Yuri Fedorcenko had grown accustomed to death and dying. He was even used to the shortages of the most basic medical supplies. But what he would never become hardened to—at least he hoped it would never happen—was the despair that daily surrounded him. The wretched stare of a mother who knew she was completely helpless to prevent her family’s starvation, or the forlorn eyes of a child who has lost his innocence, along with the childish concept of his parents’ invincibility. And, worse yet, the abject misery of men broken by war and famine and total loss of control over their own destinies.
It was, of course, the men to whom Yuri most related. Some days he felt as broken as the worst of them. He felt as if he were being carried along by a raging river, clinging to a thin chunk of bark—that alone keeping him from being sucked under the relentless current. If only he could staunch the wild flow, or at least climb, even for a brief moment, to the muddy shore.
Just a moment’s rest—
Then he reminded himself that rest was the last thing he wanted. Not a night had passed since Rasputin’s death, and especially since Andrei’s death, that had not been shattered by nightmares. He dreaded sleep, and only his exhaustion at the end of fifteen-hour days—and many nights on call in the hospital—forced him to face his bed at all. The fact that his days were often waking nightmares did not help.
He wanted desperately to find hope, a small primrose among the ashes of a dying world. He longed for even a fraction of his mother’s faith. He did not know why he could not find in God the comforter she had surely found during these days of grief. His faith had never been as strong as that of his parents, but now the gulf separating him from God was nearly insurmountable. Only nearly . . . ? Then perhaps he was able to concede some hope after all. Perhaps if he prayed harder or went to Mass more often. He had tried to talk to Daniel a few times, but Yuri had a hard time accepting his brother-in-law’s simple assurance of God’s grace. Absolution could not be that simple. One must suffer. But perhaps that was only the Russian way. What if the way to God was indeed as unencumbered as Daniel, and even his own mother, tried to tell him? What if—
“Dr. Fedorcenko!” A nurse hurried up to Yuri, who was standing at the nurse’s station making notes in a patient’s chart.
“Yes, Sister.”
“There is a man in Ward Three asking for you. He is quite agitated and insistent—”
“A man? A young man? Who—?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see him. The head nurse just sent me to fetch you—”
Before she could finish, Yuri was hurrying down the corridor. He bypassed the elevator that was slow and often malfunctioning, like most machines in Russia these days. He went instead to the stairwell, flung open the door, and raced up the steps two at a time. He knew it was irrational but he could not help himself. All reason and medical knowledge told him Andrei could not have survived the blizzard that night with his wounds. Yet Yuri still found himself hoping—ah, maybe he wasn’t as dead inside as he feared! He scrutinized anyone coming into the hospital who even vaguely resembled his brother. Even on the street his heart would leap at the sight of a large man. It was possible Andrei might have been found and taken to another hospital in the city as an “Ivanov,” an unidentified indigent. Daniel had revealed that after entering Russia Andrei had given his travel papers over to Daniel. He had feared being caught on the streets teeming with revolution carrying the diplomatic documents Daniel had arranged for him and being mistaken as an envoy of the tsar. As far as Daniel knew, those had been the only identifying papers Andrei had.
Yuri rushed into Ward Three, then slowed in order to collect himself. He was still the Chief of Surgery and must at least make an attempt at decorum.
Sister Elizabeth came to him as he entered. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Doctor. It really wasn’t an emergency, however—”
“Where is he?” Yuri broke in, eyes anxiously scanning the ward.
The nurse nodded toward a curtained bed. Yuri now noted two guards, wearing the insignia of the Provisional Government, standing in front of the curtain. Yuri strode to the bed and pulled aside the curtain.
“I said I wanted privacy!” came a harsh, vaguely familiar voice from the bed.
Yuri saw that it was indeed a large man on the bed—but not the man he hoped for. It was instead his grandfather’s cousin, Count Cyril Vlasenko.
“Oh, it’s you, then,” said the count. “It’s about time.”
Yuri swallowed his disappointment and tried hard not to replace it with ire toward this man, his family’s perpetual enemy. He reminded himself that Vlasenko was now a fallen man—a prisoner of the Provisional Government, which explained the guards. It was a miracle that Vlasenko was still alive.
“So, Count Vlasenko,” Yuri said coolly, “what brings you to this humble hospital?”
“They wouldn’t take me to my son’s hospital. The idiots feared it would be too easy for him to aid my escape. Little do they know my son. If I did intend to escape, he’d be the last person I’d rely on for assistance. Anyway, if I had to come here, I wanted to be certain I received decent care.”
“So, you requested me?”
Vlasenko shrugged. “You had the confidence of the tsar. That’s good enough for me.”
Rather than attempt to discern the count’s possible ulterior motives, Yuri decided to take the man at face value. He really didn’t care about Vlasenko’s motives, anyway. “What seems to be the problem, Count—the medical problem, that is?”
“Chest pains.”
“Have you experienced them before?”
“Occasionally. Nothing to speak of, though. My son diagnosed them as indigestion.”
“I see.” Yuri listened to Vlasenko’s heart with his stethoscope and detected a slight arrhythmia. “Tell me about the pain.”
“Like a blow to my chest, right here.” He laid his fist over his sternum. “I could hardly move my left arm as well, and I had a devil of a time breathing. It has subsided a bit now.”
“Your symptoms are classic angina pectoris.”
“Angina—what?”
“Simply put, it is a disease affecting the arteries of the heart muscle. They become clogged. It is sometimes referred to as fatty heart.”
“And I suppose you will now browbeat me about my diet and weight,” groused Vlasenko.
“You no doubt have far greater things to worry about now, Count,” Yuri replied with just a hint of sarcasm. “And it is most likely those very worries that brought on this attack. Your weight and diet are, to be sure, contributing factors.”
“So, what can you do about it? I don’t like my accommodations at the Tauride Palace, locked into a basement room, but I like even less this bed and this hospital.”
In such cases morphine was often prescribed for relief of the pain, but Yuri did not intend to waste even a quarter grain of the precious medicine on Vlasenko, especially since he was obviously over the extremes of the seizure.
“I’m going to prescribe nitroglycerin.” Yuri picked up Vlasenko’s chart and wrote as he spoke. “This is only to be taken during an attack. One tablet by mouth. Let it melt slowly under your tongue. But I must tell you, Count, that there is little else to be done for you. I’ve known patients to live for years with such attacks. On the other hand, the next attack might well be your last—that is, it could kill you.” Yuri did not relish these words as much as he thought he might. “You must do what you can to reduce stress—”
“Ha! Then I am a dead man for certain.”
“You have survived this long, Vlasenko. Only those whom the gods love die young.”
“I am hardly young.”
“My point exactly!” Yuri smiled. “I’ll have the nurse make up a prescription for you, then you can be on your way.”
“So soon?”
“I thought you didn’t like this place.”
“Well . . . listen here, Fedorcenko—” Vlasenko crooked his finger, motioning for Yuri to lean closer to him. When Yuri did so, Vlasenko continued in a whisper, “Our families may have our differences, but the truth is, Yuri Sergeiovich, that our political sympathies are not all that far apart. You were a physician to the tsar, and, rumor has it, you were an accomplice in the assassination of Rasputin, which even I realize was done in an attempt, however misguided, to save the Crown. You took a great risk in the interest of the tsar.”
“What are you getting at, Vlasenko?”
“There is still hope of putting the tsar back on the throne—”
“There is a large contingent of loyal monarchists out there who need but a leader to rouse them. If I were free, I could be that man. We could mount a counter-coup against that ruffian Kerensky and his gang.”
“And you want my services in assisting your escape?”
“Why not? You had the courage to kill Rasputin. You are loyal to the tsar—”
“Really, Count, I believe the blood has not only been cut off from your heart, but from your head as well. The monarchy is gone, and the sooner we accept that, the better off Russia will be.”
“I will never accept it. And it is because of apathy such as yours that Russia crumbled in the first place.”
“I take full responsibility,” Yuri said dryly. “Now, I will be discharging you, Count. My medical advice to you is to abstain from counter-coups and the like. They would not be good for your health.”
Followed by a loud disgruntled curse from Vlasenko, Yuri stepped around the curtain and, pausing before one of the guards, said, “Citizen Vlasenko can leave the hospital as soon as the nurse gives him his prescription.”
Yuri left the ward feeling almost amused at the encounter with his relative. Counter-coup indeed! Vlasenko’s mental facilities must be one kopeck short of a ruble. Yuri did feel a bit sorry for the man, too. Vlasenko had lost everything in the revolution. Besides his position, his power, his ambition, there was nothing else to Vlasenko. Though he still blustered and bullied, he was a very broken man, as much as any other man Yuri might lament. As much as himself—more so, really. And that revelation was quite astounding to Yuri. Though Yuri had lost much, suffered much, he had not lost all. He still had a supportive family, a loving wife, and his own personal honor and integrity. The essential person he was, even if he might at times fear otherwise, was still alive. At least he had to believe that. He had to!
“Yuri!”
For a moment he thought his imagination was playing tricks on him. The voice calling his name was one he loved above all. But she never came to the hospital.
“Katya! Whatever are you doing here? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, dear,” she quickly assured him as she hurried close to him.
He reached out and took his wife in his arms, not caring that he was the Chief of Surgery and was standing in the middle of a hospital corridor. His arms trembled with a passion that surprised even him. If he had been praying just then, he would have known her to be the answer to that prayer.
“Well, well,” she teased, “if I’d known I’d receive a reception like this, I would have come here more often.”
“I realize now, you are the primrose—”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll tell you later. But first, why have you come? There must be something amiss.”
She smiled that mysterious, childish, petulant smile that had won his heart three years ago. “I have been sent to take you away from all this.” He gave her a puzzled scowl and she continued, “Your mother told me to pry you from this hospital even if I had to gag and bind you. It’s time for a holiday.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“The family is having a bit of an outing, and it would not be complete, especially for me, if you were not there.”
“Where? Why?” He felt foolish. These days “outings” and “holidays” were about as foreign to him and most Russians as apple pie and those American hot dogs Daniel was so fond of.
“It’s the children’s fault, really,” said Katya. “They get a little candy in their tummies and suddenly think there should be a party. They wanted to go ice skating. And your mama said, ‘Why not?’ And to all of our surprise, none of us could think of a good reason not to go. No one has skated all winter, and soon the ice will melt and the chance will be lost. So, everyone has gone to their favorite ice pond, and I was sent to fetch you.”
“It sounds wonderful, but I can’t just . . . leave.” He paused and suddenly caught his wife’s enthusiasm. “Can I?”
“You must because I don’t know where this secret family ice pond is, and I need you to guide me there.”
“Well—”
She looked at him with beguiling, imploring eyes. She was probably more beautiful now, seasoned as she was by adversity, than when he had first met her at Felix Youssoupov’s engagement party. The depth of character she had tried so to hide back then had now been allowed to flower and grow. She was now all the woman he had desired then, and she was certainly far more than he probably deserved.
“I suppose I could get away for a couple of hours. But my skates—”
Katya triumphantly held up a shopping bag he had only vaguely noticed before. “I’m prepared.”
“Then let me tell someone and we can be off.”