The tsar was very much relieved when the grand duke asked if he might digress to a new topic. They spent the next hour discussing the new spring offensive aimed at Galicia, where they had known such loss last fall. Both men seemed to relax. The deep creases on the tsar’s face receded and a glow of excitement appeared in his eyes.
Unfortunately, Yuri could never find enjoyment in things military. Even if he hadn’t been constantly surrounded by blood and death, he would have found army life stifling and tedious. But, if there was any glory at all in the military, Yuri saw none of it as a doctor. Serving in a frontline dressing station, he knew only the aftermath of glorious charges and heroic deeds—usually in the form of severed limbs and shattered bodies.
A million Russian soldiers had already been either killed, wounded, or taken prisoner. Yuri worked twenty hours a day trying to save the wounded ones. Sleep and food became luxuries to him. He functioned by grit and willpower. No wonder the news of Katya’s miscarriage had shaken him so. The telegram from his mother said she was physically all right, but it wasn’t hard to read between the lines. They both wanted children, but, to Katya, having a child represented God’s absolution for her mistake.
Then last night he had received a letter from Katya mentioning Rasputin, how he had come to see her and had ministered to her at her bedside. She made a point of saying that he had come on his own, not at her bidding, but she certainly hadn’t made the man leave. Yuri’s greatest fear was that in this time of loss, she would turn again to the starets for counsel. He worried constantly about what distorted ideas Rasputin might feed her poor, distraught mind. He desperately wanted to be home, both to comfort his wife and to steer her away from Rasputin. But his request for a leave had been turned down.
The refusal made no logical sense, either. The influx of casualties had slowed over the winter months, and there were a few weeks yet before the spring offensive was to begin. He could easily be spared now—at least more so at this time than later. But, then, the army rarely operated on logic or common sense.
Yuri turned his attention back to his morning rounds. It didn’t help to think about home and his new wife and the life the war was robbing them of. In the next hour, he examined twenty patients and gave half of those papers for transfer back home. The lucky ones! Of the other half, six would be returned to the line, while the rest were too critical to be moved anywhere.
He was writing notes in a patient’s chart when he heard his name called.
“Yuri.”
“Daniel!” Yuri dropped the chart and strode to his brother-in-law, giving him a big bear hug. “I wondered if you were over here.”
“Are you kidding? Let them try to have a war without me reporting it!”
“I’m finished here,” said Yuri. “Why don’t we find the mess tent and get some tea? You have time, don’t you?”
“You bet! I’ve been looking for you since I arrived.”
Yuri told a nurse where he’d be, then he and Daniel trooped through the ankle-deep mud of the compound to the mess tent. Their timing was perfect. The midday meal was being laid out. They both piled plates full of food.
Yuri motioned to his plate. “Usually by the time I get here, if I do make it at all, there’s nothing left but the dregs.”
“Well, eat hearty, brother—it looks like you can use it.”
Yuri laughed self-consciously. He had lost so much weight that his clothes had begun to hang on him. “Please, don’t say anything to Mama. She has enough worries.”
“I wouldn’t think of it.”
They concentrated on their food for a few minutes, then Daniel said, “I heard about Katya. I’m sorry, Yuri.”
“She’ll recover, and there will be more babies. But I think it’s been much harder on her emotionally than anything else. You haven’t been to St. Petersburg—I mean Petrograd—have you?”
“No, I came directly here. But Mariana and the children are there now.”
“I’m glad for Mama’s sake.”
“I’m kind of surprised to find you here now, Yuri. I said I’d been looking out for you, but I was not looking for you right now. I thought for certain you’d be in Petrograd with Katya.”
“Believe me, that’s where I want to be. I’ve tried to get a leave, but for a long time there was a shortage of doctors, and my superiors didn’t feel Katya’s condition warranted a leave.”
“Things have been quiet lately. If you don’t get away now, who knows when you’ll get another chance.”
“I know . . . I know.” Yuri gave a weary shrug.
“I’ve been assigned to General Headquarters,” Daniel said, “though I try to get away as often as possible to observe the situation in the trenches with the regular soldiers. Anyway, I rub shoulders with a lot of brass. If you’d like, I could put a bug in someone’s ear on your behalf.”
“I’d be in your debt forever, Daniel!”
“Hey, we’re brothers—no debts between us.” Daniel paused, seeming reluctant to progress, then added, “Speaking of brothers, have you heard from Andrei?”
“Nothing. And the little nitwit is risking a thrashing next time I do see him if he remains in hiding much longer.”
“At least he’s out of the war. With the horrendous casualty rate, his chances of being killed, wounded, or captured by the Germans would be pretty strong. I was present a week ago when the tsar was reviewing troops, and he asked how many had been here since the beginning. Precious few hands were raised.”
“You don’t have to tell me. I’ve seen enough blood to swim in it. So, I guess it is just as well that Andrei, with his tender stomach, did what he did. But who knows if he is any safer where he is? We heard a rumor he was with the Bolshevik exile community, perhaps even with Lenin himself.”
“There’s a man I’d like to get close to. An in-depth interview with the Bolshevik leader—front-page stuff!”
“Find Andrei, and maybe you’ll find Lenin.”
“I might just work on that. At least until the spring offensive begins.”
“What of America, Daniel? Will they come into the war?”
“So far, there’s strong support for the President’s declaration of neutrality. But this latest German threat may just push us over the edge.”
“I’m afraid I don’t hear much news. What threat?”
“Germany declared they will actively patrol, by U-boat, all waters surrounding Britain and Ireland, including the English Channel. They will torpedo any enemy vessel. This will seriously endanger U.S. shipping in the area, not to mention Americans who might be passengers on British or French vessels. If any American lives are lost—well, you can imagine how quickly public opinion will turn against Germany.”
“Germany will back down. They don’t want the U.S. in the war against them—”
Just then a nurse appeared at the table. “Dr. Fedorcenko, I am sorry to intrude, but several new wounded have just arrived, and you are needed.”
“Thank you, Sister. I’ll be right there.” Yuri turned back to Daniel. “How much longer do you plan to be here, Daniel?”
“I’m to hook up with Colonel Dolgich this afternoon for a tour of regimental headquarters. I’ll drop by after that, and maybe you’ll be free.”
They rose and Yuri gave Daniel another hug. “It’s been great seeing you. I hope we can talk again; there’s so much to catch up on. But if not—”
“Never mind that!” exclaimed Daniel. “We will catch each other again—I’ll see to it.”
They did see each other again for an hour that evening, then not again for several weeks. Within a week of their meeting, Yuri received a pass to return home. He believed his brother-in-law to be a true miracle worker. And who knew? Maybe Daniel might even be able to find Andrei. If he did, Yuri hoped he’d be able to talk some sense into their wayward little brother.
46
Paris in springtime. What could be more inspirational? Andrei could not resist taking an hour from his work to sketch the sights along t
he Champs-Elysees. He had so little time for his art these days, not to mention that his comrades always made him feel frivolous for indulging this passion. Hadn’t Lenin given up many of his pleasures in deference to the cause? But Andrei still felt he could do both. So, seated on the edge of a brick planter across the street from a cafe, he was intent on drawing a waiter who had caught his interest. The man was middle-aged, short and plump, and looked far too intelligent for his job. He was a veritable chameleon in his relations with the customers—to pretty women he was a suave charmer; to a romancing couple he was a jolly matchmaker; to a businessman he was a discreet servant. As evidence of his success, his pockets bulged with tips.
Andrei was not as fortunate financially. Besides enjoying the Parisian scenery, he hoped he might earn a few francs selling sketches. Tourists thought it chic to patronize sidewalk artists, and even in wartime, Paris had its share of tourists. Yesterday, Andrei had picked up twenty francs, but today the trade was slow. But at least he was not alone in his poverty. Most of his Bolshevik associates were also experiencing a financial slump. The war had taken some of the edge off revolutionary zeal. And many socialists had turned away from Lenin, whose appeal to turn the war into class war along international lines was received with distaste.
At least Andrei was free. After his arrest with Lenin last fall, he had been imprisoned only for two weeks. The worst of it was that he had been isolated from his comrades and put in with petty thieves and the like. At times he feared that even if Lenin did get released, he’d forget all about Andrei. But the Bolshevik leader knew how to take care of his loyal followers. Two days after Lenin’s release, he had used his contacts to procure the release of Stephan and Andrei. The group then immediately moved to Switzerland, a neutral country where they had no fear of a repeat of the incident in Poland.
But because of the war, they were isolated in the Swiss town of Bern. Lenin was too well-known to risk travel outside its boundaries. He was forced to use his comrades such as Andrei to travel to other parts of Europe, gathering information and making contact with other Socialist organizations. Using a false passport and traveling with another of Lenin’s associates, Inessa Armand, Andrei had gotten into France. Their task was to make contact with the French antiwar Left. Andrei had been assigned mostly as a bodyguard, since he knew little about being an agent provocateur. Inessa, however, was quite good at it.
“So, my young Monet,” came a voice from behind Andrei, “have you made your fortune yet?”
Andrei turned toward the familiar voice and smiled. “I’m afraid I shall always be a starving artist—but aren’t they the best kind?”
Inessa Armand gave a throaty, lusty laugh that left the hearer with the impression that she knew how to enjoy life. She was a tall, willowy woman with thick auburn hair pinned up on her head in a sensible style. Her gray eyes were sharp, intelligent, witty, and thoughtful. She could have been a chameleon herself, except her striking presence made that impossible. Her beauty, youthful even at age forty, resided in the vitality and passion of her character as much as in her striking physical features.
Inessa had long ago thrown aside all pretenses to what she called “bourgeois hypocrisy.” Her marriage to Alexander Armand, a Muscovite of French extraction, had ended—though not legally—when she fell in love with her brother-in-law, Vladimir. When she was exiled to Siberia, he followed her there, but he contracted tuberculosis and was forced to move to Switzerland. She escaped from Siberia and joined him shortly before his death. A year later she became a Bolshevik and an ardent follower of Lenin. Rumor had it that she was Lenin’s mistress. She had four children by her first husband, but she never returned to him. Still, his continued financial support made her flamboyant and revolutionary lifestyle possible.
Andrei had never known such a worldly woman. He was, to say the least, a bit uncomfortable traveling with her—especially since they were posing as husband and wife and had to share the same hotel room. He wondered at Lenin’s wisdom in setting up such an arrangement. Perhaps he believed his paramour would be safe in the company of a young man seventeen years her junior. Andrei had no intention but to honor his leader’s trust. But it wasn’t going to be easy. Since their arrival two days ago, he had sensed from Inessa subtle advances toward him. Maybe it was just his imagination. After all, what could a woman like that see in a mere boy like him?
She now came up behind him and leaned down, peering over his shoulder to view his work. The smell of her perfume was distracting at best, downright intoxicating if he allowed himself to think about it.
“You won’t be starving long, mon chéri,” she said, her breath tickling Andrei’s neck. “You have talent.” She said it as if she knew such things, and Andrei wasn’t about to argue with her.
“I look forward to when the revolution comes and artists will be free to truly express themselves.”
“Yes, of course that will be so. But isn’t the struggle, the oppression you fight, an integral part of the art and of the passion within you? It is possible the creative process may suffer a bit under government sanction.”
“It almost sounds like you are saying the struggle toward the goal is more to be desired than actually achieving the goal itself.”
“The struggles, the fighting, make life worth living. I’m a little afraid of what will become of us when we are finally victorious. I suppose many of us will die of sheer boredom. I hope the revolutionary movement is spawning a generation of bureaucrats to take up after us.”
“Well, I doubt we will have to worry about that anytime soon.” Andrei scooted over to make room for Inessa to sit rather than having her continue to lean over him in such a disconcerting way. “Have you had any luck making your contacts?”
“I’m getting close. I must be discreet. I believe the Surete has me under surveillance.”
Andrei was surprised at her calm tone. He thought it no small matter to have the French secret police on their trail. Two weeks in jail was quite enough for him. “Do you think we should abort our mission?”
She laughed again. “You are taking this little excursion too seriously, cher ami. We are Russians visiting an allied country. No one will arrest us, unless of course they learn of our political affiliations.”
“That’s what worries me!”
“You are such a child, Andrei.” She put her arm around him. “But don’t get me wrong, cher ami, that’s one of your greatest assets.” She focused her eyes on him, and her magnetism was so strong, he could not turn away. “A sweet boy, but so handsome and powerful.” She rubbed her hand along the broadness of his shoulders as if she were completely oblivious to the fact that they were sitting on a public street. “I’m surprised it is taking you so long to succumb to my charms, cher. Perhaps I have been too subtle, eh?”
“No . . .”
But before he could say more, she pressed her lips against his, engaging him in a kiss of such passion he could not have fought it even if he had wanted to. For a minute, he didn’t want to at all. She drew away just when he was beginning to regret that they were in public.
Laughing, she said, “That is more like it, cher—my sweet ‘Little Soldier’—” She squeezed his muscular arm. “But not so little, eh?” She took his hand. “Come, let’s go back to the hotel.”
Without thinking, he rose and started to walk away with her. This beautiful, compelling older woman wanted him; Lenin’s mistress wanted him. It was simply too overwhelming. Perhaps it was time he, too, cast aside all his “bourgeois morals.” Anyway, he wasn’t going to muddy the spontaneity of the moment with debate. Leave that to people like Yuri.
He let Inessa hail a cab. They had driven a couple of blocks when something outside the vehicle’s window caught Andrei’s eye. It was a large poster that, though slightly faded, was still striking in design and color. But it was more than the artistic appearance of the poster that drew Andrei’s attention. In large letters across the top were the words: “Ballets Russes.” Beneath the heading was a drawing o
f a dancer, ensconced in tulle.
Andrei quickly tapped on the window dividing the driver from the backseat of the vehicle. “Please stop!”
The driver pulled up to the curb; they were close enough to the poster now for Andrei to read the smaller print: “Performing at the Theatre des Champs-Elysees, beginning May 5, 1914.” Andrei’s initial surge of excitement was immediately deflated. Of course, it was an old poster. Talia wouldn’t be in Paris now, not with the war on.
“What is it, mon chéri?” asked Inessa.
Suddenly, everything snapped into focus for Andrei. What was he thinking? He must indeed be every bit the fool his brother took him for. If he followed his present impulse he would forfeit all his years of devotion to the only woman he ever loved. He had been faithful to her for this long, and Inessa was not the first temptress to come along—even if she was the most compelling. Yet he knew he wasn’t ready to give up on Talia. Not if his reaction to that poster was any indication. The mere hint that she might be near had gripped him in a way that even Inessa’s closeness hadn’t. The thought of Talia touched Andrei in a place so deep it transcended mere physical sensations.
He looked at Inessa and shook his head. “Inessa, this is a mistake.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you love me, Inessa?”
She chortled an ironic chuckle. “Love, cher? What has that to do with anything? We are living in the age of unrestraint, don’t you know? It is time to throw aside the Victorian bourgeois rules of morality. We are free to indulge our passions without the constraints of such outmoded ideas as love.”
“Do you love Lenin?”
“Of course! With my soul, my body, every particle of who I am. But that has nothing to do with other liaisons I might engage in. We are free, Andruska!”
“I suppose, then, that I am not as free as I always thought I was,” Andrei replied. “I don’t believe faithfulness is a bourgeois idea at all. But even if it is, I’m afraid it’s not an idea I wish to abandon. I love someone, Inessa, and sometimes I feel all I have to offer her is my faithfulness. If she ever returns my love, I want to know—”
The Russians Collection Page 221