Vladimir, March 1920
"Breathe in." The doctor instructed in his low, kind tone as he placed his stethoscope on his back. He listened to the sounds coming from his lungs for a long moment before he allowed him to breathe out again.
The examination lasted for several minutes. After threading his back carefully, he moved on to his chest and examined it with the same thoroughness, taking his time between each breath.
Vladimir had gone through the same procedure countless times over the years, but that winter had been particularly hard on him. After his second pneumonia in four months, not to mention the bronchitis he suffered in late August, the regiment doctor had put him on leave for a month. Then, under the orders of his family doctor, he was sent to Biarritz to recover until early March. This was his first consultation after his return to Russia and he was not quite certain what to think.
The month he had spent in Biarritz had been a dream. To return to the seaside village where he had spent so many happy days as a child, to see old friends, to actually have time to write had been a balm he was not aware he needed. Yet, life in Russia was very different. Back in the country of his ancestors, it was an honour to serve in the army, it should be his only purpose in life and writing poetry, writing plays, and translating them felt almost like idleness. No matter how good the reviews were, or how much praise he received from his peers, it would never be more than an eccentric pastime to his father.
All these thoughts were running through his head as he dressed. The doctor had not said a word and was scribbling something incomprehensible on a piece of paper, barely exchanging looks with him.
"Well?" Vladimir asked as he took his seat opposite to him.
The doctor remained silent for a moment, as he finished what he was writing. Then, he put his elbows on the table and clasped his hands in front of him.
"Better," he said, simply. "There are no signs of infection."
Vladimir nodded, very slowly, relieved at the good news.
"Good. So when can I report back to duty?" He asked.
At that, the doctor hesitated. He looked over at his notes again, fetched some old papers from Vladimir's file and analyzed them carefully while his patient waited for an answer. After what seemed like a long time, he emerged from his studies and faced Vladimir with a neutral expression.
"I cannot, in good conscience, send you back to the army," he said, pronouncing every word very slowly, very carefully, so that the meaning would not be lost.
Even so, it took a while for Vladimir to register the meaning of what he had just been told.
"What do you mean?" He asked. "How is that possible?"
The doctor leant back on his chair and exhaled, looking Vladimir in the eye.
"You've suffered three major infections in your lungs in the past six months. Not to mention the minor colds and other chest ailments throughout the winter. If this pattern continues, and all signs point that it will, your lungs are likely to be permanently damaged. They're already too weak to withstand a Russian winter, if you put yourself through the rough routine of the army: the lack of sleep, cold baths, outdoor exposure, demanding exercises and all else, your lungs won't take it for much longer."
Vladimir looked at the doctor for a long moment, with a blank expression, as his mind tried to process the information he had just been given. The first thought that came into his mind was how in the world he would break the news to his father. Grand Duke Paul was a proud military man. After his exile, the thing that had hurt him the most had been to lose his military ranks. After that, he would only communicate with the Tsar in cases of extreme urgency, but one thing he did ask of his nephew was a position for Vladimir in the Corps des Pages when he turned twelve.
It was one of the hardest moments of his life: to leave his family home, the only country he had ever known, and travel to Russia to start his training at the academy. He had succeeded from the start, mainly because he felt that was the only thing he could do to make his father proud, but health issues had also followed him closely from the very first year onwards. The possibility that he might one day not be able to serve had always loomed in the background, but Vladimir had always refused to believe the day would come any time soon. His father had not even considered that possibility. He used to say he had weak lungs as well and that had never stopped him from serving the crown.
"I understand that the news may come as a shock," the doctor said after a long time.
Vladimir gave him a dry laugh.
"The army is my life," he replied. "I don't know what to do without it."
The doctor shook his head as he placed the papers he had been analyzing back in their file.
"Come now. For a young man of your talent, with your connections, it won't be too hard to find another honourable occupation," he said, giving him an encouraging smile. "Perhaps it will give you the opportunity to pursue your writing career, more seriously?"
Vladimir tried to smile back at the doctor but with little success.
"I don't think my father sees that as a real occupation. Nor anyone else in the family. Except my mother, of course."
The doctor rose from his chair and handed him a sheet of paper with his report.
"Please deliver this to your superior. Believe me, if I could, I would be more gentle in my diagnosis, but it's not possible. Your health comes before your duty in this case, I'm afraid."
Vladimir nodded and held the paper in his hands for a moment. The paper that would, for all purposes, end his military career.
"Thank you," he said before he walked out the door.
When he left the medical building at his regiment's headquarters, the world seemed like a different place. When he entered it just an hour before, he had a clear vision of what his life would be like in the coming years, but now everything had changed.
He folded the paper and put it in his pocket. The snow was beginning to melt, but it was still bitterly cold outside. He fastened his coat and decided to turn around before asking for a meeting with his superior. He needed to speak to someone before making his final decision.