The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  Daniel glanced around, a bemused look on his face.

  “I’m lucky to have an office at all,” Yuri said apologetically. “The hospital is so overcrowded. And there is no money for an assistant, so the paper work piles up on me.” He motioned Daniel to a chair. “I didn’t want the job as Chief of Surgery in the first place, and said I would not sacrifice direct patient care to the tyranny of paper. The board of directors really didn’t care. Someday, I suppose, there will be a new and efficient bureaucracy in Russia, and I will probably be tossed into the Fortress for not filling out forms in triplicate. But for now, the disorder of society is my ally.” He dropped into a seat adjacent to Daniel, not behind the desk.

  “You look tired, Yuri.”

  “As do you.”

  “I suppose we are both slaves to our work.”

  “Do you think we’d be that way if there wasn’t such a huge need?” Yuri realized it had been so long since he’d had a friendly chat with anyone that he found himself relishing it and wanting to prolong it. He knew Daniel must have a special purpose for this visit but saw no harm in taking advantage of the moment.

  “I fear we would be,” Daniel replied. “My hardest task is to force myself to stop and spend time with Mariana and the children.”

  “They seem well-adjusted enough, so you must have found a proper balance. My only salvation is that Katya is wonderfully understanding. And Irina never had a father, so she is content with anything I do.”

  “Well, we must be thankful for the small things.” Daniel paused.

  After a minute of silence, Yuri chuckled. “Have we run out of things to talk about already?”

  “Only if we want to avoid talk of the news and medicine.”

  “What else is there in our lives? Perhaps we ought to take up a hobby. Can you picture us lolling by the side of a lake, fishing?” Yuri paused, but only for a brief moment before he added, “Are you sure you didn’t have something specific to talk about?”

  Daniel smiled. “Yes, but friendly conversation happens so little these days.”

  “I was thinking the same thing. How about when this cursed revolution is over, and life returns to normal, you and I buy a couple of fishing poles, find a lake, and see what we can catch?”

  “I’ll look forward to it, Yuri.” Daniel tapped his lips thoughtfully. “Now, about this ‘cursed revolution’ . . .”

  “Yes, how is it going, Daniel? You probably know more about it than anyone I know besides Uncle Paul.”

  “Lenin is stirring up things—and just when the Provisional Government was beginning to get a handle on the situation. Before Lenin arrived most Bolsheviks were content to take the part of the peaceful opposition party. When Lenin published his April Thesis in Pravda—which uncompromisingly denounced the war, calling for an immediate peace, and which also called for the Proletariat to oppose the Provisional Government any way it could—the editors quickly informed their readers that those were the personal opinions of Lenin and were in general unacceptable to them.”

  “If his own party doesn’t support him, he doesn’t have a chance.”

  “Lenin does not give up that easily. I have seen the man in action. He can bend the will of even the most obstinate adversary. But I didn’t interrupt you from your important work to discuss Lenin, though he might well have an effect on everything in the future. I really wanted to talk to you about the royal family.”

  “I have recently spoken to Dr. Botkin, and he tells me they are holding up well.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. You must know, of course, that there are those who are especially concerned with their safety—”

  “According to Uncle Paul, Kerensky is one of those.”

  “Yes. He is committed to their protection. But what if someone rises to power who is more easily swayed by the oft-heard cries of the people to make the tsar stand trial and answer for his crimes?”

  “As Mama would say, Daniel, why borrow trouble?”

  “True, but your mother would be the first to be prepared for trouble should it come.”

  “What are you getting at, Daniel?”

  “Sorry for being so cryptic. Been around too many politicians lately. Here it is clearly. I have been contacted by a small group of men in Britain who are interested in preserving the safety of the royal family. They were especially appalled by King George’s refusal to grant asylum. They would be prepared to mount a rescue.”

  “That’s quite noble, but why them? There are many monarchists in this country who talk of the same thing—and they are Russian.”

  “Yuri, you know I love the Russian people as I do my own people. But they are a notoriously disorganized and disjointed lot. One look at the way the revolution has been run is proof. Many groups talk of a rescue, but few are able to agree on a single plan. I think my British contacts believe a little Anglo order might be called for.”

  “All right, then, I applaud them.” Yuri leaned back in his chair, shaking his head, puzzled. “I still don’t see what you are getting at.”

  “They—the Brits, that is, would . . .” He hesitated. “Well, they would like some inside intelligence.”

  “Inside Russia?”

  “Inside Tsarskoe Selo.”

  There was a long silence as Daniel’s intent began to dawn on Yuri. His brow wrinkled, and he just stared at his brother-in-law, waiting for him to continue.

  “Yuri, you are the only man I can trust who can do this job.”

  “Even if I agreed to do such a thing, you know yourself I am at the hospital sixteen out of twenty-four hours. I haven’t time for my own family. How would I find time to spy on the tsar?”

  “You wouldn’t have to go there on a regular basis. An occasional visit would suffice, bolstered by your communiqués with Botkin. You have already established yourself as a consultant in the care of the tsarevich—”

  “That was before the abdication. In fact, I haven’t been to the palace since . . . the monk died.”

  “Since your involvement in that matter never became known to the tsar, it would be far simpler for you to reestablish yourself there than it would be, say, for me to do so.”

  “True.”

  “That’s all you need to do for now. If and when an actual rescue were to occur, there might be more—relaying messages in and out of the palace, that sort of thing.”

  “I don’t know. . . .”

  “Yuri, you once sacrificed a great deal to save the tsar. I know you thought it was all for naught when the revolution came and he was forced to abdicate. But what if this is a chance to redeem yourself, to make your former sacrifices mean something after all?”

  Yuri shook his head. “It’s too late for that, Daniel—” When Daniel opened his mouth to protest, Yuri raised his hand. “But there is another reason for me to do what you ask. I need to have some purpose in life that is more positive than the pain and death I face every day. It’s a more selfish motive, to be sure, but then I never did wear altruism very well.”

  “I think it’s a perfect reason,” Daniel said, smiling. “I’ve heard too many platitudes from politicians lately to trust altruism much, anyway.”

  10

  Getting back into Tsarskoe Selo was easier than Yuri thought it would be. He called up Botkin on the pretense of needing to consult with the older physician on a difficult case at the hospital. Botkin was permitted the use of the telephone at Tsarskoe Selo, but he had to go to the guardhouse to do so because all other phone lines in the house had been cut. Also, the conversation had to be entirely in Russian so the guards could monitor it. Yuri inquired about the health of the royal family and was told that all were well except for Marie, who, having contracted the measles after her brother and sisters, was still ill and appeared to have come down with pneumonia as well.

  “Can I be of any assistance, Dr. Botkin?” Yuri asked.

  “Well . . .”

  “I would really like to lighten your load, Doctor,” said Yuri with emphasis. “Please, let me come a
nd see what I can do.” He felt rather the fool, sounding as if he could do more than the older man who was his mentor and a far superior and more experienced physician than he. But Yuri hoped Botkin would, by the very irregularity of the request, catch the hint of an ulterior motive and consent.

  Botkin hesitated and Yuri groaned inwardly.

  Then, surprisingly, the older man said, “I will see that a special pass is sent to you and the guards are notified.”

  Yuri took the train to Tsarskoe Selo the next day. He stopped first at Botkin’s home to greet his family and inquire if there were messages they would like him to deliver to the doctor. But because the doctor was not technically a prisoner, but rather had chosen to stay with the royal family, his own family was able to see him on a regular basis. So Yuri went on to Tsarskoe Selo and the Alexander Palace where the royal family was “imprisoned.”

  The “Tsar’s Village” was quite changed from the last time Yuri had been there, and even if he expected it to be so, the changes were unsettling. The guards were a motley group, a far cry from the fine Cossacks that had once proudly guarded the tsar. These new sentinels were dressed in shabby, mismatched clothes, with uncombed hair and unshaven faces. Boots were caked with mud and weapons were held like sticks in grimy hands. The guard at the door of the Alexander Palace was seated in a gilded chair he had dragged from the palace. His feet were propped up on brocade cushions, and his rifle was carelessly lying across his knees. And he was reading a newspaper!

  Yuri had to loudly clear his throat to get the man’s attention.

  The guard lowered the newspaper and looked up, not even trying to conceal his displeasure at being interrupted. “Yeah? What d’ you want, and who might you be?”

  “I’m Dr. Yuri Fedorcenko. I have a pass.” Yuri held out the official paper. “I’m here to see Dr. Botkin.”

  “On what business?”

  “Medical business.”

  “Someone sick?”

  Incredulous that the guard was not better informed about the status of his captives, Yuri answered, “One of the tsar’s children.”

  “You mean ex-tsar.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  The guard took the pass and scrutinized it, but Yuri doubted the man could even read. Then the man demanded to search Yuri’s medical bag. Every item was carefully examined, including the lining of the bag. When he determined there were no weapons or other items he deemed dangerous in it, he said, “All right. Go ahead.”

  Yuri reached for his pass, but with a sly, toothless smile, the guard said, “I’ll keep it, Doc, till you leave.”

  Shrugging, Yuri entered the palace and was received by Count Benckendorff, the elderly Grand Marshall of the Court. The count bore himself with the same regal formality as he had prior to the revolution. It was both heartening and dismaying.

  Fingering the monocle in his eye, the count said, “Come this way, please.”

  Yuri followed him to a receiving room. On the way, he noted that the interior of the palace was not much changed except for a few pieces of furnishings out of place, and a couple of blank places on the walls where paintings had once been. Yuri waited there five minutes before Botkin entered.

  “So sorry to keep you waiting, Yuri Sergeiovich.”

  “It was no problem at all, Doctor. How are you doing?”

  “Quite well, thank you.” But Botkin’s normally robust figure seemed to have thinned, and his hair was peppered with more gray than Yuri recalled. “It was very kind of you to offer your assistance. You would think that with only a handful of patients I ought to be quite at my ease, but . . .” He shrugged, perhaps unable, or unwilling to finish his statement. “I should talk, eh? I understand the hospitals in the city are filled to bursting. But I have also heard that you are acquitting yourself quite admirably as Chief of Surgery. Not that I had any doubt you would.”

  “I do what I can and what I must,” Yuri replied. “But I know better than anyone that I should never have been promoted to that position at such a young age.”

  “Never mind that. You are doing the job and doing it well. Would you care to have tea with me, Yuri?”

  “Very much, sir.”

  Botkin spoke briefly with a servant, then led Yuri to a small drawing room. On the way they encountered two or three of the guards roaming, seemingly, idly about the corridors.

  Botkin shook his head sourly and said in a low voice to Yuri, “They have made themselves quite at home here. One of the ladies-in-waiting awoke last night to find a guard standing over her bed. They are especially fascinated with the young heir and are constantly trying to get into the nursery to have a look at him.”

  “Do you get any privacy?”

  “Oh, yes we do, I suppose.”

  “It appears to be a pretty slipshod operation they run here.”

  Sighing, Botkin, shook his head. “Appearances are not everything. Let the tsar try to take a mere walk about the grounds and there is one guard or another right there to bully him. It’s disgraceful.”

  They reached the drawing room and went in, but Botkin was careful to leave the door ajar.

  “No sense inviting their curiosity as a closed door is sure to do,” he said.

  They seated themselves, and in a few minutes a servant brought a tray of tea. She put it down with a careless clatter, making it quite obvious she thought such work was beneath her. The water in the pot was lukewarm, and there were no cakes or other edibles to go with it.

  “There are still some loyal, respectful servants,” said Botkin after she left. “But many would rather be doing something else—though who knows what they would do, since serving is all they know. The only reason many have stayed is because the new government has commissioned them to be spies for the government and report all suspicious activity here in the palace.”

  Understanding the impossibility of talking freely, Yuri took a notebook from his pocket and jotted a brief message: “My purpose for coming has to do with more than the medical welfare of the royal family.”

  A slight smile on his weary face, Botkin took the message, read it, then rose and walked casually to the hearth, where he casually tossed the small paper into the fire. “Yuri Sergeiovich, I am in need of some fresh air. Would you mind accompanying me on a brief walk about the grounds before we look in on my patients?”

  “Certainly, Doctor.”

  They walked for about ten minutes. There were still patches of snow on the ground, but the sun was shining and the temperature was practically warm enough for shirtsleeves, though both Yuri and Botkin wore jackets. Two guards kept a close watch on them but remained several paces behind so that the two doctors could converse, if only in “coded” sentences and whispers. Yuri was, however, able to communicate the true purpose of his visit.

  “This will be very encouraging to the tsar,” said Botkin.

  “It’s only in the early stages—information gathering, that sort of thing. I will keep you posted while you keep me apprised of the situation here.”

  “We must be careful. All mail is read and packages and such are carefully searched.” Botkin rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “I’ll continue to have you consult on the children—”

  “Hey there!” interrupted one of the guards. “What’s all the whispering about?”

  “We are merely consulting on a confidential matter regarding a patient,” Botkin replied with affront.

  “Well, no whispers around here.” The guards now drew closer.

  “Dr. Botkin,” Yuri said in a loud voice, “I have never seen the like of it. When I opened up the patient, such an odor rose from the bloody cavity as I have never before experienced.”

  “What symptoms indicated a gangrenous lung?”

  “The sputum sample for one. Besides a fetid odor it had three distinctive layers—a rather frothy layer on top of a more translucent, serous one containing strings of pus. The bottom layer was of a reddish-green purulent material—”

  “All right!” yelled the guard. “Yo
u’ve had enough air. Back to the house.”

  When Yuri and Botkin turned and saw the two guards looking decidedly greenish, the two doctors barely restrained their grins. They became more serious when, once inside, they met Alexander Kerensky in a corridor.

  Yuri had never met his uncle’s friend and colleague before but had heard much about him and seen him from a distance. He was dressed as a common workingman in a collarless blue shirt, coarse gray trousers, and heavy boots. He had the small, darting eyes of a man who is in motion even when standing still. Those eyes now gave particular scrutiny to Yuri, instantly aware that he was a stranger to the palace.

  “Dr. Botkin, I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of meeting your companion,” he said.

  “This is Dr. Yuri Fedorcenko. I have asked him to come and consult regarding young Marie.”

  “I see.” He held a hand out to Yuri. “I’m Kerensky.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Yuri. Then he played his trump card. “My uncle speaks very highly of you, sir.”

  “Your uncle . . . ?”

  “Paul Burenin.”

  “Ah . . . Pavushka. Well, I think very highly of him also. A good man. You should be proud.”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Well, then, I must go now to meet with the ex-tsar.”

  “Kerensky, sir,” said Botkin. “Might I have a brief word with you first?”

  “What is it, Doctor?”

  “I wish to request, sir, on behalf of my patients, that you seriously consider transferring the family to the Crimea for their health. They are recovering much too slowly from their illness, especially Marie, who has contracted pneumonia. The air in the south would do them a world of good, I am certain.”

  “I am sorry, Doctor. That is simply impossible at this time.”

  “I cannot see what difference it would make—”

  “For one thing, Doctor, public sentiment against the tsar in the south is quite strong. There would be a strong public outcry if the family were to be ensconced in the relative luxury of Livadia. And this could well impair their safety. So, I am afraid it is out of the question. Now, I must be on my way. Good day, gentlemen.”