53
Yuri was coming home!
Although she would never wish harm to her husband, Katya found herself glad he had been wounded. Maybe it would be serious enough so he would never have to go back to the Front again. When she had received word—both, thankfully, in the same letter—that he had been wounded and was returning to Petrograd, for the first time since the death of her baby, she felt a spark of life and joy.
She desperately needed Yuri. She felt as if she were hanging on to her strength, even her very sanity, only by a thread. Olga had been encouraging her to go see Father Grigori, but Yuri had mentioned subtly several times in letters that he didn’t want her to see the starets. And so far she was respecting that request. But she could not keep from wondering what might have happened had she followed up on that last visit from the starets when she lost the first baby. Maybe she wouldn’t have had the second miscarriage. What if he had the power to heal her, to make her womb whole and able to carry a child to term?
Olga told her that only a few months ago, Father Grigori had healed Anna Vyrubova, the tsaritsa’s friend. Anna had been in a terrible train accident and had been near death. Her legs had been crushed, and her head and spine had been seriously injured. The doctors had given up on her. But Father Grigori arrived at the hospital and, like Jesus himself, had commanded Anna to wake up and rise. She opened her eyes and even tried to speak and get up. Grigori said she would get well but would be an invalid for the rest of her life. The woman did indeed recuperate, though she now used crutches or a wheelchair to get around. Olga knew Anna personally and had no doubt of the truth of those events. Grigori had healed her.
Could he not do the same for Katya? Several times in the last two weeks she had come very close to going to 64 Gorokhavaya Street in spite of Yuri’s warnings. She couldn’t understand what Yuri had against the man. And Teddie and Grandmother and Mama Anna, too—they seemed to want to believe the worst, lies that had no doubt been fabricated by Rasputin’s enemies.
And even if some of the things were true, he said himself he was not a saint, but a sinner saved by the grace of God. He was fallible. That’s what gave him the ability to reach others.
But in a few minutes, Yuri’s train would be arriving, and she would be able to feel him and hold him and hear his dear voice. Perhaps that would be healing enough. She stood in Warsaw Station waiting, surrounded by Anna and Mariana and the children. She would have liked a private reunion—just her and Yuri—but the others, especially Anna, could not be denied. They were almost as anxious and excited as Katya. And she would have plenty of time alone with her husband later.
That prospect worried Katya as much as it thrilled her. After two failed pregnancies, she was afraid of it happening again, afraid to face more disappointment and grief. Yet at the same time she desperately wanted to give Yuri a child.
Katya’s conflicting emotions confused and frightened her. Perhaps if she talked to someone about them, maybe Anna or Teddie . . . but she hated to admit her selfishness. Father Grigori told her she must trust God; Anna would say that, too. Everything was sure to work out as soon as she was with Yuri. The confusion would melt away, and the fear would vanish. Everything would be perfect then.
The screech of the train whistle made her jump. Anna took her hand and squeezed it affectionately. The train roared into the station and, with a mighty huff of steam, braked to a stop. The passengers, mostly soldiers, streamed out with slings on their arms or bandages around their heads, hobbling on crutches or canes. Some were missing legs or arms. Yuri, at least, had not been permanently disabled. His broken leg would heal. She scanned the crowd, focusing especially on the men on crutches.
Then she saw him! He was exiting a car, having some difficulty maneuvering his crutches down the narrow steps. She left Irina with Anna and Mariana and ran toward him. The moment he touched the station platform, he saw her, and the sudden grin on his face warmed her. He dropped a crutch as she embraced him. But she held him steady.
They kissed, but it was the embrace, the feel of his arm around her and hers around him that made her feel secure and protected. Despite their problems in the past, feeling him near assured Katya of the inexplicable connection between them, something that went to the depth of their souls.
“You feel so good!” he said huskily.
“I could hold you like this forever.”
He smiled, then suddenly his brow creased with perplexity. “Katya, you’ve had the baby!”
All at once her joy was spoiled. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I . . . I didn’t want to worry you while you were in the hospital . . .” Her lips trembled as she spoke.
“What happened?”
“He died, Yuri . . .” Her voice disintegrated into a choked sob.
“Oh, my love! And you had to face it all alone.”
“I named him after your father, Yuri, as we had discussed. Did I do right?”
“Of course. A son . . .”
“I’m so sorry!” she sobbed.
“There, there. You know it’s not your fault.” He ran his hand over her hair and held her closer. She didn’t deserve a man like this, Katya thought, but she clung to him nevertheless.
Suddenly little Irina ran up and began tugging at them.
“Papa!”
Yuri grinned when she called him “Papa,” and he bent down and scooped her up into his free arm. “Hello, Irina. What a joy to see you!” He kissed her cheek and she kissed him back. Their interaction had been brief before the war, but Irina hadn’t forgotten Yuri’s tender affection.
“You stay home, Papa?”
“I hope so. I don’t want to leave my girls again.”
He did love Irina, Katya thought, perhaps as much as if she were his own daughter. Maybe that would be enough for him. Maybe he didn’t need to have his own child.
But Katya still could not shake the feeling that somehow she had failed the man she loved.
Yuri’s injured leg slowed him down, but it didn’t completely incapacitate him. He spent a week resting and enjoying his family, but was soon restless to work. The war was still going on and wounded continued to flood the city. But conditions in Petrograd hospitals were vastly different than in a dressing station a few miles from the Front. At the Front, speed had been more vital than delicacy—quickly patch up as many wounded as possible so they could be transported farther back behind the lines to a field hospital or, if they were lucky, to hospitals in Russia. But here in the city he could indulge in more exacting work. And, once the wounded made it this far, the death rate dropped dramatically.
At the Front, he had begun to hate his chosen profession. But now he learned to love it again, and to feel confidence once more in his fitness for it. One positive effect had come out of the ordeal at the dressing station: it had honed and perfected his skills as a surgeon, confirming to him that this was the facet of medicine he wanted to pursue. His colleagues began to recognize his excellent skill and to call upon him for tricky cases. While he was on crutches he mostly acted as a consultant, but a couple of times he donned a surgical gown and gloves and, with a nurse helping to balance him, actually took a scalpel in hand.
One day while making rounds, he ran into an old acquaintance. He had not seen Prince Felix Youssoupov since the war began, and before then only a few times. But at Youssoupov’s engagement party, Yuri had met Katya, and he had never forgotten the man’s gracious good humor.
“Yuri Sergeiovich,” said Youssoupov as he strode into the ward, where Yuri was examining an amputee he had operated on the previous day. “I was told I could find you here.”
“Prince Youssoupov—”
“Remember, it is Felix to you.”
“Ah, yes. It’s been a long time.”
Youssoupov rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Four years since we met at my engagement party.”
“I won’t forget that day. I met my wife at your party.”
“Yes, I do recall hearing you and Countess Zhenechka had married.�
�� He added with mock affront, “But I wasn’t invited to the wedding.”
“Nor was I invited to yours,” said Yuri with a sly grin.
“We are even, then. And I hope still friends.”
Yuri handed the chart he was holding to a nurse, giving her a few instructions, then turned back to Youssoupov. “Let’s walk into the corridor. I’m sure you had a reason for finding me.”
They left the ward, and Yuri led them to the end of the hall where there was a small waiting area by a window.
“You’ve been at the Front,” said Youssoupov.
Yuri had heard that Felix had escaped the army under a law that allowed an exclusion for a family’s only son. Some had criticized the man for it, hinting that he was a coward. Yuri held no such judgments. If there had been a way for him to avoid the army honorably, he probably would have taken it.
“Yes, I have. And I’m very happy to be home.”
“I can imagine—well, I suppose I can’t really, never having been to war myself.” He sighed. “It’s not something I’m proud of. You know, my older brother was killed in a duel a few years ago, and the thought of losing another son nearly drove my mother mad. Some think it’s merely an excuse, and perhaps it is. The idea of violence sickens me.”
“I doubt I could harm another man, either. I’m thankful I was in the medical corps and could do my part by healing rather than killing.”
“I never had that option. I’ve tried to do my part with hospital work.”
“Yes, I heard you have turned several of your homes into hospitals.” Yuri smiled. “Very commendable.”
“It’s not enough, though. I’ve joined the Corp of Pages—”
“You will go to war, after all?”
“I will when I finish my training. Honor has finally compelled me to ignore my mother’s pleas and take up my country’s banner. The problem is, I’ve already failed the final exams once. I’ve simply not the aptitude for the military.” He paused. “But I have another matter I wish to discuss with you. As you mentioned, I have been involved in setting up hospitals to treat the wounded. I’m in the process of converting another one of my townhouses into a facility to treat especially serious cases. I’m recruiting the best I can find to staff it. And I would like you to take the post of Chief of Surgery.”
“Felix, I’m flattered but—”
“You must do it, Yuri. I’ve heard from several different sources that you have become one of the finest surgeons in Petrograd.”
“And, have you also heard that I am less than four years out of medical school? I’m only twenty-six years old, Felix! I couldn’t take such a post.”
“Granted, you are young, but that is the nature of war, isn’t it? Battlefield promotions and such.”
“The war has stretched our pool of doctors to the limit. Nevertheless, there must be someone available more qualified than I.”
“You are not merely a last resort, Yuri. You are qualified. How long were you at the Front?”
“Almost two years.”
“That’s equivalent to about ten years of normal experience.”
“Well, I can say it probably aged me ten years!”
“Will you consider my offer? And, in the meantime, will you come work in the hospital just as a surgeon? I realize your injury won’t permit you to take on a full load of work.”
After giving it a moment’s thought, Yuri said, “Yes, to both requests.”
“Splendid! And, to seal our venture, will you and your wife join my wife, Irina, and myself for dinner tonight?”
With not a little apprehension, Yuri accepted, hoping Katya was up to social engagements.
54
It was odd how society seemed to continue to function, regardless of the fact that the world as they knew it was crumbling by degrees. But as Yuri stood in the Youssoupov parlor, surrounded by thirty or forty of Russia’s social elite, he had the impression that they were more like the shell of a bombed-out building, ready to crumble with the least wind or earthquake. They were functioning out of mere habit, he supposed. They simply knew of no other way to live. They went to the opera or ballet, played faro, danced, drank champagne. Their jewels sparkled, their expensive clothes shimmered. What else was there?
For years, Yuri had dreamed of being a part of this society, but now he could feel nothing but pity for them. What was he thinking? He was part of all this. He was here. He had arrived.
He was to be pitied, too, he supposed. Maybe everything Andrei used to say was true: the depravity of the ruling classes, their oppression of the masses, their irresponsible use of wealth, the—
“Yuri, you seem so distant.” Katya came up next to him and slipped her arm around his. “Is everything all right?”
“Oh yes, I suppose . . .” He glanced at her. A peasant family could live for a lifetime on the diamond necklace she wore. Her gown of white satin trimmed in white rabbit fur was one of Worth’s latest designs. But he was not garbed as a pauper either. His tuxedo had been tailored by a Frenchman whom Felix Youssoupov himself patronized, costing several hundred rubles. There was no bread in the city, but the rich, of course, could get anything they desired.
Suddenly he sobered. Katya, his own wife, was one of the wealthy. This was the life he had always longed for. And because of his contacts he was truly able to do good with his medical training. Was it all wrong, then?
“Do you want to go home, Yuri?” asked Katya solicitously.
“Am I spoiling the party for you, my love?”
“I thought I might enjoy socializing a bit,” she said. “It has been such a long time. I thought it might help me shake the sadness I’ve felt since . . . well, you know. But, Yuri, it’s not the same. Maybe I’ve grown up a bit, do you think?”
He smiled. “We both have. It’s something to truly thank God for. I wouldn’t want to be here completely oblivious to the darker side of life, dancing and laughing as if I were not at all aware of what is happening a few hundred miles away.”
“Do you think that’s how everyone else is?”
“Some, but I pray not everyone. We’re here, aren’t we? Trying to put the best face we can on pain and loss. Most of the men here are in uniform and have been to the war. They know.”
“I can name at least four families present who have lost sons and brothers and husbands. The war has touched the upper classes.”
“You’re right. God forgive me for my judgment of them. I guess it comes from my own sense of guilt for being here in comfort and ease knowing how much I am needed at the Front.”
“Yuri, you’ve done your part.” There was more than a hint of scolding in her tone.
He wished he hadn’t said anything. But his leg was getting better. He was using only a cane now to get around. He was working a full load at Youssoupov’s hospital. There was no reason why he couldn’t function at a dressing station or a field hospital. Surely Katya realized that he wasn’t home permanently. But he didn’t have the heart just then to pursue the subject.
“Yes . . .” he sighed.
Then Youssoupov came up to them. “You will dance with me, won’t you, Katya? You need not be a wallflower just because your husband is incapacitated.”
“Thank you, Felix, but—”
“Go on, Katya, if you like,” said Yuri. “You’ve hardly danced at all this evening.”
Yuri watched Katya dance away and wondered if his marriage were a mirror of the Youssoupov party. On the surface all seemed well. Yet often he had the distinct impression they were merely acting out a marriage. When he talked to his mama about it—at least sharing the little he felt comfortable expressing—she assured him that they were still newlyweds in spite of the fact that they had been married two years. It would take time for them to adjust to each other and to marriage in general. And, she said, he must be patient and persistent.
He did not pursue the discussion with his mama. He couldn’t admit that there seemed to be more to it. He would not have been able to explain it, anyway. He
and Katya were kind and considerate and loving to each other. They never argued or disagreed as they used to do before they were married. But that was it—there was no life or passion. Of course it was physically too soon for them to be intimate after Katya’s pregnancy, but it seemed to Yuri that if they were newlyweds, there should be an energy to their relationship on many different levels.
Maybe he was expecting too much.
Then there was the matter of Father Grigori. Katya had hinted several times that she would like to see him. She believed he had the power of healing and thought—or hoped—he could prevent her from having another miscarriage. Yuri had seen Rasputin at work, and even he had wondered if miraculous powers had been responsible for the tsarevich’s inexplicable recoveries. Even a scientist like Yuri could believe in a God of miracles. What he questioned was that God would use as a vessel a man like Rasputin.
What was most disquieting about his and Katya’s brief discussions about the starets was that they hadn’t really argued over it. The tension between them was repressed, but he could almost feel the pressure build up inside them. Was it ready to blow? He couldn’t tell. Perhaps it was just newlywed insecurity. He didn’t know what to do about it.
In spite of his growing disquiet about the Rasputin situation and his marriage in general, Yuri nevertheless agreed to Felix Youssoupov’s invitation to meet with some friends to discuss Rasputin. To be invited to join with a clique of Russia’s highest and finest appealed to Yuri’s ego, and he pushed aside his apprehensions.
He should have known he was in for trouble when Youssoupov gave him some rather suspicious instructions for the meeting. A waiter named Martìn would be looking for him and would take him to Youssoupov’s private room in the restaurant. The secrecy seemed overdone and a bit ominous, but curiosity prevented Yuri from bowing out.
Yuri entered Felix’s private room, to find a small group already present. Yuri recognized only one man besides Felix—the Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich, the tsar’s young cousin. He was about Yuri’s age, a handsome man surrounded by a definite air of royalty. He was, in fact, in the line of succession to the Crown. Yuri knew Dmitri and Felix were best friends, and he also knew that, until a few months ago, Dmitri had lived in Alexander Palace with the tsar’s family and was considered by them to be practically a son. Dmitri’s father, the tsar’s uncle, Paul Alexandrovich, had been exiled some years previously because of his second marriage, an ill-advised union with a commoner. And, thus, the tsar had taken the young Dmitri under his wing. But Dmitri recently moved out of Alexander Palace because the tsar and, especially, the tsaritsa disapproved of Felix, whom they believed was a bad influence on the younger man.
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