“Katya?”
The name almost caught in Talia’s throat. Somehow it made it much more painful to have a name attached to what had before only been a gnawing fear.
“That’s right. I never told you about her. It’s just as well. I’ll probably never see her again.”
“Why?”
“That’s the worst of it. I don’t really know. I’ve never known anyone so mercurial. One minute she is warm and responsive to me, then the next she acts as if we are strangers. We had a huge argument, but afterward when I tried to analyze it, I simply couldn’t put my finger on exactly what we had argued about. It was almost as if she picked a fight simply for the sake of picking a fight.”
“Why would anyone do that?”
Yuri shook his head. “I can’t figure it out for the life of me.”
“Unless . . .” Talia paused. Was she going to act as counselor and matchmaker? The idea appalled her.
“What, Talia? If you have some insight, please tell me. I’ve always respected your opinion.”
She couldn’t deny him. “Maybe for some reason she is afraid of her own feelings for you. Maybe she is confused.”
“She’s hardly the ‘confused’ type. In many respects she is very self-assured. Yet there are times . . .”
“We all have times of doubt, even the most confident person.”
“You may be right.”
They were quiet for a few minutes, sipping tea, munching on sweet cakes. Then Talia said, “Yuri, if it turns out this Katya isn’t the woman for you, will you promise not to give up on love?”
He shrugged. “It would really bother you if I did?”
“Very much. I mean, it might make you hard and bitter.”
He smiled and reached across the table, taking her hand in his. “Well, I’ll always have you, Talia, won’t I? You will keep me from getting bitter.”
Talia sighed. The brotherly expression he wore, the dispassionate tone, were even more painful than the specter of a girl named Katya.
25
Yuri sat hunched over a microscope in the hospital laboratory. His eyes were red and sore. He had been awakened in the middle of the previous night for an emergency birth, which prevented him from getting back to his bed before his regular shift began in the morning. His shift lasted fourteen hours, and afterward he should have gone to bed, but he was too tense and keyed up from the busy day to sleep. Besides, he knew that the hospital laboratory would be relatively free that evening, and he wanted a chance to work at a microscope.
Since little Vasily’s death, Yuri had developed something of an obsession with hematology. He realized physicians were not omnipotent, yet he hated the sense of utter helplessness he had felt at the child’s deathbed. In this day and age, with all its vast medical advances, there ought to have been some way to save a poor child. Yet it might as well be the Dark Ages where Vasily’s bleeding disease was concerned. There must be a cure for it—or, at the very least, some viable and successful ways to treat it. Toward that end, Yuri had been studying everything he could find, not only about hemophilia, but also about the blood in general. He had managed, in spite of feeling a bit like a ghoul, to get some blood and tissue samples from the boy’s corpse. He was also making an extensive study of normal blood, hoping that in learning the properties of normal blood coagulation, he might discover a way to strengthen abnormal blood.
He rubbed his eyes. What a high opinion he had of himself! That he, a lowly intern, had even a prayer of making such a great discovery. Still, he was driven to try. Besides, it distracted his mind from his great disillusionment regarding Katya. He had felt so hopeful last fall. But he had not seen her since. The half dozen letters he wrote to her in Moscow had gone unanswered. He had hoped she would be in St. Petersburg for the social season, from Christmas to Lent, but as far as he knew she had stayed away.
Perhaps it was time to give up on her. Forget her. If only that were possible!
But he could not let go. It was almost as if he were under some kind of evil spell.
Even now, after so long, he could still clearly visualize her luminescent beauty, her disarming honesty, her childlike vulnerability. And, ironically, it became harder and harder to remember her mercurial personality and the way she had hurt him.
He slipped a new slide beneath the lens of the scope. It was a sample of his own blood, and he placed it beside a slide of Vasily’s blood, increasing the microscope’s magnification to its highest level. He didn’t hear the lab door open and, thus, the intrusive voice startled him.
“I thought I’d find you here, my boy.”
Yuri turned sharply, bumping his nose against the scope’s eyepiece, almost knocking over the machine. He caught it in time.
“Didn’t mean to startle you.” It was Dr. Botkin.
“I was rather deep in thought. Perhaps too deep,” said Yuri.
“Still studying blood, I gather.”
“Yes, but to no avail, I’m afraid.”
“Not yet.”
Yuri gave a self-deprecating shrug. “Maybe I’ll discover something, but at this point I doubt it will be regarding hemophilia. The greatest medical minds in the world have failed—”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Yuri. The fresh insights of youth are often where great discoveries are born. And, in addition to that, you, my boy, have one of the finest medical minds in this country—”
“Please, Doctor, that is a bit much,” Yuri protested, truly embarrassed by such words from his mentor.
“Well, I will concede that your mind now is green and unproven, but the potential is there. I have read your research notes. You have come to conclusions in a few months that seasoned veterans have taken years to reach. You have as much chance of making a new discovery as anyone.” Botkin drew close, focusing intensely at Yuri. “Don’t give up, Yuri! I will support you in any way you need.”
Vasily had been Botkin’s patient, too, but Yuri sensed there was more to the elder doctor’s intensity than sympathy over the lost child. Yuri’s studies had led him to some interesting insights besides the purely medical.
“I won’t give up, Doctor, not soon, at least. I know there are other sufferers of that terrible plight, and even if they be high and mighty, they, too, touch my heart.”
“What are you saying, Yuri?”
“It didn’t take much for me to deduce the secret being kept at Tsarskoe Selo,” Yuri answered, perhaps a bit more dramatically than was necessary. “In researching the disease, I discovered a definite pattern as I traced it through the royal houses of Europe. It first showed up in Queen Victoria’s youngest son, Leopold. No evidence of it among British Royalty before that. But she had five daughters, all potential carriers of the disease. Of those, two, Alice and Beatrice, have had hemophiliac offspring. We know then that Alice, our tsaritsa’s mother, was a carrier, and thus all of her daughters—five, to be exact—are potential carriers.”
“It still seems a bit of a leap you are taking to draw conclusions about the tsar’s family.”
“Yes, it is. But what else would be crippling the tsarevich to the extent that he must be carried about in public by that sailor who is always with him? It could be a number of things. Still, I have heard rumors for years, and then there was that episode at Spala two years ago when the child came so close to death the public was at last notified. Yet no one has ever been told the exact nature of the boy’s ailment. We are left but to wonder.”
“And draw conclusions.”
“Such an ailment as hemophilia could destroy the monarchy faster than any revolutionary. If the people knew there was no viable direct heir, it might well be the deciding factor in discarding the monarchy altogether. But, Doctor, I don’t want to place you in an awkward position. I understand you are sworn to confidentiality in this matter. I don’t even want you to tell me if I am right or wrong. But if the tsarevich might benefit from my research, it gives me that much more reason to continue to pursue it.”
“You b
ear no ill feelings toward our rulers? I could hardly blame you if you did, after what happened to your father.”
“I don’t blame the tsar, and I especially don’t blame a ten-year-old child. I think they are as much victims of a decrepit and twisted system as my father was. Did you know that several years ago my adopted sister had opportunity to have a private audience with Nicholas and Alexandra? She was quite impressed, especially by the tsar’s gentle, humane nature. She felt them to be basically decent people, and I highly respect her judgment on such matters. I believe in judging people on their individual merits. Perhaps that comes of my apolitical nature. But, as a doctor, I don’t see how I can do otherwise.”
“You’d be surprised, my boy, at how many in the medical profession do just that. But we can only be true to our own selves. And, Yuri, because I feel as if we understand each other, I believe the secret to which you alluded earlier is safe with you.”
“You can be certain of it, Doctor.”
“It might well be, Yuri, that at some time I would call upon your expertise in treating my very special patient.”
Yuri’s stomach lurched. “I . . . I don’t know what to say . . . I can’t imagine what I could possibly do that isn’t already being done.”
“Always remember, Yuri, the importance of a fresh perspective. Now, if you would permit me, I’d like to change the subject.”
Yuri nodded his consent.
“As you know, in a few days I will be departing with the royal family for the Crimea. All my regular duties here have been dispersed among my colleagues, but there is one thing that has slipped my attention until now. I had planned to attend a cardiology symposium at Moscow University. I would like to request that you go in my place. It will only take you away from your duties here for three days, but I think it would be quite valuable to you.”
“I’d be honored to go, sir.”
“Excellent! Now, one final matter. You look absolutely spent, Yuri. When was the last time you ate?” He paused a moment but didn’t give Yuri a chance to tell him he’d last had some tea and a pastry at midday. “Never mind. I am under orders from my wife to bring you home for dinner tonight no matter how late the hour.”
Yuri glanced at the microscope.
Perceiving Yuri’s ambivalence, Botkin added, “Your efforts at research will be useless if you die of starvation. So, let’s say in the interest of the national welfare you must take a break for sustenance.”
“Putting it that way, sir, I can hardly argue.”
As usual Yuri had a pleasant time at the Botkin home in Tsarskoe Selo. Yuri helped Botkin’s young son, Gleb, with a science problem from school and listened to his daughter play a newly learned tune on the piano. The two doctors talked “shop” for a time, but nothing too seriously, and listened to Countess Botkin’s stories of the daily happenings and gossip from the Tsar’s Village—as Tsarskoe Selo was called because of the cluster of homes of nobility around the tsar’s palace. The only topic of conversation that was in any way intense was when Botkin mentioned the current deliberations at the hospital over choosing a new chief of surgery. Yuri didn’t hide his surprise when he heard that Karl Vlasenko was in the running. He had worked with Vlasenko on several occasions, and though his level of competence appeared to have improved since his military service, he was still little more than a mediocre doctor. In Yuri’s opinion there were many on staff at the hospital who were far more worthy of the post whose names weren’t even on the list of nominees.
“Unfortunately,” Botkin explained, though unnecessarily, “politics has as much to do with these things as competence. But rest assured, Yuri, I doubt Karl has much of a chance. His name has been passed over twice before for this post. His medical skills aside, he greatly lacks in proper leadership qualities.”
“That is a relief,” said Yuri. “Did you know the Vlasenkos are distant relatives of mine? Our families have been at odds for years. I hate to think that colors my opinion of him, but—”
At that moment the telephone rang, the sound coming into the parlor from the alcove where the phone was located. A servant appeared at the parlor door within seconds.
“Sir, it is the palace.”
Botkin cocked a perplexed eyebrow, then excused himself. When he returned, his face was lined with concern. “Yuri, I am needed at the palace. Please forgive my hasty departure.”
“I understand, Doctor. I must be on my way also.”
Yuri walked out with Botkin, and since the tsar was sending a motorcar for him, Botkin insisted Yuri take the carriage back to the train station. On the quiet carriage ride, he thought about the evening. He wondered what had happened at the palace to require a physician. He tried to imagine what he would do if called upon to treat the tsarevich. Had he learned anything that might lend, as Botkin called it, a fresh perspective? Sadly, he knew the answer was a negative.
Back in the hospital laboratory, he worked for several more hours before returning home in the early hours of the morning. He practically fell into his bed and slept for five hours, so soundly that his mother had to wake him in the morning. And he might have slept on except for the telephone call from Dr. Botkin.
26
Yuri dressed as quickly as he could, then hired a cab to take him to the train station. He arrived moments before the next train for Tsarskoe Selo was to depart. Only as he sat back on the train did he allow himself a chance to grow apprehensive about what lay ahead.
Botkin had made good on his offer to include Yuri in the care of the tsarevich much sooner than anyone would have expected. It was pure chance that a need for a physician had come so quickly on the heels of Botkin’s offer. And Yuri’s first impulse had been to flatly refuse. But his awe at being invited quickly overwhelmed that impulse. After all, one simply did not refuse an invitation to the Imperial palace, especially after Botkin had gone to some effort to secure permission for Yuri’s presence.
Botkin explained on the phone, “When I was called away last night, it was to attend to the tsarevich, who had a toothache. He’d had it all day and it worsened to the point that the child was in tears. I believe he really feared it was another bleeding episode and that’s why he was so upset. I determined that the tooth had abscessed and needed to be extracted. You can understand, Yuri, that in a hemophiliac this is not a procedure to be taken lightly.”
“I doubt I would attempt it except as a last resort,” said Yuri.
“Yes . . . and it has come to that point. I sat with the boy all night and the condition has worsened. His little mouth is swollen, and I fear a systemic infection should the abscess rupture. All are agreed, including the parents, that we must proceed.”
“What do you wish of me, Doctor?”
“I have secured approval from the tsar that you be present for the operation.”
“Me?”
“Professor Fedorov’s assistant can’t be here.” Fedorov was one of the most respected physicians in the country and a renowned professor of medicine at the university. “Besides, when the tsar heard about your extensive research, he wanted to do anything possible to support you. If observing this procedure could somehow further your insights into the disease, then he was all for it. Also, it appears, he has a bit of a soft spot for the Fedorcenko name.”
“He pardoned my father shortly before he was killed on Bloody Sunday.”
“Well, His Majesty has a high regard for your family. Can you be here by nine this morning? I have already arranged for someone to cover your shift at the hospital.”
A motorcar met Yuri at the station at Tsarskoe Selo and took him to the Alexander Palace. At the palace door, he was taken directly to a small sitting room, where Botkin met him a few minutes later.
“We are nearly ready,” Botkin said. “Come with me, and I’ll show you where to change and scrub up.” He continued talking as he led Yuri through a door on the opposite end of the sitting room into a room with a wash basin, shelves of linens and various instruments and other medical equipment. The Imp
erial infirmary. Botkin indicated that this room led to a treatment/examination room that they had set up for the tooth extraction.
Yuri slipped off his coat and jacket, and Botkin helped him into a surgical gown. Then he scrubbed his hands at the wash basin as Botkin filled him in on his plan of action—Botkin was already wearing his gown, but he, too, scrubbed his hands. This done, they went into the treatment room, which Yuri found to be quite well-appointed and meticulously clean. Fedorov was already there, gowned, gloved, and ready for action. Also with him was Dr. Breit, a dentist. Introductions were made, and Yuri was pleased that Fedorov remembered him from the university.
“Yuri, would you help me with these gloves?” asked Botkin.
Yuri carefully picked up a pair of gloves lying on a sterile tray and held them as Botkin slipped into them. Yuri would not be gloved since he would mainly be observing and fetching supplies for the doctors.
“I’ve sent for our patient,” Fedorov said.
Botkin nodded. “Everything appears in order.”
The four doctors chatted a few moments until a servant came and announced the arrival of the tsarevich. Botkin went to meet them, and through the open door, Yuri caught a glimpse of the tsaritsa with her son. Her face was pale, her eyes ringed with dark circles from lack of sleep and worry. Botkin had a few words with her, then led the child into the treatment room while the mother waited outside. The tsarevich also showed signs of lack of sleep and his fine-featured face was red and swollen. He was seated in a wheelchair. He was also heavily sedated, for Botkin had administered a large dose of cocaine half an hour ago.
“Your Highness,” said Botkin as he helped Alexis into a special dental chair, “as you can see, you are in very good hands. I believe you know all present except Prince Fedorcenko.”
“Is he a doctor?” asked Alexis in a rather garbled tone from both his swollen jaw and the effects of the cocaine.
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