The station attendants had loaded Mrs King’s baggage on the train, and her lady’s maid touched her shoulder as a sign to depart.
‘Well, Dimitri, have to get on board.’ Mrs King strode forward and planted a big kiss on his lips then waved goodbye. ‘See you when you get back, handsome.’
Dimitri and Katya watched her train chug away from the platform.
‘I don’t know how I’m going to bear being away from you so long, my love,’ he said with a long face, taking hold of both of her hands.
‘I know,’ she replied sadly. ‘It’s best to keep one’s mind occupied, so throw yourself into your work, and the time will pass by quicker.’
‘I’ll try,’ Dimitri answered unconvincingly. He then gave her a long kiss and held her in his arms as his train pulled into the station. It was sheer torture to let go of her; he had to propel himself onto the train. Standing at the open window of his compartment, he reached his hand out to Katya, who grasped it.
‘If all Americans are like Mrs King, then I don’t ever want to visit America,’ she said with a big smile. He laughed as the train began to move. He kept waving to her until she was out of sight.
FORTY
When Dimitri returned from Poland, he was excited to show the Tsar the progress photos of the tennis complex and get back to refining the details on the Tchaikovsky Memorial. The first thing he did was go to see Katya, but on his way to her house, he left his camera at the Kodak shop on the Nevsky to get the photos developed. The next day, the Tsar sent word that he would see him at the Alexander Palace. Dimitri was looking forward to seeing baby Alexis again.
When he entered the Tsar’s study, he knew immediately that something was wrong. Over the last year, he could see the anguish about the Japanese War in Nicholas’s face. It gave him a perpetual troubled and tired look. Today, his expression looked far sadder: almost grief-stricken. Maybe there had been another military catastrophe in the Far East. He gave Dimitri a forced smile, and together they went over the photos at the conference table. He asked some questions but seemed vaguely uninterested, not enthusiastic as he normally was when discussing a design. He didn’t even mention the Tchaikovsky Monument. When they finished, there was an awkward silence.
Without thinking, Dimitri blurted out, ‘Tell me what’s happened, Nicky.’
The Tsar seemed relieved that his friend sensed something was wrong.
‘Alexis has hemophilia,’ he blurted out.
Dimitri only knew vaguely about the disease.
‘He got a cut, and it won’t stop bleeding?’
Nicky sighed. ‘No, he bled internally from his navel. There was a large dark blue swelling under the skin. Then he bumped against the crib, and another swelling appeared on his arm,’ he said in a halting voice.
‘What does Dr Botkin say?’ He was the Imperial Family’s personal physician.
‘He brought in a specialist, Dr Petroff, who concurred it was hemophilia.’
‘What exactly is this disease?’ Dimitri was alarmed.
‘His blood doesn’t clot. Any rupture of a blood vessel under the skin causes the blood to seep into the muscles and tissue for hours. The skin can swell to the size of a grapefruit before it stops.’ Nicky’s expression was haggard.
Dimitri thought back to what Alexis looked like. It was hard to imagine that such a child with a happy healthy pink face and golden curls could be cursed with such a horrible disease.
‘And there’s no cure for it?’ he asked anxiously.
‘No … Surface cuts and scratches aren’t the problem; they can be bandaged and pinch off the blood. It’s when the blood seeps into joints that it causes terrible pain, the specialist said. Alexis cried non-stop from the bleeding; it’s unbearable to hear him, Dimitri. Sunny is in despair. The slightest bump or fall could lead to death. He’s what they call a “bleeder.”’
Dimitri didn’t know how to respond. He just sat there in shock, looking down at the pictures on the table.
Nicky continued, ‘Maybe the worst of it is that the boy inherited the disease from Sunny who inherited it from her grandmother, Queen Victoria. She feels so guilty.’
Dimitri met his friend’s tired eyes.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Dr Petroff explained that women transmit the disease but never suffer from it, only males. Queen Victoria’s youngest son, Leopold, got the disease, and she also passed it on to her daughter, Alice, Sunny’s mother. Her son Frederick died from it when Sunny was a year old. So Sunny in turn got the sickness from her mother and gave it to Alexis. He called it “the royal illness.”’
Dimitri wondered if Nicholas had known that Alexandra carried hemophilia when he married her. Maybe he didn’t know or understand the hereditary pattern of the disease in the royal families of Europe. If Queen Victoria carried it, then it must be all over the place since she had nine children who’d married into royalty. But that was water over the dam; now Nicholas and Alexandra had to keep their heir alive. He knew the Tsarina must be in great torment. This baby was the crowning achievement of her marriage – to produce a male heir to the Russian autocracy, the answer to all her prayers. Her face had glowed with joy. She was so proud of such a handsome child. Now she was thrown into endless torture, watching her baby suffer. Unless someone came up with a cure, Alexis would still be suffering twenty years from now, and could die from a bump.
Dimitri sat up straight. ‘Nicky, you have to comb the Earth for a doctor who can cure this. I hear that in America, there’s a hospital called Johns Hopkins. It’s supposed to be one of the most advanced in the world.’ Several times, Katya had talked about the hospital and how famous it was.
‘Yes,’ the Tsar responded sadly. ‘We must search everywhere for men of science. But Sunny tells me that Anna Vyrubova has heard of peasant healers who can perform miracles to cure the ill.’
Dimitri raised his eyebrows. The Tsarina was so desperate that she’d consider anyone. Katya would have laughed aloud at that notion. Only modern medicine, she’d say, would save the boy.
‘I’ll do anything on Earth to help you,’ Dimitri said in a reassuring voice.
‘Only a very few people know what has happened. Please don’t tell anyone,’ the Tsar said quietly.
‘Of course.’ As Dimitri was about to say something else to reassure him, Alexandra burst into the study. He was shocked to see her usually beautiful face the color of a sheet and disfigured with agony.
‘He’s bleeding again, Nicky!’
Dimitri sat alone on a bench in the middle of Tsarskoe Seloe’s park. Usually, he loved walking by himself through the huge, beautiful man-made landscape with its winding paths, meadows, and groves of trees. He had wandered into the park in a trance, still in disbelief over learning about the Tsarevich’s sickness.
He felt guilty again for what he was doing.
‘Can I betray two people I love, whose son has been cursed with such a horrible thing? What did they do to deserve such an awful punishment?’ he said out loud. He still couldn’t believe the expression on Alexandra’s face when she ran in to tell Nicky that Alexis was bleeding. And he remembered that he was betraying not only the Imperial Couple, but his people – the aristocracy. He was a traitor to his class, a goddamn turncoat. He had been brought up to believe that the aristocracy were the chosen rulers of Russia led by the Tsar. His father, grandfather, and great-grandfathers pledged their lives to uphold that rule. Now, he was caught up in a movement that said everyone – down to the dumbest peasant – had a right for self-governance. It went against everything he was taught to believe. He knew he was lucky his father was dead; the old man would have punched him in the nose for such a heinous betrayal. And if a revolution did succeed, what would happen to all the princes, princesses, counts, and countesses? Would their lives and land be taken from them? No more balls, banquets, or summer trips to France? A count and a peasant would have the same social standing? It was a shocking thought. Lara would laugh uncontrollably at such an absurd not
ion. What had he gotten himself into?
But he had to admit that Ilya’s photos had opened his eyes. Then seeing the dead in Sebezh. He’d slowly discovered that he’d been living in a fantasy world. Daily life for most in Russia was pure suffering. It wasn’t some isolated occurrence – it was widespread deprivation. So, he’d decided to act. When Katya told him her secret, he’d been even more determined to stand up and fight.
He stood up and started walking home. He imagined telling Katya he didn’t want to be part of the revolution anymore. Her big blue eyes would widen in disappointment. She would tell him there was something bigger here, that he couldn’t turn back now. Maybe she would start screaming at him, calling him a coward – or worse, say she didn’t love him anymore. That last thought stopped him in his tracks.
FORTY-ONE
‘You seem to enjoy our rituals,’ the Baron said appreciatively.
The Baron was taking Katya home from the Friday-night sabbath meal at his home. It was the fourth she’d attended. She knew she was taking a chance by associating with the Baron and his family so often, but she was irresistibly drawn to them. She had even gone back to the temple one Saturday morning. Well aware of the repercussions from too much contact, she was cautious about her visits – as was the Baron. When he took her home, he always let her off around the block from her mansion. And the Baron and Dimitri were still the only ones who knew of her secret.
‘I’ll tell you the truth, Baron. I come for the challah,’ Katya whispered conspiratorially. The Baron laughed heartily. Katya held up the brown paper-wrapped loaf his wife, Miriam, had given her to take home. Challah was a golden-brown braided egg bread used for the blessing in the traditional Jewish sabbath meal. Katya found it incredibly delicious.
‘I bet my wife has offered to teach you how to bake it yourself.’
‘She has, and I refused because I’m a rotten cook. I can heal a gunshot wound, but I can’t boil an egg.’
‘Well, you’re welcome any Friday night. The High Holidays are coming up in the fall. They are special celebration meals I hope you will come to.’
‘I had imagined the Friday night celebration to be far more elaborate. But it has a wonderful simple elegance to it. The way the women light the candles, cover their eyes, and say the blessing.’
‘Just think, on Friday nights all over the world, Jews are reciting the same blessing,’ the Baron said proudly.
‘I just realized that my ancestors probably said the same prayer on Friday after sundown.’
The Baron grinned and nodded in agreement.
‘You’re right,’ Katya stated suddenly, ‘it’s the Jews’ faith that has let them survive for two thousand years without their own nation. That says something about a people.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘That they have an innate resilience that makes them special.’
‘It sounds like you’ve done more reading.’
‘I have. At this very minute, Russian Jews are tormented. The government is rounding up any who live outside the Pale and forcing them to relocate there,’ she said angrily. ‘And they are powerless to check these pogroms. Then there’s all the unjust restrictions placed on them.’ She stopped because she knew she was shouting from her soapbox again.
‘Exactly. There is no one in this country to speak up for the status of Jews,’ said the Baron in a voice without any emotion.
‘But why do you sit by and take it? An intelligent, good man like you? And those poor innocent souls I saw dead in Sebezh.’ Katya immediately regretted saying the last sentence.
‘You were in Sebezh?’ he asked incredulously. ‘After the pogrom happened?’
Katya was caught and had to make a clean breast of it – almost.
‘Yes. The hospital there needed help, so I went,’ she said quietly.
‘I think you are quite a special person to do something like that.’
She nodded. ‘The revolution will bring equality for Jews. I know it will.’
‘Our Tsar might have something to say about that.’
‘But if millions rise up and topple him from power, Russia will be a land of freedom – for everybody.’
The Baron sighed. ‘There’s a saying we Jews have when we wish for something miraculous: “From my lips to God’s ears.”’
Katya was ashamed of her outburst, and the Baron could see the embarrassment in her face. He leaned forward and placed his hand on hers.
‘Jews are used to the worst oppression a human being can dole out – and can take it. Like you said, it’s our resilience that makes us special.’
As usual, the carriage pulled up a block away from Katya’s house.
‘Please forgive me for being so loud,’ she said in a quiet voice. The driver helped her out. Before he shut the door, Katya said to the Baron, ‘But I can’t watch people being treated that way.’
FORTY-TWO
Dimitri chose his very favorite, the ‘Trans-Siberian Railway Egg.’ Opening the hinged top of the egg crowned with a gold double-headed eagle, he took out the gold carriages and put them in order. He thought for a moment, then picked up the second to last car, the baggage carriage, and turned it upside down. The workmanship was so incredible; the car actually had a scale-model chassis underneath, which was the perfect place to hide the folded note. He placed the cars back in the egg and slid it slightly forward. Although he often visited the display room and was likely beyond suspicion, he made sure that no one was in the hall before he left. Anyone could be an Okhrana plant.
He had received a message from Evigenia early that morning to go to St Isaac’s Cathedral and wait in the rear, by the Madonna and Child Ikon. By the time he got there, there were many worshipers milling about after the service, lighting candles and praying to ikons. It was a good place to meet so as not to arouse attention. He spotted Evigenia kneeling in prayer. He knelt down beside her and held his hands up in prayer.
While still looking up at the ikon, Evigenia whispered, ‘You must deliver a message to our agent in the Alexander Palace today. Put this note in an egg in the display room and move it forward of the others. It’s under my left knee.’
When she stood up, there was a tiny folded note on the cold stone floor. After crossing herself, she walked away.
Dimitri palmed the note while pushing himself up from kneeling. He decided not to take the train to Tsarskoe Selo, but instead took his carriage for the fifteen-mile trip.
His task now done, he decided that he would visit with the little Tsarevich. He ordered a uniformed equerry to ask if the Tsarina would see him now.
When he entered the Tsarina’s boudoir, she was playing four-handed piano with Anna Vyrubova at the upright white piano. Although Dimitri still thought of Anna as a goody-two-shoes, he was happy to see that Alexandra was able to enjoy herself for a few minutes.
‘Look who’s come to visit us, Alexis!’ Alexandra said, walking over to the white wicker bassinette. She held up the smiling baby for Dimitri to hold. Dimitri was getting more confident in holding the infant. After he was told of the boy’s illness, he was scared to death he would drop and break a priceless treasure. He took the baby and sat on the carpet next to Alexandra’s chaise longue, where she sat and watched them play.
The new baby had brought sunshine into the palace. Alexis was the center of the family’s universe: everything revolved around him. The Tsarina was so proud of the boy, she now regularly took him for rides in her carriage and was delighted when people bowed at the sight of him. His father brought him to a review of the Preobrajensky Regiment at the Winter Palace. When the soldiers cheered, Alexis crowed in babyish delight.
‘Such a beautiful child,’ Anna Vyrubova said fawningly.
‘He’s going to crawl any day now,’ the Tsarina replied.
For most mothers, Dimitri knew, that would be an important milestone, but for the Tsarevich, it meant trouble. A black cloud constantly hung over the poor boy. Hemophilia became even more of a danger the more active the boy
became. When the swelling occurred, he cried non-stop. It was heartrending, but the Tsar and Tsarina had steeled themselves to it. They didn’t dare give him morphine for fear of it becoming habit-forming. If the pain became too intense, the only relief for Alexis was fainting. The Tsarina never left the boy’s bedside during an attack, surrounding him with her tender love, trying anything to alleviate his suffering. The Tsar in a free moment would come and try to play with him to get his mind off the excruciating pain. But all the attention and love of his parents and sisters could not ease it. All they could do was helplessly witness the effects of this curse.
Because he saw them so often, Dimitri could see the physical and mental damage that the disease was doing to the parents. The Tsar looked more haggard, but the Court thought the disastrous Japanese war was the cause. The beautiful Tsarina now looked hard and worn as the guilt over giving her son the disease made her life even more agonizing. The Court didn’t know about the Tsarevich’s affliction, so it seemed that Alexandra had become more aloof, making the aristocracy hate her even further. More and more Court events were canceled.
The Tsar strode into the boudoir. Normally, this was his happiest place to be, but on his face was a fierce-looking scowl. He was holding what looked like a booklet.
‘I found this shoved in the stack of daily ministerial papers,’ he shouted, uncharacteristically. He handed it to Alexandra as Dimitri stood up to see.
On the cover was the title The Misery of Russia, with a photo of a filth-covered peasant child. The Tsarina slowly turned the pages, which were filled with black-and-white photos of people in abject suffering and deprivation. She gasped at one picture that showed dead beaten bodies laid out on a floor in a row with a caption – ‘Kishinev, 1903.’ This wasn’t some crude flyer; the bound booklet looked to be about fifty pages long, and was professionally done on quality paper. Something one would see in a bookstore. There was only one short piece of text on the first page, saying that the Tsar had ignored the misery of one hundred million peasants and had oppressed two million Jews, and that there had to be a constitutional monarchy to right those wrongs.
The Fabergé Secret Page 21