Rasputin's Daughter Part 5

Dunya took me and held me and hugged me as warmly as the large oven that heated the core of our village home. But then out of nowhere our doorbell rang, making us jump apart.

"Gospodi!" gasped Dunya. "I told the security agents your father would receive no one today-and not to let anyone even into the building. Evidently, it must be something important." gasped Dunya. "I told the security agents your father would receive no one today-and not to let anyone even into the building. Evidently, it must be something important."

There might be agents posted in and around the building for our security, but no one ever pa.s.sed through our door without Dunya's permission, and today was to be no exception. Wiping her hands on a towel, she smoothed back some loose hair and headed straight to the front hall.

Who could it be? Who had got by the agents stationed in the lobby, let alone those posted on the stairs? As soon as I thought that, it struck me: Were the agents even here? What if they had abandoned their posts, just as they had done last night? Bozhe moi, Bozhe moi, I hadn't told Dunya that we'd been left unguarded. If the agents were gone again, who could that be outside our door, one of father's ordinary pet.i.tioners, some important personage-or a.s.sa.s.sins sent by my father's grand ducal enemies? I hadn't told Dunya that we'd been left unguarded. If the agents were gone again, who could that be outside our door, one of father's ordinary pet.i.tioners, some important personage-or a.s.sa.s.sins sent by my father's grand ducal enemies?

Wasting no time, I charged after Dunya, out of the kitchen, through the dining room, and down the hall. I feared a squadron of muscular men in black leather jackets, who, brandis.h.i.+ng guns and bra.s.s knuckle-dusters, would tear through the rooms, gun down Papa, and beat him into a b.l.o.o.d.y pulp.

"Dunya, wait!" I shouted. "Don't open the-"

But it was too late. Dunya was already pulling open the heavy door. Standing there was neither a small herd of men nor a grand duke or prince, or even a prime minister, but a lone woman, perhaps in her late twenties. As I studied her plain black cape flowing from her shoulders and noted her hands buried deep in the folds of a tired m.u.f.f, my panic subsided only slightly. After all, if a small woman whose nose had been eaten away by syphilis could nearly kill my father with one lunge of a knife, what damage could an attractive healthy-looking woman like this one do?

"What is it you wish?" asked Dunya of our visitor.

"Please, I'm seeking Father Grigori," said the seemingly gentle woman, her eyes misty with tears. "My name is Olga Petrovna Sablinskaya, and I am in terrible need of help."

"I'm sorry, my child, but you should not have been admitted into the building. Father Grigori is receiving no one today."

"He must see me! Please, I beg you!" she exclaimed, pulling one hand from her m.u.f.f and wiping her eyes. "I need Father Grigori's aid on behalf of my husband, who is an ensign. He was gravely wounded and now lies in Princess Kleinmichel's hospital. Tomorrow, however, they'll move him out of the city to a terrible sanatorium, and I fear for his life. Can't Father Grigori do something for a young man who has taken a bullet for the sake of the Motherland?"

Dunya started to press shut the door. "I'm sorry, my dear, but you will have to come back tomorrow. Father Grigori is totally spent and a.s.sisting no one."

"You don't understand, you-"

From the back of the apartment came my father's voice, sleepy but booming. "Dunya, who calls on us? If it's a woman visitor and she's pretty, by all means let her in!"

Dunya studied the young woman, who was actually quite attractive, her skin pale and pure, her face sweet with a small mouth and nice blue eyes. And our housekeeper, who never could disobey my father, knew she had no choice.

"G.o.d has heard your plea...and so will Father Grigori," Dunya said, swinging open the door. "Please, come in."

"Slava bogu," said Olga Petrovna. "I'm so afraid that my husband will die if they move him, and-" said Olga Petrovna. "I'm so afraid that my husband will die if they move him, and-"

"Please, child, save your words for Father Grigori's ears. I myself can do nothing."

This stranger seemed genuine. Hospitals had been set up in palace ballrooms all across town, and her husband could very well be lying in one of them. But as she stepped across our threshold and into our home, I flushed with fear. Did she have a gun hidden in her clothing, perhaps a little pistol cradled in her m.u.f.f?

From down the hall, I ordered, "Dunya, take her cape and her m.u.f.f at once!"

Surprised by my imperious command, Dunya turned and glared at me. Nevertheless, she complied, taking the woman's worn garments in hand. But there was nothing strange, no hidden dagger or gun. Relieved that at least this woman carried no weapons, I turned and hurried back down the hall, skirting the salon and hurrying around to Papa's study. I still didn't understand how she had gotten into the building, let alone all the way up. Why hadn't the security agents stopped her? Had she somehow bribed her way, either with a fistful of rubles or an open dress?

Afraid that there was only one explanation, I dashed into Papa's little study, raced past his desk, and went up to the window. Gazing down into the courtyard, I saw nothing and no one. Were the security agents simply hiding in the shadows, or had they left us-Rasputin, his two daughters, and their housekeeper-to our own pathetic defenses?

Good Lord....

In Papa's perfect world, there existed little more than love and freedom, absolute faith, spiritual study, and a world devoid of material belongings. These were the things he sought for his own life, the frame of mind he chose to inhabit, and the very utopia he so dearly sought for his followers. So how had everything become so twisted; what had he done to make so many connive against him? Worse, even though Papa knew how dangerous things had become, he was just like most Russians, accepting fate as nothing less than G.o.d's will. But not I. Like most everyone these days, I feared the future but I refused to see myself as a lamb predestined for slaughter. Always, always, would I struggle to shape my own path, no matter the heavenly will. And, yes, in this way I differed radically from my naive father, whose world was one of blacks and whites with no shades of gray in between.

Leaning against the chilly panes of gla.s.s, I peered out, checking every nook and corner in the courtyard. As far as I could tell there was no one. Should I ring the palace at once? Should I call the Empress herself and report our vulnerability? Yes, absolutely. I couldn't risk the alternative. What if this seemingly innocent visitor was instead a beautiful bee with a deadly sting? True, she wasn't carrying any noticeable weapons, but what if she had a vial of poison tucked up her sleeve? Or what if someone else sneaked into our home on this, one of the darkest days of the year?

Turning away from the window of Papa's study, I gathered up my skirt, determined to telephone the palace. I had never interceded in my father's world before, but now I had no choice. While my father was infinitely wiser than I, I was beginning to realize I was more worldly.

No sooner had I started for the door, however, when I heard my father's large voice coming down the hall. "Come with me and tell me all your troubles, my sweet young kitten."

"Yes, Father Grigori. And thank you, Father Grigori. Thank you for seeing and hearing me."

"It is not I who will hear you but the Lord G.o.d."

"Yes, of course, Father Grigori," replied Olga Petrovna meekly.

I did it not because I meant to spy on him. I did it not because I wanted to witness how he handled these things. I did it only because I was beginning to understand that my father had no idea how evil this world really was. Papa was always so eager to help people, always so eager to give away money or use his connections, that he rarely thought of the consequences. If he couldn't protect himself, I would. So, ducking into the small shallow closet on one side of Papa's study, I pulled the door nearly shut behind me. Hidden in cool darkness, I peered out a crack only a finger wide, realizing that for the first time I was about to witness how my father treated those in need.

From my hiding spot, I watched as my father escorted our unexpected guest into his private room and shut the door securely behind him. As always, the first thing Papa did was turn to the icon in the "beautiful" corner, bow slightly, and cross himself with three fingers-forehead, stomach, right shoulder, left. Then, his clothing and hair more a mess than ever, he half stumbled to the chair by his small wooden desk. Dropping himself into the narrow chair, he reached out and took Olga Petrovna by her small hand and pulled her close to him.

"Come closer, my beautiful one," he said, peering up at the young beauty standing before him. "What is it you need from me on this cold afternoon?"

"I need your help, Father Grigori. Your intervention. My husband was severely wounded and he needs the best medical care. Unfortunately, they plan to move him from the city, and it scares me. I'm afraid his care will suffer, and I won't be able to visit him more than once or twice a month during his recovery, and without my presence I don't think he'll recover so quickly. And, Father Grigori, I...I-"

Radi boga, I thought, what a groveler. How I hated the way she tiptoed, just like everyone else, around our ugly-sounding last name. People, particularly here in the city, went oddly out of their way to avoid using it, particularly in my father's presence, for fear of offending the powerful peasant with access to the throne. Didn't they know that the name Rasputin was not derived from the word I thought, what a groveler. How I hated the way she tiptoed, just like everyone else, around our ugly-sounding last name. People, particularly here in the city, went oddly out of their way to avoid using it, particularly in my father's presence, for fear of offending the powerful peasant with access to the throne. Didn't they know that the name Rasputin was not derived from the word rasputnik rasputnik-a debauched, dissolute, immoral person-but from rasputiye rasputiye-an intersection of roads? No matter what these learned city people said about the way Russian names were derived, that was where my family name came from. And not only ours, but half the village's, for little Pokrovskoye was located at the intersection of two major roads, one leading to Tyumen, the other off into the never-ending Siberian wilds.

As the woman rambled through her story, Papa barely paid her any attention. Instead he ran his hand through his hair, tugged at his thatched beard, and started scratching, first his chest and then his lanky thigh. I was wondering if he was even paying any attention to her when he cut her off, waving his hand brusquely through the air.

"Take off your clothes!" he commanded.

"What?"

"Off with them!"

"But...but I have money. I have..."

Papa mumbled something incomprehensible, and then shouted out, "G.o.d will not hear your prayers until you humble yourself! Do you hear me? You must humble yourself before the eyes of G.o.d! Do as I say, child: Take off your clothes!"

I nearly leaped out of the closet right then and there, but my shame captured me, paralyzing me right where I huddled. No. Please, not this way. Clenching my fist to my mouth lest I cry aloud, I bit my knuckles. Papa was all strictness and propriety with us, his children. He knew where we were and what we were doing every hour of the day. So what was going on here? What in the name of the devil was he doing? This couldn't be the way he treated all his visitors behind the closed door of his study, could it? Dear G.o.d, as my imagined truth collided with the real one now unfolding before me, it was more than I could bear. Peering from the darkness into the light, I stood as still as a rock frozen to the ground.

"Yes, Father Grigori, as you wish." She pulled her hand free from my father and started unb.u.t.toning the back of her dress. "You see...you see, all I need is a slip of paper, some kind of word from you. People say that you give out such things, a little note with your signature. I would be happy to pay generously for it, one of those pieces of paper."

"Ach, money! People are always throwing money at me, but what good does it do? Nothing, I tell you! Money is worth nothing!"

"Yes, but"-as she began to strip, the pretty woman struggled to fight back tears-"I'll do anything...anything for my husband, if only you'll intervene. What...what is it you'd like from me?"

"Ach, what do I need but love? That's all. I can have anything, I tell you, anything at all! And yet what do any of us have need of but sweet love?"

And so she went on. Her hands trembling, her voice shaking, young Olga Petrovna began to shed her clothes, piece by piece. She did not stop talking, not for a moment, nor did she stop undressing. Staring blankly at a wall, she unb.u.t.toned the top of her dress, and the bottom, and dropped it to the floor. When she stood in nothing but her plain cotton camisole and tattered petticoat, she stopped. As if she were about to be devoured by a lion, she stood there trembling.

"Why do you hesitate, child? Take it off, all of it!" demanded my father. "Do you think G.o.d does not see your doubt? Of course He does! And do you know what doubt signifies to the Lord Almighty? A lack of faith! A lack of belief! That's what He sees in doubt! Let me warn you, divine acts cannot take place in the presence of doubt!"

As if she were somewhere else, she continued staring at the wall, prattling on and on, her voice quite flat as she mumbled. "My husband is a very fine man. He has beautiful brown eyes, he's very strong, and he loves his country and his tsar very much. Yes, and he's anxious to get well so he can return to the army and be of further help...."

Continuing, she pulled off her camisole and then dropped her poor petticoat at the feet of the all-powerful Rasputin. Within moments the last of her garments fell from her body, and she stood there, pale and trembling, totally naked except for long tattered stockings that came up over her knees. Spying her perfect, slightly upturned b.r.e.a.s.t.s and full, shapely hips, I realized that whereas her tears failed her, mine did not. My face was awash.

"Oh, what a pretty one you are," mumbled Papa, as he reached up with one of his big gnarled hands and plucked at one breast, then the other. "I think I like you, my little Olga Petrovna. Kiss me!"

Papa hadn't moved from his little chair, and as she bent over, he reached up and cupped both her b.r.e.a.s.t.s that swung, like pendulums, forward. First he cupped those b.r.e.a.s.t.s in both his hands, coddling them like a naughty boy, then giving them a firm squeeze. Next he pawed at her stomach, ma.s.saging that b.u.t.tery skin as if it were a fine piece of meat. And finally he splayed the calloused fingers of his right hand and reached at the patch between her legs, poking there once, twice. Our guest flinched and whimpered, but not with joy, only painful sublimations.

"Just a note, that's all I need," Olga Petrovna begged, pulling back slightly from my father. "Something from you saying they must keep my husband here in Petrograd until he's well. That's all I...all I need, really. And that's all I'm asking for, a short note."

"I have a whole stack of such notes right here on my desk. Make it so! Make it so!-that's what they say! Now stop your talking. Just kiss me, little one, and I will give you this note! Yes, I love you, I do!"

She bent over again, her small lips pressing through my father's greasy hair and planting a hesitant, horrible kiss on the top of his forehead, right above that little b.u.mp that was reminiscent of a budding horn.

"Yuri, that's my husband, is a very loyal man," she continued, chattering nervously. "You would like him, Father Grigori. He comes from a respected family, too. Very hardworking. And-"

"Ach!" roared Papa, suddenly angry, pus.h.i.+ng her back onto the pathetic leather sofa.

"What? What did I do wrong?"

"Enough with this talk! Get your clothes, be gone! You make me angry!"

"But, Father Grigori-"

"Leave me!"

"But my husband! The note!"

My father slumped to the side and closed his eyes. "Come back tomorrow morning, and we will see!"

Now Olga Petrovna finally cried. She could stand it no more. And as she reached to the floor for her clothing, a pathetic sob erupted from her throat. In a flash of a second, her entire pale body blushed a shameful crimson.

"G.o.d help me!" she cried. "Please, Father Grigori, I beg you! Please help me!"

"Oi!" shouted my father, clasping his hands over his ears as he leaped from his chair. "I thought you were a cute little kitten, but you're nothing but an awful cat! Such noise! Such gabble and crying! I can't stand it!" shouted my father, clasping his hands over his ears as he leaped from his chair. "I thought you were a cute little kitten, but you're nothing but an awful cat! Such noise! Such gabble and crying! I can't stand it!"

And with that Papa stumbled for the door and charged out of the room. Olga Petrovna, hysterical and more desperate than before, couldn't stand it, couldn't bear to see her only hope flee from her grasp. Scrambling, she scooped up her bits of clothing and raced naked after him.

"Wait, Father Grigori! Please, wait!"

"You're the devil! Nothing but a squealing devil! Be gone, I tell you!"

Hurrying after him, she disappeared out the door, crying, "I promise I'll be quiet! I promise I won't say a thing! Help me, Father Grigori! For the sake of G.o.d, please help me!"

They vanished from sight, but I could hear them. I could hear my father's bellowing and Olga Petrovna's screaming as she charged naked after him, the two of them hurrying this way and that through our entire apartment. Within moments I could hear Dunya yelling too, first locking my sister in her bedroom so she wouldn't see, then chasing the woman who was chasing my father. From my dark spot I could hear them all, three mad people tearing through our rooms, one holy man, one naked pet.i.tioner, and one furious housekeeper. Despite her shrill pitch, Dunya's was the only voice of sanity, the only one who could shout at my father and herd him into his bedroom, the only one who could admonish our pathetic visitor to get dressed and leave.

And during it all I stayed right where I was, hidden in the closet of my father's study, crumpled on the floor of that tiny s.p.a.ce, sobbing because I had never before known I could hate my own father.

CHAPTER 7.

Oddly, as I sat there crouched in revulsion, I was flooded with memories of better times. Just last winter a great honor had been bestowed upon me: I had been invited to join Papa for tea at the palace. Dunya, overwhelmed with pride and joy, had spent an entire day shopping for a new frock for me, finally selecting a blue dress with a white collar, tied neatly at the waist. The morning of the tea, Dunya spent nearly two hours reviewing my curtsy and how I held a teacup, explaining how I should address the Empress and coaching me on interesting points of conversation. Toward one o'clock, Papa came out of his room wearing black velvet pants, boots that were freshly polished, and a lilac silk kosovorotka kosovorotka with a sash embroidered by the Empress herself. When it finally came time to go, it seemed the entire building came to see Papa and me off. We even took a horse cab to the Tsarskoye Selo train station, though it was only a few blocks away, just to keep my dress clean. with a sash embroidered by the Empress herself. When it finally came time to go, it seemed the entire building came to see Papa and me off. We even took a horse cab to the Tsarskoye Selo train station, though it was only a few blocks away, just to keep my dress clean.

But of course before tea there was playtime with the children. Once I had curtsied to the Empress and been allowed to kiss her hand, and once the Empress, the ever-present Madame Vyrubova, and Papa retired to the Maple Room for conversation, an equerry in a red cape and a hat feathered with ostrich plumes led me to the rear door. My young hosts, it seemed, were waiting for me outside, and no sooner had I stepped into the cold than I was pelted by a handful of powdery s...o...b..a.l.l.s.

"Surprise!" shouted Anastasiya Nikolaevna, the youngest of the grand d.u.c.h.esses, who was so covered in snow she looked as if she'd been rolled in confectioners' sugar.

For the briefest of moments I wanted to burst into tears-I had never been dressed in finer clothes. But then, of course, my young sensibilities took hold, and I dashed into the fray, joining the younger sisters-Anastasiya Nikolaevna and Maria Nikolaevna, who was my age-and their young brother, the heir, Aleksei Nikolaevich, in a brawl of winter fun that was just like those back home. The only difference was that the s...o...b..a.l.l.s were formed and handed to me.

"Here, my child," said Nagorny, the dyadka dyadka-bodyguard-to the Heir Tsarevich, as he handed me a feather-light ball of snow, "you may throw only those that I give to you."

I didn't understand until much later, but of course I did exactly as I was told. And after a half hour of merriment in what had to be the softest snow, we were led inside. As the daughters dressed in fresh white frocks with blue sashes and the Heir Tsarevich in a sailor suit, a maid took me into a private room and combed my hair and straightened my clothing. Finally, I was led to a large set of doors guarded by a pair of huge Ethiopians, the blackest men I'd ever seen, dressed in gold jackets, scarlet trousers, and white turbans. Entering the Maple Room, I found the Empress, Madame Vyrubova, and Papa.

"I see it all, understand it all," said my father, his voice booming and his eyes wide. "Papa must give the order as I see it: Whole trains must be given up to food."

The imperial children-all five of them, including the older pair, Olga Nikolaevna and Tatyana Nikolaevna-joined us minutes later. As the Heir Tsarevich, Anastasiya, and Maria settled on the floor with great picture books, the likes of which I had never seen, the older daughters, fas.h.i.+oning themselves as young women, sat down in chairs and picked up embroidery. As for myself, having neither book nor needle, I listened to my father rant on.

"Each wagon of the train must be filled with flour and b.u.t.ter and sugar. All the pa.s.senger trains should be halted for three days-three days!-and this food should be allowed to pa.s.s to the capital! It's even more important than ammunition or meat! People must have bread! People will grow angry without bread!"

"But what about all the pa.s.sengers?" asked Madame Vyrubova. "Don't you think people will scream?"

"Let them scream! I saw all this in the night like a vision! Mama, you must tell Papa. I beg you, you must tell him! You must write to him at once of this."

"Yes, of course. I see your point quite clearly," said Aleksandra Fyodorovna, nodding pensively as she gently twiddled with her long necklace of large pearls.

"Three days-no other trains except those carrying flour, b.u.t.ter, and sugar," my father repeated. "Otherwise there will be great unhappiness. And into this unhappiness will rush a flood of problems. It's quite necessary!"

"Yes, essential." The Empress nodded. "I will tell my husband, and he will make it so. It is his will, and he is master."

Papa puffed out his lower lip and bobbed his head in agreement and approval.

Vyrubova spoke up. "Now, what of the new minister? The position of Minister of Internal Affairs is quite-"

"I know, I know!" Papa rubbed his hands together. "Now...well, the Old Chap came to see me, this Boris Sturmer, but I had an interesting vision of this other fellow, Protopopov!"

"Really?" said the Tsaritsa in amazement.

"Yes, a vision from on high!"

Precisely at four, right on cue, the doors opened and the Empress and her small cabinet of advisers ceased conversation. As we watched, a bevy of liveried footmen with snow-white garters swept in and spread a tablecloth over two small tables, then set out gla.s.ses in silver holders and plates of hot bread and English biscuits. Had the Tsar not been at the front, where he had taken personal command of the troops, he would certainly have joined us.

"We shall continue these discussions later," commanded the Empress, rising from her chair. "First let us refresh ourselves."

Aleksandra Fyodorovna paid Papa and me a great honor by pouring our tea with her own hand. Accepting my gla.s.s, I carefully eyed the bread and biscuits.

With a wry smile, the Empress said warmly, "I'm sure, my child, you've been to many more interesting teas than this one. Others, I know, serve different cakes and sweetmeats, but, alas, I am unable to change the menu here at the Palace. All runs on tradition and is the same since our great Catherine."

But it was an interesting tea. Amazingly so, I thought, as I carefully took a biscuit and found my seat. Just imagine, my father giving so much help and advice, so many of his visions, to Empress Aleksandra Fyodorovna, who would pa.s.s it all on to the Tsar. Just imagine Papa emerging from the depths of Siberia and coming to the aid of the Motherland. Incredible, I thought, beaming with pride at my father, as he slurped his tea and munched on a biscuit and the crumbs flew.