moskva River. The water was dark as slate, with buildings mirrored on the surface. The cold air stung the tops of Sergei’s ears and his cheeks.
    After walking for a half hour, Sergei found himself in an area with small factories and narrow streets. He made his way to Volgogradsku Prospekt and located villa number six, a brightly lit, two-story wood house. The surrounding houses were dark and foreboding in comparison. Sergei raised his hand to knock on the door, and hesitated. Why would a house of revolutionaries be lit up? He checked the number again. Six. Clenching his jaw, he tapped lightly on the door.
    A broad-shouldered man in his late thirties with a chunky moustache opened the door. He wore a white shirt with a high, stiff collar, gray trousers, and tall black boots. His pomaded hair was combed back over his head.
    â€œI’m Sergei Khazhenkov. I’ve come from the factory demonstrations in Petersburg,” said Sergei. “Dimitry Kalyayev told me to come here.”
    The man scrutinized him intensely making Sergei regret his decision to trust a stranger. Sergei stepped back. “I’m sorry—”
    The man’s eyes, small and dark like coal, rested on Sergei’s injured arm and softened with compassion. “Enter.” He opened the door wider and ushered Sergei inside.
    â€œI’m Gorky, Maxim Gorky,”