Danielle Steel: Granny Dan

“We must do something,” Madame Markova said, looking distracted. The doctor had insisted there was nothing more he could do, and she believed him, but perhaps another doctor would think of something else he hadn't. With a sense of desperation, Madame Markova jotted off a note in haste that afternoon to the Czarina, explaining the situation to her, and daring to ask if she had any suggestions, or knew someone they could call for Danina. Madame Markova knew, as everyone did, that there was a hospital set up in part of the Catherine Palace at Tsarskoe Selo, where the Czarina and Grand Duchesses nursed the soldiers. Perhaps there was someone there who would have some idea how to help Danina. Madame Markova was desperate by then, and willing to try anything to save her. Some people had survived the rampaging influenza in Moscow, but it seemed to be more a matter of luck, rather than anything more scientific.

The Czarina did not waste time writing a response and immediately sent the younger of the Czarevitch's two doctors to Danina. The elder, the venerable Dr. Botkin, was himself felled at the time with a bout of mild influenza. But Dr. Nikolai Obrajensky, whom Danina had met that summer in Livadia, was at the ballet school, asking for Madame Markova long before dinner. And she was greatly relieved to see him, and murmured anxiously about the kindness of the Czarina when she met him. She was still so upset over Danina's condition at the time that she scarcely noticed how much he resembled the Czar, though in a somewhat younger version.

“How is she?” the doctor asked gently. He could see from the state of Madame Markova's distress that the young ballerina must be no better. But even he, having seen severe cases of influenza at the hospital, had not expected to find the young dancer so ill, or so worn by the illness that seemed to have ravaged her nearly totally in the two days she'd had it. She was dehydrated, delirious, and when he took her temperature, he checked it again, unable to believe it was as high as the thermometer said. He had little hope for her survival after he read it again, and examined her carefully, and he finally turned to Madame Markova with a dismal expression. “I'm afraid you already know what I am going to say … don't you?” he said, looking deeply sympathetic. He could see, from the woman's eyes, how much she loved Danina. She was like a daughter to her.

“Please … I can't bear it …” she said, dropping her face into her hands, too exhausted and strained herself to tolerate the blow he was about to deal her. “She's so young … so talented … she's only nineteen … she must not die. You must not let her,” she said fiercely, looking up at him again, wanting something from him he could not give her. Hope, if not assurance.

“I cannot help her,” he said honestly. “She would not even survive the trip to the hospital. Perhaps if she is still with us in a few days, we can move her.” But he thought it less than likely, and Madame Markova knew that. “All you can do is try to keep her cool to bring the fever down, bathe her with cool cloths, and force her to drink as much as you can. The rest is in God's hands, Madame. Perhaps He needs her more than we do.” His tone was kind, but he could not lie to her. He was only amazed that she had survived this long. He knew that some had died on the day the dreaded influenza felled them. And she had had it for two days now. “Do what you can for her, but know that you cannot work miracles, Madame. We can only pray now, and hope that He listens,” Dr. Obrajensky said somberly. He had no hope for Danina.

“I understand,” she said bleakly.

He sat with them for a while, and took her temperature again. It had risen slightly, and Madame Markova was already applying the cool cloths he had recommended. The students were bringing them to her, and keeping them damp and cool, but she would not let them in the room with her, for fear that they would get it. The five girls who normally occupied the room with her had been sent to the main dormitory to sleep on cots or on mattresses with the others. Their room was completely off-limits to them.

“How is she now?” Madame Markova asked him anxiously after she had been bathing Danina's chest and arms and face with cool cloths for an hour. The patient was completely unaware of their presence or attention, as she lay deathly pale and trembling, her face as white as the sheets she lay on.

“She is about the same,” he answered when he checked her again. He didn't want to tell Madame Markova that he thought she was even a trifle warmer. “She will not improve so quickly.” If ever, which he doubted. But even he was struck by how lovely Danina was as she lay lifelessly before them. She was a striking beauty, her features exquisitely delicate, her body minute and incredibly graceful. Her long dark brown hair was fanned out behind her on the pillow. But she had the look of someone near death, he knew only too well, and he was sure by then that she would not live till morning.

“Is there nothing more we can do?” Madame Markova asked, looking desperate.

“Pray,” he said, and meant it. “Have you called her parents?”

“She has a father and four brothers. I believe that all are at the front, from what she has told me.” The war had broken out only months before, and their regiment had been among the first to go. Danina was very proud of them, and mentioned it often.

“Then there is nothing you can do. We must wait and see.” He looked at his watch then. He had been with Danina for three hours, and knew he should get back to Tsarskoe Selo to see about Alexei, and it would take him an hour to get there. “I will come back in the morning,” he promised. But he feared that by then the good Lord would have taken matters into His own hands. “Send word to me if you feel you need me.” He gave her the directions to his home, should they need to send someone for him. But by the time he came back with the person they sent, it might be too late for Danina. He lived beyond Tsarkoe Selo, with his wife and two children. He was still young, in his late thirties, but extremely responsible, capable and compassionate, which was why he had been entrusted with the care of the Czarevitch. And he looked oddly like the boy's father. He had the same distinguished features, was as tall as the Czar, and wore his beard in precisely the same neat, trim way the Czar did. Even without the beard, the doctor looked oddly like him, except that his hair was darker, almost the same color as Danina's.

“Thank you for coming, Dr. Obrajensky,” Madame Markova said politely as she walked to the main door with him. It was a long walk, which took her far from her patient, but walking down the cool halls was a relief, and as she opened the heavy front door, a gust of cold air both startled and refreshed her.

“I wish there was more I could do for her … and for you …” he said kindly. “I can see how distressing this is for you.”

“She is like my own child,” Madame Markova said with tears filling her eyes, and he gently touched her arm at the sight of her sorrow. He felt utterly helpless.

“Perhaps God will be merciful and spare her.” She could only nod then, bereft of words in the face of her emotions. “I will come back very early tomorrow morning.”

“She begins warming up every day at five or five-thirty,” Madame Markova said, as though it still mattered, but they both knew it didn't.

“She must work very hard. She is an extraordinary dancer,” he said admiringly, unable to believe either of them would see her dance again, but happy that he had at least once. It seemed tragic to contemplate now.

“Have you seen her dance?” Madame Markova asked with mournful eyes.

“Only once. Giselle. It was lovely,” he said kindly. He knew how hard this was for Madame Markova. It was easy to see it.