“Yes,” said Andrei eagerly.
“I don’t know,” breathed Yuri at the same time.
“I believe you can.”
“I will try.”
“I can expect no more from you. We will trust God to take care of the rest.” Sergei laid a hand on Yuri’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “I have no doubt about either of you.”
“Then do tell us!” urged Andrei.
For the next fifteen minutes, Sergei told his sons all about the Fedorcenko family. He told them about their grandparents and great-grandparents. He told them how his father had earned the prestigious Order of St. Andrew in the Crimean War. Then, in a more somber tone, he told of his own place in that great Russian family and why he now lived as a fugitive.
“I’m not proud of the things I did, and that you, my family, must also suffer because of it. Your mother chose to follow me into this life, but you . . . I’m sorry you never had that kind of choice.”
“Do you mean, Papa, that we are princes?” asked Yuri, confusion more than awe dominating his tone. “I’ve seen members of the nobility ride around the streets in their fancy carriages, looking down on the rest of us. Are you saying that could have been us?”
“I would hope that you would not have been arrogant and prideful,” answered Sergei. “But if my book had not been censored and I hadn’t been exiled to Siberia, I might not have met my God in a personal way, and I might not have been able to pass my faith on to you. Not that you might not have found humility through faith in some other way.”
“Well, I’m glad all that happened,” declared Andrei. “I’m glad we aren’t of the nobility and hated by the peasants. You were right not to want anything to do with all that. I don’t either. We’ve always been happy as we are.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Sergei glanced at Yuri as he spoke. His oldest son had been too quiet since his first statement. “We have been content as we are.” Sergei looked at Yuri as he spoke. “We can’t do anything to change it. If I publicly claimed my rightful place as my father’s son, I could be arrested again.”
“Then why did you tell us, Papa?” asked Yuri.
“I don’t know. I just felt it was time. I never liked keeping secrets from you, especially one that so deeply involved you. You have a right to know who you are. Also, you will be going away to school, meeting many new people. Questions might be raised, and it seemed best that you hear it from me and not some stranger.”
“I wish . . .”
“What, Yuri?”
“Nothing.”
“Boys, nothing has really changed. We will continue to live our lives as always. I suppose the only difference is that there will be times when you will have to guard what you say to others. Someone who thinks they are better than you might belittle you, and you might be tempted to tell them of your family. That would be unwise. But I believe you are strong enough to avoid this dilemma.”
“They aren’t better than us, anyway,” said Andrei. “And not because of those Fedorcenko people, but because we are Russians, and men—well, almost men. That’s why we can hold our heads high, Papa.”
“Am I growing a little revolutionary?” chuckled Sergei.
“These are only things you taught me, Papa.”
Sergei laughed heartily but then noticed that Yuri hadn’t laughed, hadn’t even smiled. Something was definitely eating at the boy, but perhaps it would be best to talk to him alone.
32
Fedorcenko.
Yuri silently intoned the name over and over in his mind. He even tried to say it out loud, but only in a whisper. It sounded awkward on his tongue.
But it was his name. Yuri Sergeiovich Fedorcenko. Prince Yuri Sergeiovich Fedorcenko.
The whole thing troubled him, though he couldn’t exactly say why. His father thought that telling Yuri and Andrei was the right thing. Later his father tried to talk with him alone, attempting to find out what was bothering Yuri. But the fourteen-year-old boy didn’t say; he couldn’t say; he didn’t know. At least, he only had a vague idea, but he couldn’t tell his father.
They had been living a lie all these years. It was different when Yuri didn’t know about the lie, but now he would have to lie, too. It wasn’t that he was such a saint that he couldn’t lie, although his parents had taught him lying was wrong. He had told a few fibs before, but this was a huge lie, a lie about who he was.
At his age, Yuri was already struggling with that very question. He also could not brush something so monumental aside with a glib acceptance. Sometimes he hated that in himself. Sometimes he wished he could be more like Andrei.
Yuri told himself it wasn’t that he wanted to be a prince and live in that huge palace on the hill overlooking the Neva. He was happy and fairly content as the poor peasant son of Sergei and Anna. Well, there were times when he was frustrated, when he wished he could travel all over the world and see the places his mama taught him about—and have a better education than the one his mama gave him in the front room of their house. His papa said he could fulfill his dreams, but Yuri knew there were limits to what he could do. Yes, he could go to medical school, but an inexpensive one, not the best in Russia.
He remembered when Mariana’s life had changed and she suddenly found herself a countess with all the fine aristocratic trappings. Yuri had been a little jealous. Not because he cared about wealth and money—he really didn’t! But he did care about some of the things that went with it. Papa said an education gave a person choices; Yuri thought money and position gave far more choices. Papa said, “Faith is my bread, and God is the roof over my head.” But God loved the wealthy as much as the poor, and you could love God just as much, too, no matter how much money you had.
Yet, weren’t all these mental debates senseless? In the end, Yuri really didn’t have a choice. The old-time power and prestige of the Fedorcenko name had dwindled to almost nothing. But more than that, if he claimed his place in society, it would endanger his papa—and he never, ever, would risk doing that. He’d have to live the lie, then. But it wouldn’t be easy. There would always be a small part of him that would ask, “What might have been?”
Half an hour later, as Yuri was writing in his secret journal that he kept hidden under a loose floorboard by the bed, the door of the room burst open, and Andrei and Talia tumbled in.
“Don’t you know how to knock?” Yuri said testily. His thoughts had left him in a sour mood.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Yuri,” said Talia. “We were just so excited.”
Who could stay angry for long at Talia’s sweet sincerity? “Never mind. What’s going on?”
“I told her, Yuri. Now Talia can share our secret, too,” said Andrei.
Yuri knew without further explanation exactly what his brother meant, and he didn’t much like it. “How could you do that without telling me first, without my even being there? You have a nerve, Andrei.”
“Well, I thought—”
“You didn’t think, just like always. Well, I’m sick of always having to be the patient big brother. You had no right saying anything—no right at all!” He snapped his journal shut as if he feared even that could be vulnerable.
Talia replied, “I’m so sorry, Yuri. I would never have—”
“You couldn’t help it.” Yuri tried to be gentle.
“I wouldn’t have listened if I knew you’d be upset.”
Talia the diplomat. Talia, for all her soft shyness, the rock. Like a calm, peaceful island between the turbulent waters of her two best friends. She absorbed the pounding of the waves, managing to diffuse the strife between the boys—strife that was growing more evident as they grew older and their vastly different personalities became more pronounced.
“Aw, just forget it.” Yuri was beginning to feel a bit guilty for his overreaction. “So, what do you think, I mean about what Andrei told you?”
Talia and Andrei plopped down on the bed, all the previous strife forgotten for the moment.
“You do have the most unusu
al family,” she replied thoughtfully. “I thought my family was interesting because I have a cousin on my father’s side who is wardrobe coordinator to the tsar’s sister, the grand duchess Zenia. But that’s nothing compared to you. Your family is part of Russian history. Your name comes up in history books—I looked it up, too. I never dreamed that your grandfather had once been such an important man. And to think, he’s dined in our simple dining room and complimented my mama’s kasha!”
“Oh, come on!” interjected Andrei. “Men are men. It doesn’t matter who they know or if their names are in history books. You were always a little awed by my grandfather.”
“I guess so,” said Talia. “I always sensed he was an important man.”
“Because he is important!” Andrei replied with emphasis. “He hardly has two kopecks to rub together, but you just know he is the sort of man you ought to listen to.”
“I can’t argue with that. But that wasn’t what I was getting at, anyway.”
“What were you getting at?”
“Now I can’t remember. Let me see . . .”
“You were saying how important our family seems now,” prompted Yuri. Although he had been somewhat relieved that the conversation had wandered off track, a small part of him wanted—needed—to know what Talia thought.
“Oh, yes. But—” Talia looked at the two brothers, her eyes shifting back and forth a moment. “Nothing’s really changed, though, has it? You’re both the same; you’re both my friends. That won’t ever change . . . will it?”
“Maybe you’ll change,” said Yuri, hardly aware that he had ignored her plaintive question.
“I won’t.” Talia’s eyes met Yuri’s and held his for a long span, as if she were trying to burn the fact of her loyalty into his very soul.
Yuri looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. Couldn’t he believe her declaration? Or, was it because he could not make the same promise in return? If he were ever given the choice, he couldn’t say what he would do. Maybe he would change. He didn’t know . . . he just didn’t know.
Then Andrei, in his almost irritatingly confident way, said, “No one’s going to change, and nothing’s going to change. As long as Papa’s a fugitive, we’re going to have to keep on living just as we have. And I’m glad of it. Maybe there are some aristocrats out there that are good, like Grandfather, but I’d rather be associated with simple folk any day. They are the heart and soul of Russia, as Papa always says.”
All at once a new idea struck Yuri. “What if . . .” He hesitated, almost afraid to voice the unpleasant idea.
“What, Yuri?” Talia urged.
He should have known better than to speak on impulse, for usually it caused him nothing but trouble. He simply should never have spoken his fear out loud—he should have let it go, forgotten it. But once a tiny crack was permitted, he seemed unable to stop himself. And the moment the words were out, it was almost as bad as if the thing had actually happened.
“What if Papa is reprieved, declared a free man—you know, sometimes the tsar does that on his birthday, or something.”
Andrei laughed at his brother. “Oh, Yuri, for a minute I thought you really had something earth-shattering to tell us. ‘Reprieved’? It’ll never happen. You’re dreaming again.”
“I didn’t say it would happen,” snapped Yuri defensively. “I just said what if, like a hypothetical question—something to consider, that’s all.”
“Oh, I’m bored with all your hypo—which-o-ma-call-its.” Andrei jumped to his feet. “Come on, there’s got to be something more interesting than this to do.” Andrei strode to the door, then paused, glancing back at his friends who hadn’t moved. “Well?”
“Not right now, I have to finish something.” Yuri tried not to sound sulky.
“Talia?” said Andrei.
Once more Talia looked from brother to brother. It was an easy thing for the island to absorb the crash of the waves, but not to divide herself between them. Her eyes rested on Yuri.
“Well, I’ll see you two later.” Andrei exited impatiently.
“Go on,” Yuri said to Talia. “I’m busy, anyway.”
Talia began to rise, then stopped. “Yuri . . . I hope nothing ever changes.”
“But don’t you see, Talia, it’s bound to change eventually. Papa could be pardoned; Papa could . . . die.” He hadn’t wanted to say that last part, he hadn’t even wanted to think it, but it tumbled out anyway. “Talia, Papa will die someday. Then what? Then . . . what?”
“Can’t you just not worry about it, Yuri? Let things happen as they will. But even if something happened like you say, it doesn’t have to affect you . . . does it?”
He stared at her incredulously. She just didn’t understand. Sometimes they didn’t even have to speak in order to know what the other was thinking. Why now, with something so monumental, was she so dense?
“Look at Mariana,” Talia went on. “She had that very thing happen, and she’s still the same person at heart.”
“She didn’t have any choice, not really. She didn’t want it; she just was being obedient to her real father.”
“What difference does it make?”
“Talia, I think . . . I think I want it.” Yuri took a sharp breath. There, the horrible thought was out. And he hadn’t known until he blurted out the words that this was the core of what had been troubling him all along.
“Oh, Yuri . . .”
“Don’t, Talia. Is that such a sin? Will I perish in hell for wanting my birthright? Is it so wrong to want to be important, even powerful? You can use those things for good, too, you know.”
“I think you know what your papa would say.”
“Talia, I want you to swear to me right now—” Yuri shuffled through a nearby bookshelf, pulling out a plain black volume. “Swear on this Bible that you will never—never, do you hear!—tell anyone, not my papa, not anyone, what I’ve just said.”
“I . . . I . . .”
“Swear!”
Trembling, she lay her hand on the black leather binding. Her voice was soft, tentative. “I swear, Yuri.”
He laid down the Bible, and suddenly feeling foolish, he tried to laugh off the tension. “I guess you think I’m an idiot.”
Her lips twitched upward as she made a brave attempt at a light chuckle. “I’d never think that.”
There was such expectation in her eyes, and he felt terrible for ignoring it. He knew she was hoping he’d take back the swearing.
But he didn’t.
33
Lethargy seemed to prevail these days in siege-worn Port Arthur, or at least it seemed so on this particular cold November day as Mariana walked through the hospital corridors.
Every morning Mariana awoke a little surprised that she was still alive. By November, the siege had left hardly a corner of the town untouched by either bombardment or privation. The hospital had been hit several times by artillery; Mariana’s boardinghouse had been destroyed completely, so she had no choice now but to board at the hospital. With death and destruction all around, it was no wonder she felt as she did.
Ludmilla had put it best: “I hardly care anymore; we’re all going to die eventually.”
Mariana wasn’t as afraid of death itself as she was afraid of the process. The waiting. Any time she stepped out on the street it could happen. She avoided going out whenever possible, as everyone else did. The streets of Port Arthur were deserted these days. But the gaping craters in the hospital were proof that she didn’t have to go outside to encounter death. It was lurking for her even in the halls where she worked. There was no escaping it. But often Mariana longed for nothing else but escape.
Oh, for her mama Anna’s peaceful home! Père Dmitri’s home, even with her contentious grandmother Eugenia, looked good.
How could anyone expect her to take this day in, day out? Her patients, her only motivation for continuing, appeared to have given up themselves. The injured did not even have the heart to cry out in pain. They just lay there as if in a
trance.
The scant news from the outside did not help matters. Stoessel tried to keep any news at all from coming in, but word of the fall of Liaoyang at the end of September had steeped the town in a deep depression. The Russians were being disgracefully pushed out of Manchuria by tiny Japan. Kuropatkin was an able commander, but he had lost heart. Daniel had heard that Kuropatkin failed to commit reserves that might have turned the tide at Liaoyang. The army that had retreated to Mukden had been a substantial fighting force, with enough vigor left to provide a more aggressive defense.
Then, a month later, the rumor came that Kuropatkin was sending a huge force south to rescue Port Arthur. Stoessel set up a heliograph to communicate with the advancing army, only to discover it was all a mistake. No one was going to help Port Arthur.
The news that the tsar had ordered the Baltic fleet to the port was received with skepticism at best. They had eighteen thousand miles to traverse, and Russia, having no overseas colonies, would have to beg for fuel from an unsupportive world to power the fleet.
It often seemed that Port Arthur was merely going through senseless motions. Why bother if they were doomed to fail eventually? So many worthy men were suffering and dying . . . for what? Mariana could no longer remember what it had all been about in the first place. A deadening numbness had descended over her. She no longer cared.
Perhaps it was best, after all, not to think of such things. To try to find reason or purpose in all of this madness could drive a person insane. The only way to survive was to keep focused on the job at hand. Yet even that must be done carefully—only look at wounds, bandages, sutures, splints; try not to look at faces, individuals. It hurt too much to become attached to these poor boys, to hear about their loved ones, their hopes for the future. Many would have no future at all.
Absently Mariana gave the men the sacrifice of her smile, soothed their grimy, bloody bodies with her gentle touch. Sometimes when they would thank her for her kindness, it surprised her, for she hadn’t even realized what she was doing. She tried to separate her motions from her mind, but caring for the wounded sapped her strength nevertheless.
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