Rachel's Hope by Shelly Sanders

empty muslin bag from his left shoulder to his right and peered at the couple on the grass. Wrapped up in each other, they took no notice of him. The family with the little girls had vanished. Most important, there were no policemen or Cossacks anywhere in sight.
    With his heart pounding against his chest, Sergei moved stealthily downhill to the riverbank. He sat waiting, as instructed by Gorky, facing the river. From the opposite bank, came a whistle and the sound of a train departing Kiyevskiy Station. Mosquitoes circled his head coming closer, until it sounded as if they were in his ears. He swatted at them, a futile exercise, as he could not see the insects in the dark. He felt a sting on his neck and slapped his skin.
    â€œDammit,” said Sergei. He got to his feet and moved sideways to get away from the cloud of mosquitoes.
    As he flailed at the pesky bugs, he noticed a figure coming toward him. Sergei did not realize the figure clad in dark clothing was a woman until she drew near. In the moonlight, he saw fragments of her as she came closer—a long black dress, gray hair, parted in the middle, held in a bun, arched eyebrows over shrewd eyes.
    As she stood in front of Sergei, he was struck by the serenity in her face. Though he knew many women were risking their lives and freedom by distributing the contraband Iskra , it still shocked him to see one now.
    â€œ Matushka ,” said Sergei to the woman. Mother . This was the password he had to give in order to receive the newspapers.
    The woman held out a satchel as dark as her dress. Sergei handed her his empty bag and took her heavy satchel, weighed down with copies of the latest edition of Iskra . The woman turned and walked alongside the river, disappearing into the shadows like a ghost. Sergei slung the bag over his right shoulder and climbed up to the street. The strap dug into his shoulder. He wondered how far the woman had carried it.
    A policeman, smacking his club into his hand, paced up and down the sidewalk, on the lookout for trouble or vagrants. The officer stopped when Sergei appeared.
    Sergei looked him in the eye. “Good evening.”
    The officer scrutinized him, his eyes lingering on the satchel.
    Sergei started to open his mouth, to offer a false explanation for the satchel’s contents. Then he remembered Savinkov’s warning not to offer any information unless requested. Sergei pressed his lips together. A drop of perspiration from his forehead fell onto the bridge of his nose.
    After what seemed like an eternity, the officer nodded at him and continued down the street. Sergei resisted the very strong urge to run as fast as possible. Instead, he walked slowly in the opposite direction.
    âš“ ⚓ ⚓
    Two weeks later, Sergei tried to push through the angry mob that blocked the road like a brick wall. He gave up and retreated to another street less crowded with strikers. There were so many Moscow factories on strike it was hard to tell where one ended and another began. Protesters flowed together like the current of a turbulent river, moving steadily and quickly over the ground. Thirty thousand workers were now on strike in Moscow, demanding better living conditions and a democratic government. This differed from the Petersburg strikes where workers were asking for better wages and working conditions within factories.
    His stomach grumbled as he moved past the closed-down shops with empty shelves. Windows were varnished with frost. Winter would be here soon, bringing its usual bitter cold and blustery wind. Sergei felt dizzy and leaned against a telegraph pole until the spinning subsided. Food had been scarce since the railway workers’ strike. Supplies couldn’t get into the city. Shops had been drained of food, clothing, and necessities. The lack of medicine forced the hospital to close.
    â€œShut down the government…down with the tsar…we want the right to vote…give us a Duma with actual