The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  Anna chuckled. “As if I need to tell you what to do, eh?”

  “You’d be surprised, Mama.”

  “So, son, am I right in assuming your brother had something to do with your bloody nose?”

  He nodded. “And I deserved it.” Then he held back his head and couldn’t speak for several minutes.

  During the lull, Anna fixed them tea, then sat down at the table with him. “How are you doing?” she said.

  He removed the cloth and there were no fresh stains on it. “It’s stopped.”

  “And in here?” She held her hand over her heart.

  “Andrei was upset, Mama. I don’t think he ever wants to see me again.”

  “He’ll get over it.”

  “I’m afraid not. I’ve never seen him like that before. It’s all so complicated—the emotions that were vented, the feelings that were hurt, his and mine, but especially Talia’s. She’ll recover far quicker than Andrei. But I don’t think things will ever be the same again. And that’s the worst part. Facing the prospect of watching the bonds between us fall apart. Maybe it was bound to happen eventually, but for it to come about in this way—and for it to be my fault!”

  “Yuri, I think that just because of those bonds between the three of you, your relationships will not die.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “Can you have faith in the One who created those bonds, who brought you all together?”

  Yuri knew his mother meant well, but this was an issue that only made things worse, not better. His mother had been patient with him, but in the last couple of years he had been rather careless about his faith. The intensity of finishing medical school and launching out on his career had been terribly time-consuming. But he had to admit it was more than that. His desire to be accepted among the nobility had also pulled him away from the simple faith he had learned from his parents. Not that the nobility were heathens, by any means. Yet too many of Yuri’s society circle practiced only the form of religion, without the substance—the relationship that was the most important part. He had strayed far from the kind of faith in God he had always admired in his father and had at one time desired to have himself.

  “Mama, I’m afraid my faith is kind of rusty these days,” he admitted.

  “Do you want it to be better?”

  “Of course. I probably wouldn’t have behaved so stupidly had I been stronger in my faith.”

  Anna smiled ironically. “Faith, my dear son, doesn’t keep us from doing stupid things. Neither, I suppose, does God. But faith often helps cushion the blow of our mistakes, and God is always there to help us pick up the pieces.”

  “There are plenty of pieces now to be picked up.”

  Anna took Yuri’s hands into hers. “Why don’t we just let God know we are willing?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  They bowed their heads and Anna spoke to her God. “Father, please be with my children as I know you always have been. Heal the anger and the hurts; strengthen the special bond between them. Give Yuri the ability and the wisdom to forgive himself for the mistakes he’s made. Let us never forget how much we need you and how much you love us.”

  When Yuri went to bed that night, he didn’t exactly feel like a new man, but he did feel better. However, he still worried about his brother and Talia. What would become of them? Could God truly make things as they once were? Or perhaps God had something better in store for each of them. Yuri didn’t know. But he hoped at least that somehow God would take away the ache and heal their hearts.

  35

  The Duma had concluded its session for summer recess, and Paul was glad to have some time off from the political arena. Political tensions were strong in the Capital. Unrest had broken out among thousands of workers. Some in the working-class Vyborg District had even thrown up barricades to protect strikers. Paul had exhausted himself in the debates over labor issues and in attempting to mediate between workers and management.

  When Kerensky invited him to join him on a speaking tour during the recess, Paul debated with himself about accepting. Mathilde convinced him that such a holiday would only refresh him and make him more effective when the new session resumed in the fall. As usual, she had been right. However, in the middle of the tour stunning news reached them.

  They were in Samara, and Kerensky had just delivered a rousing speech to a packed auditorium. The town showed a great interest in politics, though mostly in internal affairs as opposed to international. The response, however, was heartening. The next morning, still basking in the successful evening, Paul and Kerensky took a walk down to one of the jetties on the Volga River. A steamer was leaving the dock and crowds of excited people on the deck were waving and shouting. None noticed the newsboy hocking his papers along the docks. They could not hear the boy’s announcement of the latest news.

  “Read it here!” the boy shouted. “Archduke Franz Ferdinand assassinated!”

  Paul and Kerensky looked at each other. They both well knew the terrible implications of such news.

  “This is it, Sasha,” Paul said.

  “It’s no surprise, really.”

  That was true. Tensions in Serbia were always at the boiling point. That’s why Ferdinand, the heir to the Austrian throne, had gone to the provincial capital of Sarajevo in the first place, as a gesture of friendship, or, in the interpretation of some, to cajole the Serbs into accepting his plan to reorganize the Austria-Hungary state as an act of benevolence rather than aggression. Serbian nationalists, however, saw it only as a threat to their existence. For years they had feared their Austrian overlords would absorb their little province, and so they would not be fooled by Ferdinand’s phony gestures.

  “War has been brewing in Europe for years,” Paul said. “Bismarck was prophetic when he said, ‘Some irksome, foolish thing in the Balkans will set off the next great war in Europe.’ And that was years ago, before the present complexity of foreign affairs. I hoped, however, that it would wait a couple years more, at least, until Russia would be better prepared.”

  “When have we ever been prepared for war?” Kerensky shook his head dismally.

  “And there is no hope we will be spared.”

  “Not with the tangle of alliances and treaties that immesh Europe. Germany will rush to Austria’s defense—the Kaiser dreams of war and will not miss such an opportunity.”

  “And of course, Russia will be honor bound to scurry to the aid of little Serbia. Other countries will fall into line like so many tin soldiers.” Paul sighed. “Why else are European monarchs so steeped in military tradition? They are bred to war.”

  “Not Nicholas, I’m afraid.”

  “No, for all his fascination with parades and uniforms, I seriously doubt he has the heart for it.”

  “Paul, I feel I’d like to find a church and light a candle for our country. Then, I believe we should immediately return to Petersburg.”

  The news, which came to Nicholas on his yacht, Standart, was all but eclipsed by two other far more personal disasters.

  As the tsarevich was jumping enthusiastically aboard the yacht, his foot slipped on the ladder and his ankle twisted. His sailor-companion Derevenko caught him before any worse mishap occurred, and it at first seemed that would be the end of it. But, by evening, the ankle had swelled because it was bleeding into the joint. In addition to the pain, the injury was especially disheartening for the child. He had been doing so well lately and was very much back to being his normal, active, even rambunctious self.

  Alexandra and Dr. Botkin tended the weeping, suffering boy all night. The tsaritsa toyed with the idea of sending a wire to Father Grigori. He should by now have arrived in his village in Siberia. It might upset Nicky and would probably set tongues wagging again. But what did she care? Botkin was a good man, but totally helpless to do anything to cure her son. Grigori was her only hope. Let people talk! Let Nicky sigh at her—she could handle him. Baby was all that mattered.

  When the news arrived of the murder
of Ferdinand, Alix hardly cared. She felt bad for Nicky’s distress, but that was just politics. A few wires would fly back and forth, tempers would vent, agreements would be made, and the course of national life would progress as always. Nicky told her he didn’t seriously believe this would erupt beyond the borders of Serbia and Austria. Russia need not get involved at all.

  Alix returned to her son’s compartment and found some writing materials there. She would compose a wire to be sent immediately by the ship’s radio operator to Siberia.

  Then Nicky brought her the other news.

  “Sunny, dear one,” he told her, drawing her away from Alexis’s bedside. “A wire just arrived—this seems a most ill-fated journey we are on.”

  “What is it?”

  He bit his lip and his sad eyes lowered. “It’s Father Grigori . . .” He paused and tried to meet her eyes but couldn’t. “He’s been injured. Someone tried to kill him—”

  “Dear God! No!” She felt her blood drain from her face and the cabin begin to sway—or was she swaying? How much could a woman take?

  Nicky threw an arm around her and led her to a chair. She was shaking all over and it took a long while before she could form the fateful question. “Is he . . . ? Oh, please, don’t let him be—”

  “He lives,” said Nicky quickly. “But it seems quite serious. He was stabbed by some woman.”

  Dropping her head into her hands, Alix wept. “What will we do, Nicky? What will . . . we . . . do . . . ?”

  “You must be strong, my love. For Baby’s sake. He needs you.”

  “How can I be strong? Our only hope was Our Friend. If we lose him, what else is there? This can’t be . . .”

  The tsarevich did recover from his injury in spite of the starets’ absence. The boy could not walk for some time afterward, but at least the bleeding subsided. Alix did not recover as readily. She was a nervous wreck, barely able to communicate in public, barely able to appear in public at all. She spent more time than ever before in her bed, pale and afraid.

  Anna laid the newspaper on the table and glanced up at Raisa.

  “What will happen now, Raisa? What will happen to our sons?”

  “Maybe there won’t be a war, Anna.”

  Since the news of the archduke’s assassination days ago, Austria had issued an ultimatum to Serbia, which even Anna could see was aimed as much at Russia as at the little Balkan country. The world had sympathized with Austria in their outrage over the murder of their heir. Yet diplomats urged restraint. Still, Anna had listened to her brother expound often enough about world affairs to know the implications of events in Sarajevo, even if she didn’t fully understand it all. The fact that things were daily heating up instead of cooling off only supported Paul’s fears. Today’s newspaper seemed to deliver the final blow. Hardly giving their ultimatum a chance to settle, Austria, in one swift motion, declared war on Serbia and launched a lightning attack on Belgrade.

  Like the tsaritsa, however, Anna cared little for political affairs except where they touched her personally. And she, too, could only think of her sons, who were of conscription age. If there was war, they would certainly have to fight. Thirty-six years ago she had watched Sergei go off to war, and ten years ago, Mariana had answered her country’s call. Would she have to face another parting laden with fear and uncertainty? Ten years ago, in Manchuria, her brother had been killed. Did more such sacrifice lay ahead?

  “They should put mothers in charge of the world,” Anna murmured. “There would be no war then.”

  Just then the front door opened. In another moment, Yuri appeared at the kitchen door where Anna had been reading the paper to Raisa.

  “Mama, Aunt Raisa, have you heard?”

  Anna held up the paper with little enthusiasm.

  “You should see the Palace Square,” Yuri went on. “There are huge demonstrations supporting Slavic brotherhood.”

  “It’s the Balkan War all over again,” said Anna. “How everyone cheered and supported it at first—then when things started to go sour, they turned quickly enough.”

  “That war never really ended.” Yuri walked to the samovar and drew himself a glass of tea, then sat at the table. “The tsar is mobilizing our troops. They will need medical officers, and now that my internship is over, I’m sure I’ll qualify.” At least he didn’t sound enthusiastic about that awful fact.

  “Yuri, must you?”

  “I may not have a choice.”

  “Yuri, promise me you won’t go unless you absolutely have to.”

  “I don’t know, Mama. We’ll see . . .” He finished his tea, then rose. “I better go wash up.” He sniffed the air, fragrant with the smells of dinner—borscht and fresh-baked bread. “I imagine dinner will be ready soon.”

  Anna had forgotten all about dinner, but Yuri had just worked a full day at the hospital and must be hungry.

  “Yes,” she said. “In half an hour or so.”

  He left, and she and Raisa began final preparations for the meal. There was hardly enough work for the two of them, but they were both anxious for a distraction. Anna wished some new houseguests would arrive; it had been several months since an orphan or needy person had come. She had never before had to go seeking them, but she was beginning to wonder how to go about doing so. The thought brought Misha to her mind. Would he be involved if there was a war? If he had a choice, he would. As an officer, his age would not be prohibitive; the army would need good, experienced officers such as he.

  Where was he now? Did he think of her? She had heard from him no more than a handful of times during the last nine years. She wrote him mostly to keep him informed about the family. The letters at first had been personal and lengthy, but as time went by they grew more stilted, offering for the most part only information. His replies were fewer and very brief. Their lives had grown apart. Why should she have expected it to be otherwise?

  In the past few years, however, she had begun to wonder what a future with Misha might be like, perhaps even fantasize about it. Time was loosening the strong emotional ties to Sergei. It was bound to happen. But did that necessarily mean she was ready for another marriage? She sighed, hardly realizing she had done so audibly.

  “What is it, Anna?” asked Raisa. “Worry about the war?”

  “Oh, I guess . . .” Anna began slicing a loaf of bread, then paused. “Raisa, why did you never remarry after your husband died?”

  Of course, they had discussed these things before, but Anna wanted to talk about it again—needed to talk about it again.

  “I suppose there was never really anyone who interested me—and no one I cared for who took an interest in me.”

  “I remember Yakov Alexandrovich called on you for a while. He seemed like a nice man.”

  “Yes, he was. But he was Jewish, you know, and it caused too much friction when talk of marriage was raised.” Raisa turned from her work and leveled an intense gaze at Anna. “Can I be honest with you, Anna?”

  “Feel free, please.”

  “I don’t like change.” Anna chuckled, for she had always known that about her friend. “Getting to know a new man,” Raisa continued, “learning his ways, and possibly having to sacrifice some of mine . . . it’s scary. I’ve got such a good life, and I am content. Why change anything?”

  “Don’t you ever get lonely for the company of a man?”

  “Sometimes, but I guess that isn’t strong enough to risk all the rest. I rather like being independent, taking care of myself, making my own decisions. I’m a modern woman!”

  They laughed at this, for Raisa hardly looked the part, with the perpetual apron tied about her thick waist.

  Then Anna said more seriously, “What if I married again, Raisa?”

  “Is there someone?” Raisa was genuinely surprised. No doubt she thought she knew every detail of her friend’s life.

  “No . . . not really. But if there was, and I married, it would spoil the good life we have now.”

  “If I fell in love—as the
modern women put it—I don’t think it would seem to me as if anything was being spoiled. You haven’t held back because of me, Anna, have you?”

  “Not really. The memory of Sergei and my love for him has always held me back. But I’ve noticed more and more lately that those feelings are different. They don’t hold me with the same intensity as they once did.”

  “And you think you’d like to marry again?”

  “Not just for the sake of getting married, but if there was someone special . . .”

  “You’ve been thinking of Misha again, haven’t you?” Anna felt her cheeks turn pink. Raisa laughed and added, “Goodness, woman! I do believe you love the man!”

  “I’ve always loved him in one way or another—”

  “It’s the another that’s important now. Do you miss him?”

  “All the time. But, it doesn’t matter. I haven’t heard from him in a year. I just could not bring myself to write him and say, ‘Oh, Misha, I’m ready to marry now; please come running.’”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s made his own life now. And, heavens! I’m fifty-four years old. I can’t imagine starting a whole new life at this age. I’m sure he couldn’t, either.” She sighed again. “But I do miss his friendship.”

  “Well, Anna, with war coming, maybe our world will change enough to make marriage seem a small change indeed.”

  “You always look at the bright side, Raisa,” Anna said with a droll grin.

  But Anna feared that Raisa’s words might turn out to be prophetic. In Russia, change vied constantly with stagnation for supremacy. There was never any middle ground, it seemed. And maybe some good could come from a bit of change. But Anna prayed fervently that change would come about by any way other than war.

  36

  “Anyone home?” Talia’s voice rang through the flat.

  Yuri was coming from his room just as Talia came in. He hadn’t seen her since that night, less than a week ago, when he had told her he did not love her. She had decided to go live with some other dancers near the theater. Yuri felt bad, especially for Raisa’s sake, that his actions had forced Talia from their home. He felt no better now as they greeted each other with a rather stilted formality that had never existed between them before.