The Mysterious Alexandra Tarasova-Yusupov

by Carl Douglass

  “A rapid thaw turned the entire Mukden area into a spring thaw mud field. We made progress then. The Chinese bandits, the Honghuzi demons, and the scoundrels from everywhere finally surrendered. We rounded them up, tied them together, and drove them into the river to drown. That was a lesson to all who opposed us and the mighty Russian empire.

  “Those of us who had been in the thickest of the battles were granted leave for a month, and that is how I came to be able to share Christmas with all of you this year.”

  The family and servants gazed at Boris with unfeigned admiration; he was their unadulterated hero. Alexandra could not look directly at him. She was aghast at the description of his treatment of the vanquished Chinese enemies. She tried not to show it; but Boris, ever perceptive, took notice.

  “Our story is not nearly so heroic or so grim,” said Veniamin and Valéry. “We spent an interesting Christmas in the colonies—Alaska—in 1878. We imported Chinese silks and metal goods and exported back to Vladivostok thousands of gorgeous furs. The weather was very bad; so, we had to stay in a little town called Nanwalek where we spent Christmas Eve and Day. The native people—the Sugpiaq–celebrated by singing hymns of Orthodox Christmas at the Saint Sergius and Herman church in Nanwalek. There were only about 300 people of Alutiiq and Sugpiaq descent plus our sixty native Russians. We all sang in Slavonic—the same liturgical language used by the Orthodox Church in Russia and Eastern Europe. It’s a remnant of the fur trade era and Russian colonial times which are vanishing since the tzar sold Alaska to the Americans.

  “The Christmas Eve services were just like ours here in Vladivostok; but afterwards, we did something very different–called starring–which represents the journeys of the three wise men who came to see the baby Jesus. It is a kind of Slavic caroling where the people follow a star shaped wooden frame with the icon of the nativity. People follow the star from house to house and sing carols at each home. The singing starts in front of an icon on a shelf beside the family Christmas tree. The visitors receive special food treats at each house and tell each other, ‘Happy day to you, Father Frost’.”

  “Nanwalek used to be known as English Bay. Father Abram and Mother Irina, you probably remember Nanwalek by its Russian trading post name—Alexandrovski–during the fur trade of a hundred years ago. Once the Americans took over the territory, the people changed the community name back to the original Native name of Nanwalek, meaning “place by a lagoon.” Papa, to remind you, Nanwalek is situated along Cook Inlet at the southern tip of the Kenai Peninsula. The religious evening of starring started at the chief’s house where the Subdeacon Ephim Moonin said a prayer. The chief told the story of the nativity. It was like home to us. We were glad to see that the old stories are preserved in Alaska just like they are here in Russia. And, it makes you want to help the needy, again, just like here in Vladivostok.

  Valéry continued, “The first houses visited are the ones having newborn babies and elders. The old ones keep the Sugt’stun language alive. The elders try to teach the children their old native language by having them substitute Sugt’stun for Slavonic part of the time. Many of the Sugpiaq people worry that the children and grandchildren will lose their language, their culture, and their religions; they will get lost and become wandering lost souls.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” said Irina. “Now, it’s your turn Alexandra, my wayward daughter,” and smiled affectionately.

  “All right, everyone. I was gone four Christmases ago, before the twins came along. That was…let’s see…1878, the same as when Veniamin and Valéry were in Alaska working with the Russian Fur Company. I was in northern Chosŏn, a city called Sinuiju, located on the northwest coast, right by Dandong across the Chinese border.

  “We were driven there by a bad storm and because we needed resupplying. It was a couple of days before Christmas Eve; and we had three choices: we could stay on board the ship and celebrate traditional Orthodox Christmas; we could go into Sinuiju and have a Chosŏn Christmas; or we could cross the border and share a Chinese Christmas with the Christians there. We had a vote and chose to stay in Chosŏn.

  “The mayor of the city was most gracious and invited us to the town center building to enjoy the festivities as his guests and more like family coming home for the holidays. We met there and then went to the home of the local Protestant minister, Horace Underwood, and his wife. We are used to having strong drink; so, we were surprised when they served us only punch, tea, coffee, and lemonade. Apparently, those early American missionaries in Chosŏn were supporters of what they call the temperance movement—the anti-alcohol social wave-–which they said was beginning to sweep their country. Their house was decorated with evergreen sprigs, a small spruce tree with candles and bows on it, and areas with crucifixes, colored glass balls, and small wrapped presents. There were three fireplaces with crackling fires which were most welcome because it was very cold.

  “After drinking the nonalcoholic drinks, everyone was given a small cake with a cross on it, then we were given small gifts of useful items, like combs, toothbrushes, hair ribbons, and small flutes. I was given a pair of silk slippers. All the gifts were presented by the host using both hands in the Chosŏn way. Children were given a few Chosŏn sangpyungtongbo and mu coins and some charms for the New Year.

  “The mayor introduced entertainers who gave musical performances and recited poetry. Traditional drums. Then we all said, ‘Sung Tang Chuk Ha’ which means Merry Christmas in English. We did not learn the translation into Russian. Towards evening, we had a meal of Bulgogi—barbecued beef, sweet potato noodles, and their favorite kimchi. For dessert we had a Christmas rice cake decorated with fresh fruits, baesuk—steamed pears—walnuts wrapped in persimmons, and red bean paste. The meal was what they called a ‘pot-luck’ with all the Christian townspeople bringing one part of the meal. Many of the poorer people brought only some good Chosŏn sweets to share.

  Then, there was a knock on the door, and in walked a Father Christmas or Grandfather Frost kind of character, called Santa Kullusu or Santa Haraboji by some. He was dressed in an evergreen suit and traditional robes. He wore a traditional old gat—a flat topped hat from the previous dynasty. Some nonChristian people came, and we saw an interesting mix of old Buddhist, Confucionist, and Shamanist traditions which blended perfectly well with the Christian practices. The outside customs included prayers for a good harvest, lots of different foods, and firecrackers. Everyone seemed to tolerate and even enjoy the diverse customs.

  Because many people had to travel long distances to get to Sinuiju, the people combined Seol—lunar New Year’s Day celebrations—with the Christmas ones and served tteokguk, a rice flake soup. Everyone had to take some to signify being one year older. The beautiful children performed the Sebae ceremony—New Year’s Bow to their elders. These traditions were much older than Christianity, which was not seen in Chosŏn until the sixteen-hundreds. Our hosts told us that we would also be celebrating the seasonal festival, the Daeboreum—or greater full moon tradition. We all ate a special food called ogokbap—a dish made with five grains and served with a mix of cooked vegetables.

  “Then we played children’s games until we were so tired we could hardly stand up. The mayor provided carts, wagons, and rickshaws, to get us back to the ship. We toasted each other with Makgeolli, the mayor gave us. It was strange looking—kind of grey, and lightly sparkling rice wine. It was a little bit thick with a strange mixed set of flavors–slightly sweet, tangy, bitter, and acidic all at once. I’ll say this: after all that sweet punch at the Underwoods’ house, the Makgeolli was welcome; and I slept like the dead the rest of the night.”

  When the story telling time was over at Tarasova House, everyone bade everyone else a good night, a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year. Alexandra and Boris were more enlivened and excited than tired from the full day, and they once again pledged their undying love to each other and to the family. They retired to bed but did not sleep until nearly dawn. More athletics.

  CHA
PTER FORTY-FIVE

  THE GROWING SCHISM

  “It sounds plausible enough tonight but wait until tomorrow. Wait for the common sense of the morning.”

  —Count Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

  “When we two parted / In silence and tears, / Half broken-hearted / To sever for years, / Pale grew thy cheek and cold, / Colder thy kiss; / Truly that hour foretold / Sorrow to this.”

  —George Lord Byron, When We Two Parted

  Balagansk Prison Infirmary, Balagansk, Irkutsk Oblast, Far Eastern Russia, February 28, 1882

  Alexandra missed talking to and sleeping with her dashing husband now that he was required to be at his official work place in Balagansk. She knew that he had received a preemptory set of orders to return forthwith to the prison to attend to the reception of newly arriving convicts. He was equally as reluctant to go as she was to have him go; but–unknown to her–his reasons were not quite the same as hers. He was glum and grouchy when she asked him if he could stay with her for a few more days, and that was quite unlike him. He would not elaborate when she pressed him for more information.

  She decided to surprise him by taking the two boys in the Tarasova troika over the frozen road to Balagansk to see him at work and to arrange for the family to stay for a few days at the only building in Balagansk that could remotely pass for a hotel—the newly constructed log rectangle ostentatiously called, The Balagansk Inn. Boris had not written or sent messages for the last ten days; so, Alexandra found it no problem to keep the secret of her surprise visit from her husband.

  Alexandra settled her baggage into the storage room of the inn, saw to it that the three horses were given grain and put out to a good pasture, ordered the troika sled to be placed in the carriage house, then gathered up her boys, Oral and Nikita, and slipped and slid over the icy roads to the penitentiary compound.

  At the gate, she told the guard, “I am Alexandra Tarasova-Yusupov. My boys and I have come to see the commandant, General Mayor Prince Boris, please.”

  Without hesitation, the young private gave a crisp salute, swung open the gates, and said, “Yes, Madame, he is attending to duties at the rear of the main building. It would be better for you to check-in at the reception desk before seeking him out.”

  Alexandra had no intention of having anything or anyone spoil her surprise; so, she replied with her signature fluorescent smile, “Of course, Sir. Just as you require.”

  He never got past her smile and believed her completely. He returned to his soul numbing job of guarding the gate where nothing had happened in all his twelve months of assignment to Balagansk Prison. His main worry was frost bite–and well he should–because a few of his comrades lost toes to the cold over the winter.

  Without looking back, she hurried her boys along the south wall of the main building, where she hoped the warmer route to the rear would be found. The boys complained, and her feet were losing feeling to the cold. She wished fervently that she had worn her good foul weather gear and had obeyed the orders she gave Oral and Nikita to wear earmuffs, heavy woolen gloves, and extra socks, in their thick-soled boots.

  The two boys were cold and hanging back, too tired to move as quickly as their mother. She rounded the southeast corner of the main prison building and saw a sight unfolding that stopped her in her tracks. She ordered her two small boys to halt and to stay put.

  On the frozen gravel pad in front of the prison’s parade ground bleacher seating stand, she saw a dozen upright poles planted in the ground in three precisely even rows of four. Hanging from a point near the top of each pole was a heavy chain about four inches long which was attached to a sturdy iron ring. To the rings, heavy leather straps secured men’s wrists at a height where they had to stand tip-toed to support themselves. They were stripped to the waist despite the freezing weather. The backs of three men were decorated with eighteen criss-crossed bleeding stripes. Standing behind the fourth man on the row, holding a rawhide whip was her husband, Boris. Alexandra thought she was going to faint. A brutish Cossack stood beside Boris holding a bucket of water. He counted as Boris wielded the whip—eighteen times for each man.

  Some of the men cried out in pain, especially when the Cossack splashed what had to be salt water which stung and kept the wound edges from closing-up to relieve some of the acute pain. Oral and Nikita’s faces were ashen as they began to realize what was going on in the area they could not see. Alexandra pushed the boys back and prepared to retreat, but her attention was riveted on her husband. How could he be doing this? Why was he doing this barbaric thing? She studied Boris’s face intently as he lashed the backs of the men with machine like efficiency. His gaze never wandered from the back of the man he was whipping. His jaws were clenched, whether in concentration, or in revulsion, or as a consequence of his exertions. He switched whipping hands from right to left fairly frequently, obviously related to fatigue, or weakening, or from lack of enthusiasm for his enterprise.

  The man he was lashing at the present moment sagged and hung by the wrists, obviously unconscious. He was old, thin, and sickly in appearance. The Cossack kicked his thigh hard enough to arouse the old fellow, then the Cossack jerked him to his feet. Boris resumed lashing. Inadvertently, Alexandra cried out. Boris turned at the sound, and their eyes locked for a brief, poignant, haunting, moment. Alexandra turned her back on Boris and scooped up her twins. She ran to the front of the prison building where she placed them on the ground and took their hands and ran as fast to the gate as the little boys could go.

  Without a word, the private watching the gate saluted, opened the gates, and watched dispassionately as the three gentlepersons moved away over the frozen and snow-covered ground towards the area of the Balagansk Post Office and the Inn. Moving like a Fury, Alexandra ordered that the troika be brought to the front of the Inn and the horses hitched to the sleigh. She ordered two chambermaids to pack hers and her boys’ things into their bags without any folding or other time-consuming niceties. She over-paid the inn keeper and over-tipped the help. Without looking back, she and her sons trotted as fast as it was safe for the horses to go away from Balagansk and the images pounding in her mind and that would be a source of nightmares for the rest of her life.

  Once he saw his wife looking on as he whipped those whom he believed to be innocent men and saw the look of horror and dismay in her eyes and on her face, Boris continued his labor at a much quicker pace. Occasionally, the Cossack had to remind him that he had shorted a prisoner by one stripe, or occasionally even two. His eyes were red, his teeth were bared in anger befitting a wild beast; and his brain pressed his entire body into getting the task done as expeditiously as possible. It took another hour, even at his accelerated rate, to finish the odious task.

  His wife’s look had condemned him. He was a demon, an ogre. He was beyond redemption or forgiveness in his own home or certainly in the hereafter. When he was done, he abruptly marched away and found his bed. There he piled on blankets, pulled them over his head, and began to cry—the agonized weeping of man who knew he was damned. His anguish equaled anything the burning flames of hell or the torment of whips or scorpion stings, or infestation by burrowing worms could produce. The pain was in his soul. He was still whimpering in exhaustion when he finally fell asleep.

  Balagansk Prison Infirmary, Balagansk, Irkutsk Oblast, Far Eastern Russia, March 7, 1882

  Boris completed everything he could find that needed to be done at the prison over the course of five days. On the sixth–which happened to be the Sabbath–he took a deep breath and went to the infirmary where he knew that the majority of the recent internees who had been flogged would be recuperating.

  He asked for Duke Michael Vaughnovich Uskin and was told by a thoroughly uninterested orderly that the old man had died the day he was brought into the infirmary. Boris had to turn away; so, the hardened old soldier would not see the tears that sprang hot and salty into his eyes.

  “Misha, Misha, you cannot be dead,” he moaned to himself. “My old friend and com
rade-in-arms, Misha, what have I done?”

  Learning of his old friend Misha’s having died at his—Boris Yusopov’s—hands was unbearable and cast a deep pall over the rest of his grim visit to the infirmary. It took two hours to make his apology to each and every man he had whipped.

  The gist of what he said—with deep feeling and gravitas—was, “My friend, my fellow Russian, I am terribly sorry for what I did to you, for the whipping. I know that you are innocent of any crime, much less the one for which you were sent to prison here and to be beaten. I understand your anger and your anguish as good Russians. I, too, am a good Russian who was sent here for no crime. My only reason for being here and for having to hurt you, was because I knew three of the conspirators who attempted but failed to assassinate the tzar. As I read your charges, I understand that you are here for having had the misfortune to be an associate in one way or another of the criminals who actually did kill our tzar.

  “I will do all I can to lighten your burdens during your stay in Balagansk. Soon…fairly soon…you will be released from your incarceration and pardoned of your so-called crimes and will be able to live in Far Eastern Russia unmolested. You know that you will never be allowed to return to the Rodina, because you know why the Okhrana behaved so abominably. The Department for Protecting the Public Security and Order—“the guard department”–had you sent here, and you know that it was a monumental injustice. I repeat, my brothers, that I am heartily and forever sorry.”