Rasputin's Daughter (13 page)

Grigori,

Our Fatherland is in danger, both from beyond our borders and within. The fact that you receive telegrams from high places in cipher proves that you have great influence. Hence we, the chosen ones, ask you to arrange matters so that all ministers should be appointed by the Duma. Do this by the end of the year so that our country may be saved from ruin. If you do not comply and if you do not stop meddling in affairs of government, we shall kill you. We will show no mercy. Our hand will not fail as did the hand of the syphilitic woman. Wherever you are, death will follow you. The die has been cast; the lot has fallen on us ten chosen men.

So, I thought, my heart shuddering, Papa’s second sight of his own death was not really so difficult to envision. It was, instead, little more than common sense, given how many enemies he had. In fact, could we even trust Protopopov, whom many called nothing more than an excitable seal? Bozhe moi, could he in fact be one of the “ten chosen men”?

I heard a noise on the street and looked back out the window. Without any urgency, a black automobile emerged on the edge of the street. A few long moments later, several men got out and made for our building. So. I was right. Now that Protopopov was gone, the guards were back.

In disgust, I turned away from the window and threw the envelope on my father’s desk. The truths of the world were being laid down before me like cards, each one trumping the last, and I was deeply pained. And yet the truth I most wanted-that of Sasha-was unseen, the most illusive card. If only I could talk to him and ask what in the name of God he was involved in. Would another two years go by before I saw him again, or this time had he vanished forever?

Making my way out of Papa’s study, I stepped to the edge of our empty salon and glanced around. I saw a simple room lined with many chairs, the walls hung with a few plain etchings. How many fine women had sat here, women with fancy feather boas and diamonds of the first water, women who were lost in their meaningless lives and wanted nothing more than to kiss my father’s hand or at least the hem of his filthy blouse. How many poor souls had come here as well, for who else was willing to listen and help them, the downtrodden of my country, except one of their own who had by fate risen to the very top? Everyone in Russia, it seemed, was desperate for a miracle, and many people were turning to Papa in search of it. Oddly, if he were to survive these dark days of rumor and innuendo, no one required that very miracle more than my own father.

With still no sight or sound of either Papa or Dunya, I moved on. As I passed his bedroom, I saw that the door was shut. I wanted to knock but dared not, for I heard his deep, muttering voice from within. Was he on his knees lost in prayer? Was he begging for forgiveness? I certainly hoped so.

Actually, it wasn’t hard at all to gain entry to Rasputin’s home and family. In fact, I was quite eagerly received. After all, they were just simple peasants and that is the peasant way, to open heart and home.

I never met his son, the simple one. And I never really got to know the younger daughter. It was the older one, Maria, with whom I became friendly. I remember how surprised I was the first time I met her. She looked so much like him. Not just the hair. Not the small chin, either. No, it was her eyes. She had his eyes, so piercing, so intense. The resemblance actually frightened me.

But, no, I feel no remorse for what I have done, none at all. We did what we did because we had to, because we had no choice. Rasputin was destroying the prestige of the monarch and tearing the nation apart.

The only mistake we made was in not acting sooner.

If I’d learned anything at all from the titled ladies who visited us, it was this: The single most valuable commodity in Russia had never been serfs or land, money or jewels. Rather, it was-and probably always would be-information, which was so tightly controlled by the government, from the censors on down. From eavesdropping on these women as they waited for my father’s blessings, I’d come to understand that it wasn’t through good deeds or integrity that one was elevated. Rather, it was with the right tidbit of knowledge, real or, better yet, fabricated. Whom you knew. Who knew what. Who knew when. If you possessed any or all of these, you were covered in luck, for that was how titles were given, lands awarded, even how one secured a simple clerical position or, if you were lucky enough to read, a spot in a good school. As these fancy women knew all too well, one didn’t achieve, one connived.

Not long ago I’d brought a cup of tea to a princess, who was laughingly saying to an old baronessa, “Everyone knows that gossip and vranye-our beloved art of creative lying-are the only two things that keep our huge, ignorant country rolling ahead like some giant steamroller, wouldn’t you say, ma chérie?”

“Oui, bien sûr,” chuckled her aged friend, who, like so many of her class, only spoke the tongue of her native land to her lowly servants.

So when I woke the next morning I knew exactly what to do. I needed information, and I knew precisely where to get it.

By the time I had finished my breakfast of steaming kasha and tea, Papa was already receiving his first visitors of the day in the salon. There was a little man from Moscow who, from what I’d overheard, had come because he wanted to supply the army with large-sized military undergarments and needed my father’s help to moisten the deal. Another, a mother of six in dire financial need, had come in search of a prophecy: Would her husband come back from the front alive, or should she start giving up her children for adoption? Papa, as far as I could tell, declined the first, and in regard to the second, the mother, he opened a drawer and tossed her a stack of 2,000 rubles that someone had left as a bribe the day before. As I drank the last of my tea, I heard the woman fall sobbing on the floor to kiss his dirty boots in gratitude.

There was already a line outside our door, and one by one they were let in, humbling themselves before Father Grigori and begging to press their lips to his filthy hand. Sometimes Papa would see scores of petitioners in a single day, sometimes only a few. There was simply no telling how many he would receive this morning; when he’d had enough, he would just turn away and tell Dunya to send the rest packing.

While Papa was busy humbling several fashionable ladies by kissing them directly on the lips, and Dunya was occupied with a tiny nun who was quietly asking for one of Father Grigori’s dirty under linens-“But, please, give me one with sweat”-I ducked into his study. Going directly to my father’s desk, I took two things that were sure to lubricate the lips of any Russian, a small stack of rubles plus, most important, a handful of Papa’s already signed notes. Less than five minutes later I was sneaking out the back door of our apartment, disappearing down the service stairs completely unnoticed.

With my cloak bundled over my shoulders and my hood thrown over my head, I emerged from the courtyard of our building and through the front arch without being recognized. A damp, freezing wind whipped all around me, and I turned right on Goroxhavaya. As I walked toward the River Fontanka, just a block away, a flurry of horse cabs and a motorcar passed me, all hurrying in the opposite direction, I was sure, for the train station. It was ten in the morning and the sun, nearly at its weakest point in the year, was barely rising. Glancing at the low, steely-gray clouds blowing in from the Baltic, I realized we would have little more than five hours of light today, and by four this afternoon it would be dark.

Like all the canals and waterways in Petrograd, the River Fontanka had been captured and tamed several centuries earlier by the work of thousands upon thousands of serfs. Essentially transformed into a broad granite-lined canal, the river had once marked the very edge of the city but was now an elegant waterway lined with five-and six-story apartment buildings, none taller than the dome of the Winter Palace ’s cathedral, as was the imperial decree throughout the entire city. Where our street, Goroxhavaya, crossed the dark waters, many wealthier merchants lived in expansive flats, while up and around Nevsky Prospekt, many palaces, including the Anichkov Palace, the home of the Dowager Empress herself, could be found.

Reaching the river, I turned right again, heading directly into a freezing wind that came whooshing down the frozen river and bit at me like a wolf. Clutching my cloak as tightly as I could, I trekked on.

Some ten minutes later I was within a block or two of Nevsky when I felt someone tugging at the back of my cloak. Spinning around, I saw a filthy young boy dressed in ragged homespun, probably a war orphan who made his living stealing from people’s pockets and bags.

“Get away from me!” I shouted.

The boy, no more than ten, didn’t flinch. Instead, as the freezing wind whipped around us, he lunged toward me. I jumped back and was ready to scream when I saw that he was pressing a piece of paper at me.

“What is it? What do you want?”

He touched his throat and then his mouth and shook his head, and I realized the child couldn’t speak. He was obviously not only dirt poor but mute. And staring into this child’s narrow blue eyes and noticing his bright cheeks, I thought of the rubles I had taken. Of course I could give him some. Before I could, however, he grabbed my hand and shoved the bit of paper into it. I assumed, of course, it was simply a note begging for help-written by someone else, for surely this destitute urchin was illiterate-but when I unfolded it I saw a few lines of verse scrawled in fine handwriting.

Love tyrannizes all the ages

But youthful, virgin hearts drive

A blessing from its blasts and rages,

Like fields in spring when storms arrive.

Recognizing a few lines from Pushkin’s prose poem Evgeni Onegin, my heart suddenly started pounding.

“Where is he?” I demanded.

The boy grinned a sloppy smile-half his teeth were missing-and waved me to follow. It didn’t even occur to me to hesitate, and I quickly followed him across the wide road. As we headed down a narrow side street, the child grabbed my hand and clutched it in his, squeezing my fingers tightly.

Within a half block he steered me through an arched passage and into the cobbled courtyard of a four-or five-story building. There he stopped immediately. Holding up just one of his fingers to me, I understood.

“Sure, I’ll wait right here,” I said.

The boy nodded, dashed back to the edge of the passage, and peered around, obviously checking the street to see if we had been followed. Satisfied that we were alone, he scurried back with a grin, snatched my hand again in his, and led me to a far corner of the courtyard. Descending three steps, we entered a decrepit chai’naya-teahouse-with a low ceiling, hardly any light, and a handful of heavy wooden tables. Behind a counter stood two plump starushki, their heads bound in kerchiefs, one tending a large nickel samovar, the other making blini on a black iron skillet.

“Greetings, Boriska,” said one of the old women to the boy. “Can we get you a glass of tea today?”

His grin as big as ever, he shook his head and continued pulling me along. At least, I thought, the child has somewhere warm to go.

Following Boriska, I passed through a beaded curtain and into a room with just two tables. Boriska pointed to me and then to a stool.

“Of course,” I said, sitting down.

Nodding with pleasure that he’d done his job, the child then raised a hand in farewell.

“Wait,” I said, grabbing him by the hand. “Where are your parents?”

He smiled sadly and shrugged.

“Where do you live? Do you have anywhere to go at night?”

He scratched his neck and shrugged again, squinting his eyes in obvious embarrassment.

“I’m going to give you two things, Boriska,” I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the roll of money. “Here’s two hundred rubles-that’s a lot of money.”

His eyes widened and his head bobbed up and down. Whoever had given my father this stack of bills, this child could certainly use it as much or more than anyone else.

“And here’s something even more valuable,” I said, handing him one of my father’s little notes. “Can you read?”

He shook his head.

“It’s from a man known as Father Grigori Rasputin-he’s my father.”

The child’s eyes widened and he stepped back, biting his bottom lip.

“Don’t worry, the note just asks that your request be granted. For example, if you want to stay at a children’s home, all you have to do is present this paper and they will take you in. Do you understand, Boriska?”

He nodded, pushed the money and the note into his pocket, and leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. In a flash, he turned and darted off, charging through the beaded curtain.

I was sitting in a small room with yellowed pine paneling and a low ceiling that sagged in places. Running my hand over the rough tabletop, I noted that it was clunky and heavy, made out of crude pieces of wood. I doubted if anyone but locals ever came here, either to warm up with a cup of tea during work or to sober up before going home. My eyes turned to the beaded curtain. Would he really come through there, pushing aside the clattering wooden beads?

Instead, Sasha came quietly from behind, saying softly, “That was terribly kind of you.”

Rising quickly to my feet, I spun around to see him emerging from a small doorway. “What was?”

“Helping that boy.”

“I didn’t know you were watching.” Glancing at Sasha’s left arm, I saw that it was wrapped in a fresh white bandage. “How’s your-”

Before I could finish he wrapped his good right arm around me, pulled me into his embrace, and kissed me firmly on the lips. In the first instant, every bit of confusion seemed to flee my body. In the second instant, I knew this was wrong.

“Sasha, no,” I said, pulling away. “I can’t.”

“But-”

“We need to talk.” I stepped back, but only slightly. “Did you get a doctor to look at your arm?”