Rachel's Hope Read Online Free Page A

he said genially once the door had closed behind Sergei. “You are welcome here.”
    Sergei nodded and studied the cluttered room. A long table, strewn with newspapers, dominated the space. A worn sofa stood in one corner, and shelves, stuffed with books and magazines, lined two entire walls from floor to ceiling. Sergei moved closer and peered at a couple of revolutionary titles: The Vagrant by Vladimir Korolenko and The Lower Depths by Maxim Gorky.
    â€œYou’re a writer?” asked Sergei.
    â€œGuilty,” answered Gorky. He clasped his hands behind his back.
    â€œAren’t you worried the police will discover these books?”
    â€œI’ve been arrested and imprisoned so many times I’ve lost count,” Gorky said with indifference. He unclasped his hands and stroked his moustache. He picked out his own work, The Lower Depths, and thumbed through its pages.
    â€œYou like to read?” Gorky asked Sergei.
    â€œI read when I can,” Sergei replied.
    Gorky handed the book to Sergei. “You must always make time to read, or you will grow stale and ignorant.”
    Sergei leafed through the book, read a couple of paragraphs, but his eyes were too tired to focus. The words blurred on the page.
    The door opened, letting in a gust of cold air. A familiar voice boomed: “Well, now, here’s a face I never thought I’d see again.”
    Sergei lifted his head and saw Boris Savinkov standing in the doorway, holding a bulging satchel over his shoulder. Savinkov, a small, compact man with a perfectly groomed moustache, had been the leader of the Combat Organization in St. Petersburg. He was the one who had arranged the assassination of Viacheslav von Plehve, the anti-Semitic Minister of the Interior.
    â€œHow…Where…” Stunned to see his former comrade, Sergei could not string together a clear sentence.
    Savinkov grinned and shut the door. He lumbered over to the shelves and dropped the satchel. “Almost didn’t recognize you with the whiskers,” he said to Sergei. He rubbed his hands together and inspected Sergei’s face. “It suits you, the beard.”
    Sergei’s heart lurched. His father had been called “the Beard” because of his long whiskers. It was hard for Sergei to think about his father.
    â€œI see that introductions are unnecessary,” said Gorky. He yanked open the satchel and pulled out a bundle of newspapers.
    â€œWe know each other well,” said Savinkov. “We even know each other’s secrets, don’t we, Sergei?”
    â€œI wish I’d never met you,” said Sergei in a curt tone, annoyed about Savinkov’s obvious allusion to his part in the von Plehve assassination.
    Savinkov feigned dismay. “Surely you don’t hold your own actions against me?”
    â€œWe went too far,” said Sergei. “Innocent people were killed because of your decision to use a bomb.”
    â€œMuch as I’m enjoying this heartfelt reunion,” Gorky interjected, “I suggest we drop the past and focus on the future.”
    â€œOutstanding idea.” Savinkov poured himself a glass of vodka and sat down at the table.
    Gorky and Savinkov inspected the newspapers, ignoring Sergei. Sergei glanced at the door. He could leave and never see Savinkov again. Except he had nowhere to go, no money, and his injured arm ached.
    â€œAre you just going to stand there all night?” said Gorky, interrupting Sergei’s train of thought. He gestured for Sergei to join them.
    Sergei walked slowly to the table and glanced at the newspaper, Iskra, Russian for spark .
    â€œFrom a spark, a flame will be kindled,” explained Gorky. “That’s Iskra’s motto.”
    â€œThis newspaper supports our movement,” added Savinkov. “The tsar’s secret police have been trying to stop it from being published for ages. We print it in Switzerland and we are just starting to