“Chest pains.”
“Have you experienced them before?”
“Occasionally. Nothing to speak of, though. My son diagnosed them as indigestion.”
“I see.” Yuri listened to Vlasenko’s heart with his stethoscope and detected a slight arrhythmia. “Tell me about the pain.”
“Like a blow to my chest, right here.” He laid his fist over his sternum. “I could hardly move my left arm as well, and I had a devil of a time breathing. It has subsided a bit now.”
“Your symptoms are classic angina pectoris.”
“Angina—what?”
“Simply put, it is a disease affecting the arteries of the heart muscle. They become clogged. It is sometimes referred to as fatty heart.”
“And I suppose you will now browbeat me about my diet and weight,” groused Vlasenko.
“You no doubt have far greater things to worry about now, Count,” Yuri replied with just a hint of sarcasm. “And it is most likely those very worries that brought on this attack. Your weight and diet are, to be sure, contributing factors.”
“So, what can you do about it? I don’t like my accommodations at the Tauride Palace, locked into a basement room, but I like even less this bed and this hospital.”
In such cases morphine was often prescribed for relief of the pain, but Yuri did not intend to waste even a quarter grain of the precious medicine on Vlasenko, especially since he was obviously over the extremes of the seizure.
“I’m going to prescribe nitroglycerin.” Yuri picked up Vlasenko’s chart and wrote as he spoke. “This is only to be taken during an attack. One tablet by mouth. Let it melt slowly under your tongue. But I must tell you, Count, that there is little else to be done for you. I’ve known patients to live for years with such attacks. On the other hand, the next attack might well be your last—that is, it could kill you.” Yuri did not relish these words as much as he thought he might. “You must do what you can to reduce stress—”
“Ha! Then I am a dead man for certain.”
“You have survived this long, Vlasenko. Only those whom the gods love die young.”
“I am hardly young.”
“My point exactly!” Yuri smiled. “I’ll have the nurse make up a prescription for you, then you can be on your way.”
“So soon?”
“I thought you didn’t like this place.”
“Well . . . listen here, Fedorcenko—” Vlasenko crooked his finger, motioning for Yuri to lean closer to him. When Yuri did so, Vlasenko continued in a whisper, “Our families may have our differences, but the truth is, Yuri Sergeiovich, that our political sympathies are not all that far apart. You were a physician to the tsar, and, rumor has it, you were an accomplice in the assassination of Rasputin, which even I realize was done in an attempt, however misguided, to save the Crown. You took a great risk in the interest of the tsar.”
“What are you getting at, Vlasenko?”
“There is still hope of putting the tsar back on the throne—”
“You are a dreamer, Count.”
“There is a large contingent of loyal monarchists out there who need but a leader to rouse them. If I were free, I could be that man. We could mount a counter-coup against that ruffian Kerensky and his gang.”
“And you want my services in assisting your escape?”
“Why not? You had the courage to kill Rasputin. You are loyal to the tsar—”
“Really, Count, I believe the blood has not only been cut off from your heart, but from your head as well. The monarchy is gone, and the sooner we accept that, the better off Russia will be.”
“I will never accept it. And it is because of apathy such as yours that Russia crumbled in the first place.”
“I take full responsibility,” Yuri said dryly. “Now, I will be discharging you, Count. My medical advice to you is to abstain from counter-coups and the like. They would not be good for your health.”
Followed by a loud disgruntled curse from Vlasenko, Yuri stepped around the curtain and, pausing before one of the guards, said, “Citizen Vlasenko can leave the hospital as soon as the nurse gives him his prescription.”
Yuri left the ward feeling almost amused at the encounter with his relative. Counter-coup indeed! Vlasenko’s mental facilities must be one kopeck short of a ruble. Yuri did feel a bit sorry for the man, too. Vlasenko had lost everything in the revolution. Besides his position, his power, his ambition, there was nothing else to Vlasenko. Though he still blustered and bullied, he was a very broken man, as much as any other man Yuri might lament. As much as himself—more so, really. And that revelation was quite astounding to Yuri. Though Yuri had lost much, suffered much, he had not lost all. He still had a supportive family, a loving wife, and his own personal honor and integrity. The essential person he was, even if he might at times fear otherwise, was still alive. At least he had to believe that. He had to!
“Yuri!”
For a moment he thought his imagination was playing tricks on him. The voice calling his name was one he loved above all. But she never came to the hospital.
“Katya! Whatever are you doing here? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, dear,” she quickly assured him as she hurried close to him.
He reached out and took his wife in his arms, not caring that he was the Chief of Surgery and was standing in the middle of a hospital corridor. His arms trembled with a passion that surprised even him. If he had been praying just then, he would have known her to be the answer to that prayer.
“Well, well,” she teased, “if I’d known I’d receive a reception like this, I would have come here more often.”
“I realize now, you are the primrose—”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll tell you later. But first, why have you come? There must be something amiss.”
She smiled that mysterious, childish, petulant smile that had won his heart three years ago. “I have been sent to take you away from all this.” He gave her a puzzled scowl and she continued, “Your mother told me to pry you from this hospital even if I had to gag and bind you. It’s time for a holiday.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“The family is having a bit of an outing, and it would not be complete, especially for me, if you were not there.”
“Where? Why?” He felt foolish. These days “outings” and “holidays” were about as foreign to him and most Russians as apple pie and those American hot dogs Daniel was so fond of.
“It’s the children’s fault, really,” said Katya. “They get a little candy in their tummies and suddenly think there should be a party. They wanted to go ice skating. And your mama said, ‘Why not?’ And to all of our surprise, none of us could think of a good reason not to go. No one has skated all winter, and soon the ice will melt and the chance will be lost. So, everyone has gone to their favorite ice pond, and I was sent to fetch you.”
“It sounds wonderful, but I can’t just . . . leave.” He paused and suddenly caught his wife’s enthusiasm. “Can I?”
“You must because I don’t know where this secret family ice pond is, and I need you to guide me there.”
“Well—”
She looked at him with beguiling, imploring eyes. She was probably more beautiful now, seasoned as she was by adversity, than when he had first met her at Felix Youssoupov’s engagement party. The depth of character she had tried so to hide back then had now been allowed to flower and grow. She was now all the woman he had desired then, and she was certainly far more than he probably deserved.
“I suppose I could get away for a couple of hours. But my skates—”
Katya triumphantly held up a shopping bag he had only vaguely noticed before. “I’m prepared.”
“Then let me tell someone and we can be off.”
4
Anna watched as Yuri and Katya approached, waving as she glided past on the ice. It seemed like a dream really, a happy family skating upon the Neva in the middle of a revolution. Mariana and Da
niel were skating ahead of Anna with little Zenia between them holding their hands. John and his sister Katrina were trying to make figure eights in the middle of the pond, while Teddie was holding the hand of her little four-year-old charge, Irina. Even Countess Zhenechka had come and was seated with Raisa Sorokin on a bench at the edge of the pond watching the skaters’ performances that ranged from Mariana’s skilled grace to Teddie’s shaky stance, barely keeping upright.
Anna’s skill ranged somewhere in between those. She could do an adequate figure eight, but hardly the spin that John was now executing to impress Irina, who was watching him with awe. Ten-year-old John landed on his feet, much to his obvious delight, since it was only his second attempt at the spin. The viewers on the side and those on the ice all applauded. And truly, the dreary recent times and the even drearier prospect for the future faded for a short time at least.
Yuri and Katya had finished putting on their skates and were now stepping onto the ice. Anna was struck suddenly with how much Yuri resembled his father. Of course, she’d always known that, but here, in happy, pleasant surroundings, it was so much more evident. It took no more than that for Anna’s mind to wander back over the years to when she had first met Sergei—the young prince, scion of a family that for generations had closely hobnobbed with royalty. And Anna—the shy handmaid who barely had the nerve to look at him, much less speak.
“I’ve just realized I don’t yet know your name,” said Sergei.
“It’s Anna, my lord Prince. Anna Yevnovna Burenin.”
“Well, I am Sergei. Sergei Viktorovich. Now, until my father is dead, which I don’t anticipate for a very long time, I will always think of him as the prince, not myself. I suppose I am a prince, after all, but somehow it never sounds right to my ears when I am called one. And as for the rest, well, to tell you the truth, I’d be much more comfortable if you just called me Sergei.”
Anna did not reply.
“Do you skate, Anna Yevnovna? I think you were about to tell me what you did at home a few moments ago.”
“No, sir,” answered Anna. “At least not like you skate here. We used to fasten sticks to our boots, but it did not always turn out so well.”
“Sticks? It must have been rather awkward.”
“Yes. Sometimes my papa carved pieces of wood for us with his knife, and they worked better. But even sticks could be no more difficult than standing on those thin blades of metal.”
“Have you ever tried it with skates, Anna?”
She shook her head.
“It’s really much easier than it looks. Let me show you. My sister has an extra pair of skates that should fit you well enough.” He rose to leave the sleigh.
“Oh no, sir, I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Come, come, Anna. I thought we had all that settled about separation between the classes. Or at least between you and me!”
Still she sat, pondering what to do. Olga and Nina would be scandalized at the way this day was turning out!
Sergei’s thin, sensitive lips twitched into a genuine, reassuring smile. “Come, Anna,” he said, kindly this time rather than sternly, “the fate of the Motherland does not hinge upon your decision.”
“But . . . but what will Princess Katrina say? I am supposed to attend her if she needs anything.”
“I will tell my slave-driving sister I needed a partner and that I insisted that you join me . . .”
A few moments later, when the skates were firmly in place, Sergei took Anna’s hand, helped her to her feet, and led her to the edge of the ice. He stepped onto the river, then, as her blades met the ice, gently tugged at her hand to pull her into motion.
Before Anna could catch herself, suddenly her feet flew out from under her and she was on her back.
“Ouch!” she cried, looking up to where Sergei towered above her.
“It may take a while,” he said, “but you will get the feel of it.”
“It’s already far different than with sticks,” she replied, reaching up for his hand while rubbing her sore bottom with the other. “That hurt!”
Sergei laughed. “You can depend on the ice for two things,” he said. “It’s cold, and it’s hard!”
Timidly Anna crawled to her knees, gingerly putting one skate under her weight, then the other, hanging on to Sergei for dear life, propriety all but forgotten.
“Up you come . . . there! Now if we can just get moving, it will be easier.”
Again Sergei began slowly to ease his way across the ice; this time, however, grasping Anna’s left arm firmly while his right stretched around her waist for support.
Steadily their speed increased, Anna’s two feet wobbling back and forth uncontrollably. Her legs started to split apart . . . wider . . . wider . . .
“I can’t—!” she cried, but it was too late.
Clutching desperately at Sergei’s arm to keep from falling, Anna toppled sideways, pulling him along with her. The next moment they were a tangled mass of legs and scrapes and bruises.
Sergei was laughing so hard he could not speak.
A smile crept across Anna’s lips. What a day that had been. She and Sergei had certainly broken all the rules of social propriety. But what a grand time she’d had once she had forgotten about her fear. She had even managed to laugh over her frequent spills and her completely graceless performance. That Sergei could have fallen in love with her after that day was always quite incredible to her.
“It’s good to see you smile, Mama.” Yuri had skated up beside Anna.
“I’m glad you came, Yuri.”
“I needed to get away from that hospital.”
“Perhaps I should call for a holiday once a week—at least.”
He linked arms with her and they skated together around the ice. Yuri was an accomplished skater like his father. Katya was up ahead of them with her daughter and Teddie. They were laughing because Teddie had nearly lost her footing and only Katya’s appearance and quick response had kept the older woman from a painful meeting with the ice.
“You’ll never guess who I had for a patient today,” Yuri was saying. “That old snake, Cyril Vlasenko.”
“Poor Cyril. They say he is now a prisoner of the Provisional Government and may face execution.”
“The bullets would probably bounce off him. He has an uncanny way of defying his just deserts. Even now with heart trouble that could prove serious, he is plotting his escape. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he succeeded.”
“All must answer for their deeds eventually, Yuri,” said Anna simply.
She did not hold as much malice against Vlasenko as perhaps she had a right to. After all, Vlasenko had been a nemesis to the Burenin and Fedorcenko clans for years. He tormented the peasants in Katyk as one of the local promieshik and seemed to bear a special grudge against Anna’s family. Anna always wondered why this was and could only speculate that Vlasenko simply could not abide a peasant like Yevno who was so obviously ten times the man Vlasenko, with all his titles and power, could ever be. The problems with the Fedorcenkos were more straightforward. His grandfather and Viktor’s grandfather had been brothers. Cyril’s grandfather had mismanaged his inheritance and lost it, although he claimed the reason for his financial decline was that he had been cheated in his inheritance, that Viktor’s grandfather had received the lion’s share, leaving worthless scraps for the next son. He passed this resentment on to his heirs, including Cyril.
Seventeen years ago Cyril had usurped the Fedorcenko St. Petersburg estate. His means of doing so had been totally dishonest, but since there was no way of proving that, the estate was lost. But that very loss had miraculously brought about the recovery of Viktor’s mental stability, and had also been the catalyst for the emotional reunion of Viktor and his son, Sergei. No one much regretted the loss of property because of all they had gained in its place. And now the estate lay empty and in ruin. Half had been burned down during the early days of the revolution, and the remaining parts had been plundered. Anna
had not had the heart to visit the place since then. She would rather remember it in the days of its glory and splendor.
“Mama, I’m afraid I’ve made you sad,” said Yuri. “I should never have said anything.” He shook his head dismally. “Leave it to me to ruin a happy day.”
Anna tenderly patted her son’s arm. “Not at all, Yuri. Actually, what you said reminded me of a very fine thing. We have so much, son. Imagine, with all our sad losses, we are still surrounded by so many who love and care for us. What we have as a family simply cannot be touched by all the discord and chaos on the surface of things. I was thinking about when Count Vlasenko took away your grandfather’s estate. Nothing but good came of that. It’s how God always seemed to care for us.”
“And you think good will come out of all that is happening now, Mama? The collapse of our society? Andrei’s . . . death?”
“I must believe that, Yuri.”
“If only I could . . .”
“First you must be able to trust the one who gave that promise.”
“I think it is more a matter of being a worthy recipient of that promise.”
“It doesn’t help for me to tell you otherwise, son, does it?”
He shook his head. “I want to believe what you’ve always told me about God. But even God must draw the line somewhere in His vast forgiveness. I know . . . I know what you will say to that. He even forgave His own murderers. In a way, I can think of no more cruel act. I think His forgiveness is sometimes more painful than to be beaten and tortured.”
“I remember how Andrei used to chide you for analyzing everything too much. You are a thoughtful, sensitive man, Yuri, and that is a fine thing. But sometimes I think a little simplicity might not harm you.”
“Believe me, you don’t know how often I’ve prayed for that myself. But it’s not easy to change who I am.” He paused and took a breath, seeming reluctant but resolved to say what was on his mind. “Mama, you often say how much I am like father, and I realized recently that Papa had a similar experience to mine. He killed a man, too.”
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