Yuri came up next to the elder doctor and gazed down at the child. He was asleep—not just asleep, but his breathing was regular and relaxed. The lines of fear etched into his youthful brow were gone. And, even with the gauze packs removed, no more blood oozed from his nostrils.
Yuri’s mouth went dry. “Dr. Botkin . . .”
“Don’t think it, Yuri! You know as well as I that it is common for the bleeding to stop as spontaneously as it began. That fraud comes when the crisis has peaked, speaks his incantations when natural physiology is about to take its course anyway, then leaves, taking all the credit.”
“But so quickly . . .”
“You saw how he hypnotized the child.”
“Yes . . . the effects of relaxation upon the blood vessels, which hypnosis could induce, can be remarkable.” Yuri sighed. “We can see the marks of scientific fact in what has happened, Doctor, but, unfortunately, the empress never will.”
“Too true. God forgive me, but I despise that man.”
“Even if he can heal,” said Yuri, “it isn’t right the way he uses his power. I cannot see God in him, and I have tried, Doctor—for my own reasons, I have tried.”
41
It was a chilly and gray day as Yuri looked out the window of the train that took him away from his grueling session at Tsarskoe Selo. Fall was still very much evident, but winter was not far away. Yuri wondered what winter would bring. The war was not progressing well. After two initial victories over the Germans at Gumbinnen and Galicia, the Russians, at the end of August, had suffered the stunning defeat at Tannenberg in which over a hundred thousand Russian troops had been lost. Yuri counted his presence in Petrograd—would he ever get used to that name?—by minutes and hours. He fully expected his summons for military service to come soon. The need for doctors at the Front was growing with each bloody defeat.
After the exhausting session at Tsarskoe Selo with the tsarevich, however, Yuri almost thought a posting to the war might seem a lark. Every time he encountered Rasputin, it left him drained and confused. He was glad Katya had not pursued her old acquaintance with the man. He knew she desisted, however, only because he had asked her not to. She felt a loyalty for the priest, perhaps even a tenderness, because he had helped her in the past. She was completely blind to Rasputin’s dark side. And that worried Yuri. Several of Katya’s friends were devotees of Rasputin, and her ambivalence toward him might cause her to be easily swayed into the circle of women, the Rasputini, who always seemed to surround the starets.
Yuri didn’t know what they saw in the man, and this morning’s episode didn’t help Rasputin’s cause in Yuri’s eyes. It especially disturbed Yuri to see how the tsar and tsaritsa behaved around him. Alexandra had actually knelt before him! It would be different if Rasputin were a venerable elder, a true saint, but Yuri was becoming more and more convinced that he was, at the very least, a crass opportunist, using a helpless child to further his own ambitions. At worst, Rasputin might well be truly evil. One thing was certain to Yuri—the starets was no holy man. If he did indeed heal the tsarevich, his powers could not possibly come from God.
Yuri’s troubled mood did him no good when he arrived back at the hospital to find a letter from the military induction board. His hands trembled as he opened it. The dreaded words inside were no surprise, but they made him cringe anyway.
His first thought was to find Katya. But he had to work. If doctors were needed at the Front, they were no less needed here. Wounded poured into the city daily, not to mention the civilian cases that continued at their normal rate. Yuri telephoned Katya several times, but she wasn’t at home. He worked until about ten that night on two serious emergency surgeries. It had been impossible for him to get away. Then, not five minutes after he sent the second case to the recovery room, a third arrived, a man who had extensive shrapnel embedded in his abdomen. It was hard to believe the man had made it this far from the battlefield. Yuri scrubbed, and a nurse was helping him don clean surgical garb when he felt himself sway.
“Are you all right, Doctor?” asked the nurse.
Yuri squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to make his blurry vision clearer. He had been on his feet since six that morning, with the exception of the train ride to and from Tsarskoe Selo, and he had eaten nothing. “Who else is on call?” It was foolish to keep going in his present state, risking his patient’s welfare.
“Dr. Vlasenko is, sir.”
He grimaced. But even Vlasenko would be more competent than Yuri at the moment. “I think you’d better call him.”
He went to the doctor’s lounge and tried to rest but was too keyed up. He tried Katya again. Perhaps it was late enough for her to finally be home.
“I’m sorry, Prince Fedorcenko,” said the servant on the other end of the line. “Countess Zhenechka did come home earlier, but then left again two hours ago.”
“Did no one tell her I called?” he asked sharply.
“That is possible, sir, because she was only here a few minutes before an urgent call arrived for her and she left again.”
“Where did she go?”
“To . . . the starets.”
“Rasputin’s?”
“Yes, sir.”
Yuri hung up the phone. By now he was functioning on pure grit and instinct. He didn’t even debate what he would do. It incensed him that Katya was with Rasputin when he needed her, and when he had expressly requested that she not do so.
He hailed a cab outside the hospital and went directly to 64 Gorokhavaya Street. Having not been to the place in months, Yuri was amazed at what greeted him. Outside the building and trailing up the three flights of stairs that led to Rasputin’s flat was a mob of people. Yuri talked briefly to one of them and learned that they were all there to petition the starets for a favor—a promotion, clemency for a loved one, exemption from military service—any number of boons that could be granted by the tsar if Rasputin would but say a favorable word.
For the first time in his life, Yuri was truly frightened for his country. All the revolutionary unrest in the world could not be as terrifying as so much power dwelling in the hands of a dissipated, twisted holy man. And a sudden panic began to grip Yuri as he raced up the steps.
A young woman, about Katya’s age and obviously of noble birth, answered the door. She was Katya’s friend Countess Olga Rybin.
“I’m looking for Countess Zhenechka,” Yuri said, dispensing with any preamble or polite pleasantries.
“Well, I don’t know—”
“Is she here?” When the woman still hesitated, Yuri continued with a more concerted effort at propriety. “Perhaps you don’t remember, Countess Rybin, but I am her fiancé, Prince Fedorcenko. I was told she might be here. It’s . . . urgent that I see her.”
“Yes . . . I suppose it would be all right. Follow me.”
Yuri glanced around the flat as he went. It hadn’t changed at all. There were bouquets of fresh flowers everywhere and a dozen or so women milling about the place. The word harem occurred to Yuri, and that only heightened his panic, not to mention his disgust. Would others think that of Katya if she started seeing Rasputin?
Started? She was seeing him now. How did he know she hadn’t been doing so all along, secretly? All their promises of trust fled from his mind.
The mere idea of Katya being part of this perverse scene made him sick. Somehow he had to make sure she didn’t get involved with the man. Yuri knew she had deep needs and insecurities that he himself might not be able to help. Rasputin, on the other hand, was probably expert at exploiting such vulnerability.
Yuri passed through the dining room where there were more flowers and several baskets of fruit. It looked as if everyone was paying court to royalty. Then they paused at a closed door. His guide knocked. Katya answered.
“Yuri!”
“So, here you are.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say. His voice shook, a poor mask of his ire.
“I hope it was all right, bringing him here, Katya,” th
e woman said.
“Yes, thank you, Olga,” said Katya. The woman left, and Katya continued. “Father Grigori is ill. He went to Tsarskoe Selo today to help the tsarevich. He has only recently been allowed out of bed. He exhausted himself. Perhaps you can do something for him, Yuri?”
“Me?”
“I believe he needs a doctor.”
“Can’t the healer heal himself?”
Now she first seemed to notice his sour attitude. “Yuri, what’s the matter?”
“I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon. How do you think I feel, finding you here?”
“I don’t know . . . I shouldn’t think it would matter.”
“Well, it does matter. I asked you not to see him.”
“Yuri, let’s talk about this another time—”
“Of course, we don’t want to disturb the holy priest!”
She stepped into the hall, closing the door behind her. “I don’t understand you, Yuri. I knew you didn’t approve of him, but I saw nothing wrong in ministering to a person in great need.”
“He simply couldn’t survive without your attention?” Yuri asked caustically.
“It’s not that. I feel I owe him—”
“Does that mean you’ll continue to see him?”
“I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”
“Even though I don’t want you to?”
She hesitated a moment. “If it means that much to you . . .”
Yuri wondered if he was asking too much, but before he could speak again, there was a noise inside the room.
“Wha’s all the commotion?” rasped a coarse voice as the door swung open.
Rasputin stood there dressed only in a clean, white nightshirt—probably the cleanest Yuri had ever seen the man. His beard and hair, however, were still filthy and oily, and he reeked of alcohol.
“Can’t a man res’ in his own home?” slurred the starets.
“Is this what you call sick, Katya?” said Yuri with disdain. “He’s not sick, he’s drunk.” Then to Rasputin he added, “Where did you go after you left the palace? To some brothel?”
“Yuri!” exclaimed Katya in dismay.
“Wha’ do you know . . .” Rasputin said, “you sanctimonious imbecile!” He swayed and Katya caught him.
“There, there, Father,” she said gently, placing her arm tenderly around him. “Come back to bed.”
“Oh, my sweet, pretty Katichka! When I am well, I will reward you properly.” He cast a leering covert glance toward Yuri, then pressed his moist lips against her forehead.
Yuri shuddered at the intimate gesture.
Katya led the starets back into the room and to his bed. Yuri watched as she helped him gently between the covers, pulling the red fox coverlet over him as she would a little child. She straightened to leave but he grabbed her arm.
“Please! Don’t go,” Rasputin said. “I don’ feel the pain as much when you are here.”
“Let me just see Yuri to the door.”
“Never mind,” Yuri said. “I can find my own way out.”
“Don’t go like this, Yuri.”
“You give me no choice.” He turned to go.
“Yuri!”
He paused. He couldn’t walk out on her like that. They had talked so much about trust. Wasn’t this a perfect opportunity to really practice trust? They were engaged. They had committed to marry, to spend their lives together. It was a hollow commitment if something like this could so easily shatter it.
Rasputin said, “Go, Katichka. Attend to your doctor . . . he is so needy . . . we must be godly toward him, mustn’t we?”
“Thank you, Father.”
Yuri and Katya walked together to the adjacent dining room. There was no one there at the moment, and they sat at the big table in the high-backed chairs.
“I’m sorry for the way I behaved,” Yuri said contritely.
“I should have been more sensitive. I didn’t know you felt so strongly about him.”
“It’s just hard for me to understand—” He stopped abruptly. “Let’s not talk about him now.”
“It seems to be enough of a problem that we should—”
“Katya, I’ve been inducted into the medical corps.”
“Yuri! No!”
“It was bound to happen.”
“When?”
“I have to report for duty in a week.”
“So quickly? How can they do that, Yuri? We need more time.”
“The powers that be care little about that when there is a war on.”
“Yuri, I’m sure that if I asked Father Grigori, he would intercede on your behalf to the tsar—”
“No! For one thing the man has little use for doctors in general and, I’m certain, for me in particular. I won’t lower myself to make such a request. Besides, I must do my patriotic duty. Heaven knows where Andrei is—but it is certain he will never do his service. I must go. Do you know that a Fedorcenko has been represented in every major war for two hundred years?”
“I almost think you want to go.”
“I don’t want to, but I won’t shirk my duty. You couldn’t expect that of me.”
“No, I don’t.”
“We have a week.” Even as he said it, he realized how paltry it sounded. He wanted a lifetime with her. Then a wild idea occurred to him. “Is that enough time for a wedding?”
“Why, Yuri, I didn’t think you could be so impulsive.”
“I have my moments. What do you think?”
“A week? You haven’t even met my father. But he will be so glad to get me married off, I doubt he’d mind.” He could see her mind was racing. “Can we do it? Could we do it? A small, intimate wedding is all I’d want anyway. We could have it at my grandmother’s. There is a little chapel there. She is fond of you, Yuri, and would be thrilled.”
“Then let’s go tell her now, and my mother, too!”
“But Father Grigori . . .”
“The other ladies can tend him, can’t they?” He made an effort to speak sensitively.
“Yes, I think so. But before we leave I must tell him the good news.” She jumped up, then paused. “It’s a good omen, Yuri, that it happened here. Don’t you think?”
Yuri only smiled in response, hoping that in her excitement she didn’t notice what a forced smile it was. If he had his way, he would have wanted this decision to be made anywhere but here. Still, he refused to think about such things as omens, good or bad.
42
Yuri and Katya weren’t the only young people to plan a hasty wedding in those uncertain days of war. Anna did not try to talk them out of it. She still remembered when Sergei had marched to war, how he had proposed to her days before he departed. What might have become of them had they married then and there? The thought had crossed her mind, as she was sure it had also crossed Sergei’s, even if they had never spoken of it. It was a natural thing to want some security when the rest of the world seemed to be exploding in turmoil.
Anna understood. Yuri and Katya sought a small island of peace and security in their love and commitment.
The wedding was small, attended mostly by Yuri’s family and friends—Raisa and Talia, Viktor and Sarah, Paul and Mathilde, Vladimir Baklanov and his new wife, Dr. Botkin and his family, and two or three other associates from the hospital. Andrei was conspicuously absent, a void perhaps only Anna felt the strongest.
For Katya, there was only her grandmother, her American nurse, Teddie, and little Irina. She wanted it that way, she said. She had no close friends, and her father said that the unstable state of the vodka business made it impossible for him to leave Moscow at that time. Katya didn’t seem to mind.
The ceremony was brief, performed by an Orthodox priest in the small chapel at Katya’s grandmother’s estate. Rasputin was not an ordained priest of the Church, and thus could not have performed the marriage sacrament. But he did show up at the wedding, though Anna did not recall his name on any guest list.
Katya looked beautiful in a
simple pale pink satin gown. And Yuri radiated love. He looked so much like his father, Anna wanted to weep. She missed Sergei most in moments like this, even though the painful ache of the past was gone now. She allowed herself only a momentary flutter of sadness that he was not present to share in his son’s special moment. Then she concentrated on the lovely ceremony.
“Yuri Sergeiovich, will you take this woman to be your wife, to have and to hold until death do you part?”
“I will,” answered Yuri, his voice trembling with intensity.
“And you, Katya Lavrentinovna, will you take this man, to cleave unto him in sickness and health, for better or worse, until death do you part?”
“I will.” Katya’s voice was breathless, as if she could not believe such joy was possible.
Anna felt a tingle course through her as the priest announced: “Then I pronounce you husband and wife. What God hath joined together, let no man put asunder. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost.”
For the next half hour a photographer took pictures, then the group went to the large parlor where a splendid reception had been laid out. The general gaiety of the group was slightly tarnished, however, by Rasputin’s intrusive presence. Anna had heard conflicting reports about the starets and had read about him in the newspapers, but none of that prepared her for seeing him in person.
Anna was a peasant herself and thus had no prejudices against that class. But as with any group, there were all kinds of peasants, and she could only think that Rasputin came from the lowest end of the scale. He wore an embroidered silk shirt and shiny new boots, but he smelled horribly, and his manners were even worse than his stench. She would have thought that mingling among the noble classes—even the royal family itself!—might have improved upon his peasant upbringing. But he literally guzzled champagne and grabbed food from the refreshment table with his dirty hands and even declared at one point that “a man with a beard didn’t need a napkin.”
Anna overheard Yuri’s friend Vladimir whisper, “Is he a friend of the bride’s or groom’s?”
“Neither,” said Yuri sourly.
The Russians Collection Page 218