The Paleys (1915-1921) - An Alternate Romanov Story

The Spanish Flu

Irina

Only a few days after their second visit to Gatchina, Irina was confined to her bedroom, shut out from the world outside. Her head throbbed incessantly, making thinking or engaging in conversation difficult. It had been mere weeks since they had been immersed in the lively social scene of Petrograd and attending elaborate balls. But now, that world felt like a distant dream, as, one after the other, they started to get sick.

The Spanish Flu had invaded their lives without warning. It was an unseen enemy, creeping in silently and robbing them of their breath and strength. The disease had spread through their household with ruthless efficiency, leaving its victims lying helpless like fallen soldiers on a battlefield. Almost every young person in the palace had caught it, including Irina, Natalia, and Vladimir. Tragically, two servants had already lost their lives to the illness.

It wasn't the clean, swift death of a battlefield wound; it was a suffocating thief, stealing breath and leaving a body a battleground of fever, chills, and a crushing weakness. When Irina could bear to look at them, newspapers were filled with grim statistics which were worlds away from the gossip columns that had filled their pages not long ago.

After days of battling her fever, Irina was finally on the mend. However, she still felt weak and drained, as if a shroud was draped over her body and even the cheerful chirping of the sparrows outside sounded distant and grating to her ears.

Irina's mother constantly came in and out of the room, her face barely able to hide her concern. She would check Irina's temperature with a cool hand on her forehead, offering brief moments of comfort amidst the slow progress of her illness. Some days, she brought tasteless broth for Irina to sip on; others, she placed a cool cloth on her burning skin. But most of all, she simply sat by Irina's side, offering distraction as best as she could manage.

During this bleak period, Vladimir was a ray of sunshine. He recovered quickly from his illness, and even behind closed doors, his laughter brought much-needed joy into their stifling quarantine. After what felt like an eternity, her mother finally allowed Irina to visit him.

The walk to Vladimir's room was exhausting. Her legs were heavy and sluggish. When she reached his door, she leaned against the frame to catch her breath. Through the closed door, she could hear muffled laughter and his familiar deep voice. With trembling hands, she pushed the door open.

There he was, propped up in bed with a book on his lap. Though still pale, he had a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Irishka!" he exclaimed hoarsely, but with excitement. "The prodigal sister returns!"

She managed a faint smile. "Just stopping by," she whispered. "Mama won't let me stay long."

He gestured to the empty spot next to him on the bed. "Come, sit and tell me all about the thrilling world of a sickbed."

They passed an enjoyable hour, swapping tales. He spoke of enduring countless cups of chamomile tea and losing every game of chess he played against himself. Irina shared snippets of her wild fever dreams - wondrous adventures through both magnificent and frightening landscapes.

As the sun set and darkness crept into the room, her Mother appeared in the doorway. Her smile was strained, but there was also a sense of relief. "It's time for you to go back to bed, Irina," she said.

"Can I see Natalia now?" Irina asked hopefully, feeling a glimmer of joy ignite in her chest.

Her mother and Vladimir exchanged worried looks, their usual ease replaced by an uneasy silence. "Irina," her mother began cautiously, "Natalia isn't feeling well yet. It's nothing serious, but she needs more rest."

Irina's brows furrowed, a sliver of worry creeping into her newfound confidence. "But why not? How long has she been ill?"

Her mother's hand subconsciously reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "It happened just after you left, dear. But her fever is still quite high, and... well, she's having some difficulty breathing. Your father hasn't left her side, though, and the doctors are doing everything they can." Her voice trailed off, and Irina could see the deep concern in her mirrored in Vladimir's eyes.

A protective instinct for her sister surged through Irina. Natalia, who was always so strong and resilient, struggling to breathe? It seemed impossible. "But is it serious?" she asked with a hushed voice.

Her mother's hand gently tightened around hers. "We're not sure yet, my dear. This new illness seems to manifest differently in each person. But we're trying our best." The tense glances between her mother and Vladimir only added to her unease. Their usual air of confidence was fractured and a heavy silence hung in the air. It was clear that they both understood the severity of the situation, without needing to voice it. And the fear glimmering in their eyes, as they tried to protect her from it, made her stomach clench.

The suddenness of it all hit Irina like a speeding train. Just days ago, they had been laughing and swapping stories in Gatchina. Natalia, full of life and energy, had been the epitome of health. Now, she lay struggling for air, ravaged by this malicious disease. It felt... unnatural. In Irina's experience, illness was a gradual thief, draining your strength day by day until you were left feeble and miserable. But this was different. This was a ferocious wolf, wreaking havoc on their lives with lightning speed, leaving only destruction behind.

The days that followed stretched out endlessly like an excruciating eternity. Every morning, Irina woke up with a glimmer of hope, only to have it snuffed out by the sombre silence that hung thick in the air. Her inquiries were met with forced smiles and vague reassurances from her mother, while her father remained a constant and exhausted presence by Natalia's bedside. The only noises that broke through the oppressive stillness were the occasional coughs racking Natalia's weakened body and the steady tick-tock of the grandfather clock; reminding them of the precious time slipping away.

By the fourth day, Irina was consumed by a suffocating despair. She lay in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, watching eerie shadows dance above her. Just as she was about to give up and surrender to the darkness, a soft knock on her door startled her.

Her mother appeared, but something was different this time. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying. This wasn't the fake smile that her mother had been putting on for days. This was real, raw emotion.

"Irina," her mother's voice cracked into a whisper. "It's Natalia. She... she wants to see you." Tears spilt from her eyes like a dam breaking.

A surge of electricity pulsed through Irina, a glimmer of optimism battling against the overwhelming sense of hopelessness. Could it be true that Natalia wanted to see her? Was she finally getting better? Emotions swirled within Irina - fear, relief, an intense longing to be by her sister's side.

Without hesitation, Irina pushed herself out of bed, her legs trembling but determined. She couldn't wait any longer. She needed to see Natalia, to hold her hand, to offer her comfort in this time of need.

As she approached Natalia's door, Irina paused, her hand hovering over the doorknob. A muffled sob echoed from inside the room, breaking the tense silence. It was Marianne. Irina hadn't expected her sister to be there and the raw anguish in that one cry only heightened her fears for Natalia's well-being.

Gently pushing the door open, Irina peered into the room. Marianne sat by the window, her body wracked with sobs. Her father stood beside Natalia's bed, holding her hand with a calm facade that couldn't hide the desperation in his eyes. Vladimir was on the other side, his usual stoic expression replaced by barely contained anguish. His red-rimmed eyes met Irina's for a fleeting moment, silently pleading for strength.

Irina's breath caught in her throat as she took in the scene. On the bed lay a mere shadow of Natalia, her cheeks hollow and lifeless. The spark in her eyes had dimmed, replaced by an exhausted film. Every shallow breath seemed to require immense effort, causing her chest to rise and fall with a disturbing rattle. Sweat glistened on her forehead, and her damp hair clung to her pale skin.

Seeing her so weakened by the persistent illness drained Irina of all her strength. She wanted to look away and pretend it wasn't real, but she knew she had to face the truth. Taking a deep breath, she walked over to Natalia's bedside and sat down next to Vladimir. She gently held Natalia's hand as she turned her head towards Irina with great effort, trying to smile despite her weak state.

The room fell silent, heavy with worry. Only the sound of Natalia's laboured breathing and Marianne's quiet sobs could be heard in the suffocating stillness. Finally, the doctor stepped forward with a grim expression. He cleared his throat before speaking in barely a whisper. "Natalia's lungs are failing. It's unlikely she'll survive the night."