The Mysterious Alexandra Tarasova-Yusupov

by Carl Douglass

  Balagansk Penitentiary, Irkutsk Oblast, Far East Russia, July 29, 1879

  Boris and his small retinue of servants and guards arrived in the small and out-of-the-way township midmorning. In truth–it was barely a town–more a work camp built to serve the needs of its principle enterprise, the Balagansk prison. The only well-built structures in the camp were the penitentiary itself, the commandant’s residence, a commissary open to soldiers and prison officials and their families, a fine boy’s school built two years earlier to ensure that the boys and young men learned Christianity and western civilized traditions—at least the Russian definition of those important areas of learning–and a regional post office. The remainder of the buildings were basically log huts which served as dwellings for the lower classes, a road side inn and restaurant which barely deserved to be labeled as such, and a Russian Orthodox church and monastery which served not only the spiritual needs of the faithful but as a detention center for ecclesiastical clerics who had found themselves at odds with the tzar’s regime or not in keeping with any of the myriad of new rules instituted by Alexander II for his church. The best building of this poor lot was a large log structure which served as the town administrative center. In the mid-late 1800s, thirty percent of the population of the oblast and of the city were political exiles.

  There were no paved roads. The dirt roads were rutted and difficult to traverse in summer when they were dry, impossible to drive on in spring during the break-up from winter, and only comfortable in winter when troika travel was the preferred mode of transportation. Within the town, there did not seem to be any identifiable street plan and very few straight roads.

  The prison itself had been thoroughly scrubbed and–where needed–repainted in preparation for Boris’s arrival and for the change of command. The large grassy grounds were mowed and trimmed; bushes were shaped; and the cobble-stone main road and side paths were freshly painted white. The main prison building was not as grim as Boris had it expected it to be. It was devoid of artwork, ornamental mopboards or moldings, attractive furniture, or lighting fixtures; but it was clean, orderly, and appropriately functional. He agreed with outgoing commandant Major Nikita Sergeivich Yestremsky that the changing of the guard ceremonies should be held in the attractive garden area behind the main building.

  On the appointed day, August 12, a surprisingly large and well-dressed audience of citizens appeared from around the huge territory of the oblast. Many of those attending included indigenous (native Buryat) citizens often not considered to be on the same social plane as the Russians. Most of the Russians were there because of having been exiled, and more than a few had once been internees in Balagansk Prison and had served their terms except for having to live out their lives in either Siberia or Far Eastern Russia as the final ignominy of their disgrace and expulsion from society in the west.

  Abram and Irina Tarasova and their children—Alexandra, and her two brothers, Veniamin and Valéry—were accorded a special welcome and ushered to the head table where the senior military and political officials were seated. The morning was becoming overly warm, and mosquitos began to annoy the guests. The mayor of Balagansk—Dashiin Dorzhiev–left his seat and went into the prison building to get the program underway with more dispatch.

  Twenty minutes later, the regiment of imperial army officers and enlisted men marched out of the rear door of the main prison building in full dress uniform. Led by their Major Yestremsky, they marched in front of the cheering crowd, saluted the dignitaries, and took their place on the right side of the raised stand holding the important members of Irkutsk–the administrative city–and the lesser cities of Vladivostok, Biryusinsk, Nizhneudinsk, Usolye-Sibirskoye, Zheleznogorsk-Ilimsky, and a dozen other smaller towns. A bugle sounded charge from the south side of the building and a company of Cossack and regular army cavalry raced into the opening shouting war cries and unit mottos. Resplendent at the head of the cavalry was General mayor Prince Boris Nikolaiovich Yusupov on his magnificent stallion, Kryzhu.

  Kryzhu had a Cossack banner and an Imperial Russian flag attached to his saddle and streaming out behind him as he and Boris galloped to make their dramatic entry. Boris was in full dress battle uniform of Cossack cavalry with his full complement of medals shining in the summer sunshine. He was imperially slim in his perfectly fitting dark blue trousers with two scarlet stripes on the sides, a mid-thigh length scarlet tunic with white cross straps holding his dagger and his cavalry sword and an under blouse of blue. Around his waist, he wore a gold belt matching the trimming of the tunic’s cuffs, collar, and edges. He had on a Cossack fur hat, denoting his allegiance to the Don Cossacks and his general’s insignia, medals, and imperial army emblem on his fur cap showing his full loyalty as a soldier of the tzar. He wore highly polished knee-high black riding boots. In his right hand, he carried a long wooden lance with an ornate steel spear point. In his left, he held Kryzhu’s reins.

  The reins, saddle, and saddle blanket, were scarlet lined with gold, giving him something of the appearance of a medieval knight approaching a joust. His impressive set of medals and awards–Saint Stanislaus and Saint Anne—second class medals—Cross of Saint George, 3rd Class for gallantry in the Bulgarian war, and the Golden Sword of Honor for Valor—were a blaze of color, and the polished gold of the medals and the sword, glinted with almost blinding reflected sunlight.

  Boris’s cavalry column crossed in front of the audience from their right to their left–made a flourish–then dashed around the back of the stand holding the dignitaries. They raced once again across the open area between the dignitaries’ stand and came to an abrupt halt with horses rearing. The bugler sounded about face, and the cavalry men on their snorting horses walked sedately into their position on the left side of the stand. Boris saluted sharply, moved his lance up and down, then let it rest with its butt on the ground.

  After the dramatic entry, all eyes were on Prince Boris; one set in particular could not look away. Boris was a strikingly handsome man of Viking face, sinewy arms, and graceful build. He wore a beard that was the height of fashion—light brown with a hint of curl, a perfectly trimmed and waxed mustache with curled ends, and a goatee. His features were fine but sturdy with a straight small nose, tanned skin, piercing light-blue eyes, and a battle or dueling scar on his right cheek.

  For all of her urbanity and worldly experience for such a young girl, nineteen-year-old Alexandra was awestruck by the dashing cavalry general. He was the most beautiful specimen of manhood she had ever seen. Her pulse and blood pressure climbed, and her face flushed.

  She whispered to her mother, “That is the man I am going to marry, Mother.”

  Irina smiled indulgently.

  “Yes, dear, he is a most impressive man. Maybe you should meet him first.”

  Alexandra laughed.

  “That is my plan for the day. But, I tell you, Mother, he doesn’t stand a chance.”

  When the ceremony was over, Prince Boris placed the medallion of office around his own neck; Major Yestremsky rode away into obscurity, not even waiting until after the sumptuous lawn luncheon. Prince Boris; the mayor of Balagansk, Dashiin Dorzhiev; the governor of the Irkutsk Oblast, Kolya Morozovich Smirnov; the mayor of Vladivostok, Vasily Aleksandrovitch Zhvanetsky; and the admiral of the imperial man-of-war, the Lord of the North Seas, Sergei Vladomirovich Mikhailov, milled about in the crowd, meeting and greeting. Representing the business community were Abram and Irina Tarasova.

  Alexandra pushed herself to the front of the line of well-wishers and curtsied low to the Prince/General mayor. She beamed her most affable, alluring, and coquettish, smile, and looked the young general directly in his eyes. She was pleased to note that his eyes followed her as she walked down the line of dignitaries. She fell off script when she reached her parents at the opposite end of the line and stopped to take her place in the line—not at all something that a proper young woman should do. Her mother laughed, and Alexandra returned an impish grin.

  Prince Bori
s was the major draw for the admiring crowd; but by her strategically chosen feminine wiles, Alexandra charmed most of the men, women, and children, in the line. When the last of the well-wishers passed by Alexandra bade them a fond farewell and a safe journey, leaving her and Boris standing alone.

  Boris’s attention was drawn to a small commotion among his horses. Alexandra took the opportunity to pinch her cheeks and to bite her lips to make them redder. Using a trick she learned from a Chinese courtesan in Shanghai, she surreptitiously reached into her bodice and gave each nipple a firm pinch, which resulted in the desired effect of making them stand out.

  And just in time, because the soldier walked over to speak to her. He stammered a little, ashamed that he was acting like a young boy; and she found that it made him all the more charming. She was also pleased at the effect her facial and bodily efforts had on him. She almost laughed as she saw him reluctantly move his gaze to the area above her clavicles.

  “My dear young lady,” he said, and bowed his knee and body to her.

  She offered her hand, and he held it gently and kissed it.

  She smiled and said, “Prince…General mayor…I am honored to meet you and very happy that you will be living here in the oblast.”

  “The honor is mine. I am sorry, but I was unable to learn your name. May I ask?”

  “Of course, Sir. I am Alexandra Abramovna Tarasova. My father is Abram Timurovitch Tarasova, and my mother is Irina Ishmaelovna Inkijinoff Tarasova, daughter of Soiot Buryat knjaztsy Ishmael Bazarguruevitch and his wife, Yulia Bazarovna Inkijinoff.”

  “A Buryat prince and princess. I am humbled,” Boris said without a hint of condescension.

  “It is I who is humbled, Prince. I have studied you and your family. Not a great deal is written about you other than that you are a prince of the empire, that you are true military hero after the campaign in Bulgaria. Your family—the House of Yusupov—is renowned throughout the empire and, indeed, the world as the richest and most influential family next the tzars.”

  Boris became sober.

  “Alexandra, I have a favor to ask, and one day I will tell you the reason for the favor. You are intelligent and wise to many of the ways of the world. You are familiar with the several reasons people are sent to Siberia and to the Far East and the main reason that the Balagansk Prison exists. We needn’t discuss all of that overmuch. But please do not advertise abroad that I am one of that family or how I came to be transferred to this place. Can you understand that?”

  It was Alexandra’s turn to be sober and no longer the coquette.

  “I do. I have lived with this kind of knowledge all my life. I have great sympathy for those of noble birth who must spend—waste—time in the prison and for all those who meet a fate worse than death to be sent to the frozen north and never to be heard from again. Your secret and any others you ever want to share are safe with me.”

  “You are not only lovely and bright, but I think noble. I hope our friendship will grow. To that end, would you and your parents do me the honor of dining with me in Balagansk this coming Friday.”

  “That would please me very much and no doubt my parents as well. I am more than flattered that you would consider me a friend.”

  Boris bowed again. Alexandra curtsied, and they went their separate ways. Boris’s back was stiffened, and he tightened his abdominal wall to be sure no creeping fat could show. Alexandra unconsciously puffed out her already ample chest and felt like she was walking an inch above the ground.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  A LITTLE MORE EVIDENCE

  “And I know that the record which made is true; and I make it with mine own hand; and I make it according to my knowledge.”

  —Book of Mormon, First Book of Nephi,

  Chapter 1:1, First English Edition 1830

  National Archives of Australia, Victorian Archives Centre, 99 Shiel Street, North Melbourne, Victoria, Australia, January 22, 2014

  The Secretary of the Department of Social Services of the Victoria Provincial Government met with Elder and Sister LaRen and Katherine Durrell at a small luncheon at the capitol. Mrs. Olive Hastings praised the work being done by the missionaries and by the church as being of inestimable value to Victoria Province and to the country.

  After lunch, Mrs. Hastings asked, “Do you think it would be possible that your church and all of its remarkable abilities on the internet and genealogy efforts would be able to contract with the Australian government to expand the digitalization of all of the old records for the entire country?”

  The Durrells were unprepared for such a major scale offer. Mrs. Hastings interpreted their pause to be reluctance.

  “We, of course, could pay your church well for the efforts. We are certainly not asking for you to work as a charitable donation.”

  “Mrs. Hastings, we are flattered that you–acting as a representative of the government of Australia would think so highly of us that you would ask us to take on this very large assignment. You have to understand that Sister Durrell and I are minor cogs in a large machine that makes the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints go, even as it pertains to the digitalization of records. It is an enormous work that is done for no cost to the people of the world for locating and correlating genealogy records.

  “I can tell you this, though. The church is not known for doing contract work for anyone, but rather, makes contributions of the work it does when it pertains to the salvation of souls. We will seek the guidance of our priesthood leaders to see if anything can be done to further the record keeping work of the country.”

  “Thank you. In the meantime, is there anything we can do to hasten your work…to make it easier and more efficient?”

  Elder Durrell paused as he thought about her offer.

  Sister Durrell spoke up forthrightly as she always did and with no hint of timidity, “As a matter of fact, Madam Secretary, there are tools we could use to further the work. I wrote down some of them as you and my husband were talking. On the conservative end of things, we could use: equipment and software to link a number of channels for the simultaneous transmission and reception of data. The multichannel approach will improve our other types of high-frequency applications for rapid transfer and storage of wireless energy input in RFID–Radio-frequency identification—which uses electromagnetic fields to automatically identify and track tags placed in systems. We would need a company with the capacity of Siemens to be able to link many channels. To even begin to keep up with Australia’s needs, we would need a new, state of the art, 5G system—which would be quite costly.

  “At first–and at the least–we will need bigger and better scanning cameras, computers with considerable RAM space; second, we will need professional grade photoshop scanners to be able to quadruple or quintuple the input and output. We will need Professional PrimoPDF to do the scanning and to compile the digital results. It goes without saying that we can only do good work if we have good equipment. You are familiar with the gi-go principle, Madam Secretary?”

  “Afraid not. I was lost as soon as you said RFID. So, what is gigo?”

  Sister and Brother Durrell smiled; she said, “Garbage-In, Garbage-Out. What I’m saying is that we need very sophisticated high-resolution cameras connected to a completely up-to-date computer to capture images from various record sources and the scanners and photo-op equipment to make the necessary improvements, repairs, and transmissions.”

  “Well, I guess that means that I will have to communicate with the high priests of the Australian government to see if this is at all feasible. I know it won’t be possible if we have to pay labor. Please see how much pro bono work your church can do and get back to me in maybe a month. Okay?”

  “We’ll do our best,” Elder Durrell answered.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Last time we met, you told me about your pet project to find this person Alexandra Tarasova. My IT people did some digging and found a little piece of information you might be able to use. Here is a photocopy of an e
ngagement announcement for a woman of that name at around the time she might have emigrated to Australia. The document is degraded so much that we cannot find the name of the groom. We have a few other documents suggesting something about his life and business. You can try to see if this is your mysterious lady. We looked a bit further but couldn’t really find anything that seemed authentic and related.”

  “Thanks. We’ll put those pieces of the puzzle into our box of documents on Alexandra. We are determined to fill in the missing pieces, if we can before our missions are done.”

  “However any of this pans out, on behalf of the Government of Victoria, I thank you and your choice for your wonderful contribution. God bless you.”

  With a little effort back at the archives, the missionaries were able to dredge up a birth certificate, communal records, and a high school graduation announcement on the man called Kyle Dewit Herman Bradshaw who might–just might–be a husband of the mysterious Alexandra Tarasova Yusupov. They knew there was a gap in the timetable which left out much of anything about the Yusupov involvement. They kept digging until noon and time to begin P-day.

  They resumed their walking at the place where they left off the previous P-day—Cook’s Cottage. They enjoyed the simple tour of the humble abode, built in 1755. They then walked on to Federation Square and spent nearly two hours in the grand National Gallery of Victoria and even watched a short movie. They had to hurry afterwards to have the chance to walk through Fitzroy Gardens and to see the clock at the Flinders Street Station. Melbournians often use the clock as a meeting place; and the missionaries agreed that if they ever got lost that they would head to the station; so, they could be located. They had planned to go further, but they got caught up in the King’s Domain Gardens which included multiple separate gardens: Queen Victoria, Alexandra, Pioneer Women’s, and the Royal Botanic Gardens. They had to spend time in the Shrine of Remembrance, and the Sidney Myer Music Bowl where a concert was underway by the Melbourne-based Courtney Barnett with her back-up band, the Courtney Barnetts. It was not exactly to the taste of the septuagenarian Americans, but it was fun for one time. They were offered schooners of ale, refused, and took the opportunity to do a little proselytizing about the evils of alcohol from God’s point of view.