The Fabergé Secret

by Charles Belfoure

  ‘For someone who personally knew these people,’ Katya blurted out, ‘you don’t show much emotion.’

  The doctor just shrugged. ‘This is Russia, and these are Jews.’ He left the room.

  Dimitri took hold of Katya’s arm.

  ‘You’re right, Katya. I live in my own fairy-tale world, totally cut off from reality. Until now, I kept telling myself this was none of my concern, and that was how life was – fair to some people, and unfair to most. Each day that reasoning got weaker and weaker. But I can’t stand by any longer. I have to do what’s right.’

  He gazed into her eyes, which were filled with tears. ‘This can’t go on,’ he said. ‘We have to do something.’

  She threw her arms around him.

  As the train raced through the wintry countryside, Dimitri and Katya stared out the large window of their compartment. They had spent the entire night at the hospital treating more victims who had straggled in. Exhausted, Katya had fallen asleep against Dimitri’s shoulder for a while. He had nodded off as well. For two people who loved to talk to each other, barely a word had been spoken between them one hour into the journey. It was though their spirits had been broken, and there was nothing left to say. The midday train to St Petersburg was mostly empty, and they had their compartment all to themselves.

  ‘We should each stretch out on a seat, we’d be more comfortable,’ Dimitri said.

  Katya didn’t answer, she was still staring out the window.

  ‘Dimitri,’ she said in a quiet almost inaudible voice, ‘there’s something I must tell you.’

  She turned to face him. He saw a frightened look in her eyes, which made him shift uneasily in his seat.

  ‘Out with it. It’s best to deliver bad news quickly,’ Dimitri said.

  ‘I discovered that my great-grandfather was a Jew who converted to Christianity,’ she said haltingly.

  Dimitri locked eyes with her and said nothing.

  ‘And?’ he said after about fifteen seconds of silence.

  ‘And?’ she repeated.

  ‘This is true?’

  ‘Well … yes … it’s true.’

  Dimitri looked out the window for a moment, then turned to Katya and crossed his arms. Her heart sank when she saw his frown. She’d been right; this would be the end of their love.

  ‘So … did you think I’d toss you off this moving train when you told me?’ asked Dimitri gravely.

  ‘I didn’t know how …’

  ‘I should throw you off, for even thinking for a second that it would matter to me,’ he said gruffly. He took her by the arm, drew her to him and kissed her hungrily. ‘I don’t give a damn what you are. All I know is you’re mine,’ he said in a husky voice. ‘Don’t ever forget that.’

  Then, they both stretched out on the benches, and he covered her with her fur coat. As Katya floated into a deep sleep, she recalled that the Baron had been right. If he truly loved her, Dimitri wouldn’t give a damn.

  TWENTY-NINE

  ‘I’d expected more of those damn rioters would die,’ the Tsar said. ‘Just twenty-five?’

  General Drachev looked down in embarrassment at his shiny black boots and cleared his throat.

  ‘When the police couldn’t handle them, the Governor-General called in the garrison, and they put a stop to the pogrom,’ the General croaked in a shaky voice.

  With a frown on his face, Nicholas looked up at him. Dimitri was sitting in an armchair to the right of the Tsar’s desk. He was here this morning to go over the Memorial drawings. Drachev was here reporting on the pogrom in Sebezh, the one that Dimitri and Katya had just seen.

  Sensing impending criticism, the General bowed his head and started rubbing his hands together nervously.

  ‘These Jews are the revolutionary traitors that want to overthrow Russia,’ the Tsar said gravely. ‘Next time, don’t spare any cartridges.’

  A red-hot flash of rage shot up Dimitri’s back. His entire body seemed on fire. He sat bolt upright in his chair and glared at Nicky. Right then and there, he decided to join the revolution. Up until now, he had sat passively and listened at the arts circle meetings, now it was time to act. No matter what the consequences, he had to do the right thing.

  Von Dalek, the Minister of War, who was in charge of the military, interrupted.

  ‘Your Majesty, the next time the army will be forceful in its punishment of the Jewish radicals. You can count on that.’

  ‘I hope so, because the Jews will be sure to make more trouble,’ the Tsar snapped. ‘It’s the criticism of me by the foreign press that’s so maddening. Blaming me for something the Jewish exploiters brought on themselves. Even Tolstoy and Maxim Gorky blamed me.’

  Dimitri remained silent, but inside, rage was boiling.

  The Minister and the General thought their business with the Tsar was finished and could leave. But Nicholas continued.

  ‘The Jews lead the revolutionary movement. And where are they getting weapons? I heard they were using a portrait of me for target practice.’

  Von Dalek interjected, ‘The cause of Holy Russia is the extermination of these rebels. Death to the rebels and the Jews.’

  Dimitri grimaced; von Dalek was toadying up to the Tsar.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ von Dalek went on, ‘there are hundreds of loyal, patriotic groups like the Union of Russian People that stand ready to fight the agents of revolution for the House of Romanov.’

  The Tsar nodded, meaning the meeting was over. The two men almost ran out of the study. Only the new Minister of the Interior, Mirskii, remained.

  ‘Your Majesty, I’d like to add one last comment,’ Mirskii said.

  ‘Go on, Minister.’

  ‘Unless we can solve the Jewish question by drowning all five million of our Jews in the Black Sea, we have no choice but let them live in peace with rights,’ Mirskii said in a calm measured tone.

  Nicholas glared at Mirskii. Dimitri admired him for having the moral courage to speak for the Jews.

  ‘My grandfather wanted to do that,’ the Tsar said angrily, ‘then Jewish revolutionaries blew him to bits with a bomb. You know I saw him die with my own eyes.’

  ‘But, Your Majesty …’

  ‘The Jews are alien to Russia, with their strange religion, food, clothing, and their Yiddish language. They’ll never be Russian!’ Nicholas stated in a loud authoritative voice. Another flash of anger shot through Dimitri’s body. He clenched the arms of his chair.

  ‘It’s in Russia’s best interest to leave them alone, Your Majesty.’

  Mirskii didn’t shrink back as most ministers would have done after a tongue-lashing. Dimitri’s respect for him increased exponentially.

  ‘I’ll take it under advisement. You may go, Prince Mirskii,’ the Tsar said in a pleasant tone. The Minister bowed and left the study.

  ‘Now back to something far more important,’ Nicholas said to Dimitri with a smile. ‘The toilet facilities of the Memorial must be expanded. The lines at the interval will be far too long. You can’t enjoy Tchaikovsky on a full bladder.’

  Dimitri stood over the Tsar’s shoulder to look at the drawing.

  After going over all the revisions, Nicholas gestured for him to sit down and offered him a cigarette.

  ‘This is much more enjoyable than dealing with Jews,’ the Tsar said, pointing at the drawings.

  ‘There are some wealthy businessmen and professional Jews in St Petersburg, Nicky, that don’t cause the Empire any trouble,’ Dimitri said.

  ‘True. They’re a tiny number that are “Russified,”’ the Tsar replied. ‘But they aren’t the same kind of Jews in the Pale that take advantage of the peasants by lending money at usurious rates, or getting them drunk on vodka.’

  Dimitri’s heart sank at his reply, but he forged on.

  ‘So, the Jews in the Pale shouldn’t be protected from the peasants’ resentment and outright hatred?’

  ‘My dear Dimitri, these riots happen in a blink of an eye. It’s just the way things are in
Russia.’

  ‘Maybe the peasants have a bad life, too, and they are also part of the revolution. The workers in the factories, too. I’ve heard the conditions are dreadful.’

  ‘Yes, there probably are peasants and workers in the revolution that have been duped by these Jew radicals,’ Nicholas said. ‘The peasants are like children who can easily be led astray.’

  Dimitri puffed on his cigarette while thinking of what to say. The Tsar was intently studying the first-floor plan of the Memorial. Dimitri stared at him. Now that he knew about Katya’s great-grandfather, Nicky’s views on the pogrom in Sebezh outraged him. The people cleaning up after the riot, like the old man in the store sweeping up glass, didn’t seem like disconnected strangers any longer. It occurred to him that some of Katya’s ancestors could have been treated like that for no other reason than that they were Jewish. He imagined Katya being there in Sebezh with her skirt bunched above her waist like the young girl they found. He had grown up in a family that rarely talked about Jews, because there were barely any around. Once he became a member of Court, he was exposed to mild Jew-hating; the courtiers considered Jews clever exploiters, it was in their blood. Nicky, on the other hand, considered Jews as sent from hell to destroy Russia. His grandfather’s murder had set his feelings in stone.

  ‘So, you think the Jews are the ones who want to topple the government?’

  ‘I know they are, Dimitri,’ Nicky said without looking up from the drawing.

  ‘Nicky, I don’t think the Jews started this riot. Look at this – a doctor who was in Sebezh found this in the street.’ He handed Nicky the ‘Kill the Jews’ flier.

  Nicky simply crumpled up the paper and tossed it into the waste basket. ‘Dimitri, my friend, the Jews have these printed to make it look like they’re the victims,’ he said with a chuckle. He continued examining the drawings intently.

  ‘We should have a separate waiting area for all members of the Imperial Family, so we can drink and smoke before a performance. And during the interval,’ the Tsar announced.

  ‘Maybe Mirskii has a point; if Jews were given full civil rights then we wouldn’t have a revolution on our hands,’ Dimitri said in a casual manner.

  The Tsar looked up at Dimitri with an annoyed expression.

  ‘You’re really on a Jewish tear this morning, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well … I thought that might be a way of derailing a revolution,’ Dimitri replied.

  Nicky said in the exact kind of voice he used when he tried to reason with his daughters when they were being obstinate.

  ‘The only way to deal with Jews is with bullets and more restrictions to keep those devils in line. These pogroms are actually helpful; they keep the Jews in a constant state of fear.’

  Nicky pointed to the drawing.

  ‘And we need our own restrooms. Can’t have royals going to the bathroom with regular folk. Can you imagine Sunny doing that?’ Nicky laughed at the thought.

  Dimitri suddenly felt sick to his stomach.

  THIRTY

  Dimitri was fidgeting in his seat like an impatient child, excited to give Katya her Christmas present. Sitting with her family in their drawing room around the tall, beautifully decorated tree, he couldn’t wait his turn. Finally, he handed her a small gift wrapped in gold paper with a red bow. He anxiously watched her tear off the wrapping.

  ‘Oh, Dimitri, this is absolutely wonderful.’

  ‘I thought you’d like it.’

  Katya held a framed piece of music written in Tchaikovsky’s own hand.

  ‘To think that he sat over this, imagining the music and writing it down in ink. Thank you so much.’ She proudly showed the gift to her family.

  ‘I can’t read music,’ confessed Dimitri.

  ‘Then listen to what it means,’ Katya said. She took the frame to the grand piano in the corner and started playing a beautiful tune.

  ‘That was magnificent! It’s the middle portion of the Concerto in B-Flat Minor,’ Dimitri exclaimed. ‘Please don’t stop!’

  ‘This fellow knows his Tchaikovsky – that’s why the Tsar chose him to design his memorial,’ Katya said proudly after she finished.

  Her father, sister, and the rest of the family happily nodded in agreement.

  Dimitri went over to the piano and picked up the frame.

  ‘It always amazed me that these scratchy black marks can be transformed into something so beautiful to the ears,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Your drawings become beautiful three-dimensional objects,’ Katya said, placing her hand on his.

  Dimitri was so happy when he received Katya’s invitation to have lunch the day after Christmas at her home. He had a prior engagement but cancelled it. Back in the fall, he had had tea with her family and really enjoyed their company. The Golitsyn family was such a jolly group that it brought to mind what Tolstoy said: that all happy families were alike, and every unhappy family was unhappy in its own way – as Dimitri was with Lara.

  Dimitri had to constantly remind himself not to be too affectionate around Katya in front of her family. He was longing to sit next to her on the sofa and wrap his arm around her so her head would snuggle against his shoulder. He loved the scent of her hair. But he had to keep his distance.

  ‘Another cognac, Dimitri?’ asked Aleksandr Vassilievitch.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Katya’s brother Boris showed him his new English riding boots, as they both shared a passion for horses. Playing with Katya’s two nieces immediately brought to mind the Tsar’s daughters. He had been to the Alexander Palace that morning to give the family their gifts. They had given him a magnificent watch inlaid with diamonds with a personal inscription from Nicholas on the back. Each daughter held the watch to her ear to hear it ticking. On Christmas morning, after church, Dimitri gave Lara a sautoir of Cartier pearls, and she gave him a little Rembrandt etching for his collection, as she did every Christmas. At noon, saying she was off to visit friends, she vanished from the house and didn’t return until early evening. Dimitri assumed she was seeing a lover, but he didn’t care.

  Aleksandr Vassilievitch dominated the conversation, asking Dimitri questions about the Imperial Family and the Tsar in particular. Like most upper-class Russians, Katya’s father held the Tsar in almost religious awe, describing in great detail the one time he met Nicholas at Court. He thought of the Tsar as a forward-thinking leader who understood Russia’s need for industrial expansion and the importance of men like him. Yet in all the time Dimitri knew him, the Tsar never once talked about industrial expansion. For a monarch ruling one sixth of the earth, he had little interest in political or economic matters. In fact, he had only one interest and that was his family. It was probably Russia’s happiest family – though it definitely wasn’t like other happy families. If Nicky could be as good a tsar as he was a family man, Dimitri mused as Aleksandr rambled on, Russia might not be in such a fix. And if Nicky cared for all Russians, including the peasants and the Jews, the way he cared about his family – like the ‘little father’ he claimed to be – he’d never allow his ‘children’ to live in poverty, or be murdered in pogroms. The carnage of Sebezh was still forefront in his mind. Dimitri wanted to tell Aleksandr how wonderfully Katya had performed tending to the injured there, but their visit had to remain a secret.

  The time flew by, and soon Dimitri had to leave. Katya put her hand on his arm.

  ‘You can’t leave without your Christmas gift, Dimitri. Wait right there while I fetch it.’

  Katya sprang up and ran out of the room. In less than twenty seconds, she was back holding a little basket.

  Assuming the basket held a home-baked Christmas treat, Dimitri did as he was told.

  ‘I couldn’t wrap it,’ she said excitedly. ‘Close your eyes, and I’ll place it on your lap. No peeking, mind you.’

  Dimitri grinned at her family and did as he was told.

  ‘Now, you can open them!’

  Inside the basket, curled up on a mound of cloth, was a
kitten with black, brown, and white fur. It looked up at Dimitri with round black eyes.

  ‘How wonderful!’ he cried out. He picked the kitten up and held him to his cheek, making it purr.

  He could see that Aleksandr was disappointed that Katya had given him a cat, when Dimitri had just given her an original manuscript by Russia’s most famous composer. But when he saw that Dimitri was as delighted as if she’d had given him a Da Vinci, Aleksandr beamed a smile at his daughter.

  ‘What is that vile creature doing here?’

  Lara stood in his bedroom doorway, her beautiful features contorted in a scowl.

  ‘This is Tolstoy, my Christmas gift,’ Dimitri replied proudly. He was playing with the kitten on his bed by moving his hand under the blanket and having him pounce on it. ‘He thinks there’s a mouse under here.’

  ‘I won’t have that creature in my home.’

  ‘It’s my creature and it stays,’ he said in an irritated voice.

  ‘No, it doesn’t. Anyway, Fedor will kill it.’

  ‘Let’s see. Here Fedor, here boy!’ Dimitri patted his hand on the bed.

  The borzoi rose from his place by the fire and loped over to its master, who rubbed him under the chin.

  Dimitri put the kitten in his lap. Fedor began licking the top of Tolstoy’s head, and they touched noses. The dog walked back to the fireplace, curled up on the floor, and fell asleep.

  ‘Fedor, you traitor!’ Lara stomped her feet, but the dog lay still.

  Dimitri looked at his wife and smiled.

  ‘That’s two votes to your one. It’s what they call democracy. So, the cat stays.’

  ‘Bastard!’

  THIRTY-ONE

  ‘Who is that talking to Countess Turgenev, Lara?’ Princess Betsey asked.

  Lara, taking a quick breather from the dancing, was standing next to her friend. She looked over to see a young woman talking to the old Countess by a stand of palm trees directly across the ballroom.