Parvus went on for a few minutes, describing the bogus “institute” as if it were real, detailing its many lofty goals. Then he spoke passionately about its real purpose, changing instantly from the urbane gentleman to the fervent revolutionary. Parvus seemed to enjoy playing a “part,” and Andrei could easily picture the man fitting in as smoothly with high German government officials as with revolutionaries. All things to all men, Andrei thought, that’s Parvus.
After five minutes of explanation, Parvus shifted to the part of the cunning businessman. “I am offering substantial salary to my employees, and I will pay all the expenses of their journey to Copenhagen.”
“Copenhagen, you say?” said Stephan.
“Yes. We will be based there. The Danes have a strong socialist movement.”
“It’s also pro-German.”
“Stephan Alexandrovich, this seems to bother you a great deal. But I have been given to understand that Lenin himself recognizes the fact that a German victory would not harm his cause in the least.”
“Germany is still a monarchy, ruled by bourgeois imperialists.”
Parvus shrugged, but before he could respond, the waiter arrived with their food. The conversation waned a bit as the three men concentrated on the hot meal. Andrei savored his meat—an item that was especially absent from his diet these days. It was a delicately roasted chicken in a savory garlic sauce. He ate slowly, chewing each bite as if it might be his last. He hadn’t come here with any intention of working for Parvus, but his lucrative offer was looking better and better.
“Tell me,” Parvus continued after a few minutes, “am I correct in my understanding that Ilyich has already made subtle overtures toward the German government?”
“You are quite incorrect,” said Stephan emphatically. Andrei knew, however, that Lenin had in fact met a couple of times with an Estonian patriot who was in direct communication with the Germans. Stephan added, “And that is, you understand, the official line and will continue to be so.”
“I understand fully. It was foolish of me to ask such a tactless question. But . . . let’s say, just for curiosity’s sake, if Ilyich were to consider a, shall we say, Teutonic liaison, what might his conditions be?”
“Aside from complete Russian autonomy from German influence in the newly formed Russian republic, I believe he would insist that Russia would not be required to pay any war indemnities to Germany, nor to cede it any territory. He would want Russia to have a free hand in India. And he would agree to evacuate Turkey.”
Parvus cocked an eyebrow. He had every right to be impressed by this kind of commitment. It indicated that Lenin had given careful thought to an alliance with Germany, and that he was willing to be quite cooperative, especially in giving Germany an unimpeded hand in the Middle East. But also, if Russia were to invade India, it naturally meant that she would become an ally of Germany against Britain. It could mean a whole new balance of power in Europe.
“This is quite interesting,” said Parvus with great control. “For a purely imaginary offering, that is.” Parvus glanced at his pocket watch. “Well, it appears as if I must be off. This has been a most stimulating conversation.” He rose with incredible grace for his size. “I hope we will meet again. And do give some thought to my institute.” When Andrei started to rise also, Parvus held up his large hand. “Sit and finish your meal. Now, good day, gentlemen.” He strode away with confidence.
Andrei and Stephan did indeed continue with their meal—they weren’t about to allow such food to go to waste; in fact, Andrei also finished off Parvus’s half-eaten pie and the rest of his wine.
49
Paul saw signs of a different kind of anti-German sentiment in St. Petersburg—he doubted he’d ever get used to the new name of Petrograd. Even the Russians who were throwing rocks through the windows of merchants with German-sounding names often slipped and called the city Petersburg. And the hostility was worse in Moscow, which was far more “Russified.” Earlier in the summer, businesses and homes of residents with German names had been burned and vandalized. Now Paul felt the tension strongly in the Capital.
As Paul walked along, he felt an oppressive pall hovering over the beautiful St. Petersburg. It made him long for his papa Yevno’s clean simplicity more than he had in a long time. It made him wish he had never left Katyk. Yet Paul knew that the decay and sense of hopelessness was just as bad in the country. His mama and papa’s home had been but a small haven in all the rot that seemed now to have penetrated all of Russia. He could almost smell it wafting up from the sidewalks or carried on the fetid wind like a plague.
Ah, Russia!
Paul loved this land. He had once been willing to die for its freedom, even to kill for it. Was he still? Was it worth dying for? With its corruption, its apathy, its Rasputins, its decadence? He thought of the thousands of men at that very moment dying on the fields of battle, not even knowing why, and worse, not even questioning it. He recalled an inane article he had read the other day in the newspaper that opened: “Our brave Russian men know how to die! Their staunch courage is a shining example to the enemy.”
Perhaps death in battle was the only way they knew to give their wretched lives meaning. Or, probably nearer the truth, the article had been the voice of a government-sanctioned paper trying to glorify such total and complete waste. Surely even Russians must question the slaughter eventually. He had heard that more and more soldiers were taking “French leave”—that is, deserting. But even that twisted ray of hope increased Paul’s growing sense of despair for his country. Russia, and Russians, deserved far better than they were getting from their government. And they shouldn’t have to resort to dishonorable acts in order to get it.
Thus, Paul had very little sympathy for the empress. There was a growing outcry against her, the public even going so far as accusing her of being a German spy. Paul doubted it was true.The empress might be German by birth, but she had been raised by no less than Victoria of England herself. Yet the people had never liked Alexandra, and her dealings with Rasputin had alienated her even more. Her German heritage was simply another convenient reason to ostracize her. Rumors were rampant that she was harboring spies in the palace, giving secrets and money to the enemy cause. The public called for her to be locked up in a convent—a typical so-very-Russian method of disposing of unmanageable empresses.
Things might be different, of course, if the war were going better for the Russians. But defeat was following defeat. In August of that year, 1915, Warsaw fell and the Germans overran Poland. More than half the Russian army was destroyed. When Yuri came home on leave in the spring, he said medical supplies were, even then, scandalously low. But the depletion of ammunition was worse. Reports had it that half the Russian soldiers were going to war without rifles. They dotted the field of battle like clay pigeons before the well-equipped German enemy.
Paul turned into the Tauride Palace, where the Duma met, and climbed the stairs to Kerensky’s small office. He wished he could shake this mood he was in; his meeting with his friend would only make it worse. He had received a telephone call from Sasha, asking to see him that morning before the daily session began. It couldn’t be good news—there was no good news these days.
“Good morning!” Kerensky said as he opened the door. As usual, he was full of energy, but his eyes showed the strain of the last year in which he had frequently found himself butting up against the implacable attitudes of the majority of the Duma. He had been furious when the Duma, almost to a man, stood in unreserved support of the war. He had called for support only if the tsar would agree to a few basic demands, such as ceasing persecution of Jews, Poles, and the like. But only a handful of members, including Paul, were with him on this. Kerensky was a patriot, but he believed the best service to his country was to be a vocal critic of the government, warning it against folly, exhorting it to higher aims. The majority of the Duma, unfortunately, saw patriotism as silently accepting whatever the government said.
Paul recalled
a speech Kerensky delivered a few months ago at an Imperial reception for the Duma—in the Winter Palace, no less.
Kerensky had said, “You have no enemies among the working classes of our enemies. This war would never have happened if the governments of the world would have faithfully upheld the sacred principles of ‘liberty, equality and fraternity.’ But now you must strengthen your hearts for the trial that lies ahead, to fight the terrible war that was not of your choosing. But I say this. After you have defended your country, liberate it!”
No wonder one of the Bolshevik members of the Duma had written to Lenin suggesting that they join forces with Kerensky. But, since all five of the Bolshevik members of the Duma had, not long ago, been arrested and exiled, few voices remained to speak out in opposition to government injustice. Kerensky’s voice was being heard more and more. He was practically becoming an icon among Petrograd’s working masses. Paul regretted that he himself was not a charismatic speaker, though he was greatly encouraged by Kerensky’s boldness to be more outspoken.
“You’re early. That’s good. We have a lot to talk about. Sit down, please. Would you like tea?” said Kerensky.
He drew two cups of tea from the samovar that was wedged in between books and papers. They sat in the only two chairs in the office—Kerensky behind his desk, and Paul on the other side.
“There are a couple of items on today’s agenda that I thought you should be aware of, Pavushka,” said Kerensky.
“News from the Front?”
“In a manner of speaking. We’ve received word that the tsar plans to take command of the army.”
“I’m not surprised. He’s wanted to do it from the beginning.”
“And certainly our army can do no worse.”
“The real problem lies in the repercussions this will have at home, not at the Front. He’s a poor leader, but I shudder to think who might be in charge when he’s gone.”
Kerensky looked at Paul intently. “He has given the tsaritsa power as a dual monarch.”
Paul closed his eyes and sighed. “And we know who controls the empress.”
“Which brings me to the other matter I wanted to inform you about, since, no doubt, it will be a topic for discussion at today’s Duma session.” Kerensky shuffled through some papers, found the one he was looking for, and handed it across his desk to Paul. “This is a current police surveillance report on Rasputin. It makes for rather lurid reading, I’m afraid.”
Paul scanned the sheets. They contained the highlights of the man’s activities for the last two months. It read like the escapades of a first-year university student, or worse, an officer in the Guards. Visiting prostitutes, engaging in drunken orgies in his home and in the homes of friends, frequenting the public baths, and all-night calls upon various females. But the final entry was the most scandalous of all. As he read it, Paul shook his head in disgust and despair.
For propriety’s sake, Rasputin had been assigned his own private room at the Villa Rhode. The police thought this the best way to keep his sometimes outrageous behavior from the general public. But on the night in question a small crowd had gathered in his room—some, including journalists, by Rasputin’s invitation, others who simply found their way past the loose security. Cyril Vlasenko never got the whole story.
When he arrived, the police and proprietors were frantic. The noise and music from the room was deafening, penetrating throughout the entire gypsy nightclub. But the police couldn’t very well evict the tsar’s personal confessor, could they? They hoped that Cyril, with his past ties to the police, his place in government, and his acquaintance with Rasputin, might somehow mediate the delicate situation.
This is no place for a seventy-three-year-old man, he thought as he wearily approached the room. He had been roused from his bed at well past midnight, and now the rowdy din was making his ears ring. Suddenly, from inside the private room, there was a crash of breaking glass, followed by a woman’s scream and the roar of laughter. Cyril gripped the door latch, but the police who were accompanying him held back. The cowards! he thought. He could handle the starets, though the man was strong as an ox. His own fortitude bolstered. He opened the door.
The gypsy band was playing some loud, shrill tune Cyril didn’t know and hoped he’d never hear again. Rasputin was in the center of the group, dancing wildly to the music. Around him ranged a diverse crowd, including titled gentlemen, some whom Cyril knew, society ladies—if any woman visiting a place like this could be called a lady—and more common-looking sorts, no doubt Rasputin’s friends from the streets. The crowd was yelling encouragements to the dancing monk, who had a woman in each arm. Another woman ran into the circle and placed a champagne glass on the floor and, with a bloodcurdling yell, Rasputin stomped the glass to pieces. The throng screamed with delight. Then someone passed a bottle of vodka to him. Cyril hardly gave a thought to the presence of liquor when there was supposed to be a prohibition on—everyone knew it was still readily available, especially to the rich. The priest set the bottle to his lips and, dribbling some down his beard, guzzled a good deal. He was obviously quite drunk, but he didn’t miss a beat of the dance.
Laughing, Rasputin kissed the women in his arms. “If you’re good, I’ll show you real kisses later, eh? Like I do with the old woman.” He winked, and everyone, even Cyril, knew to whom he was referring.
“You don’t know the empress that well!” called someone in the crowd.
“I know her better than even her husband knows her!” Rasputin yelled. “Look at this!” He grabbed his satin embroidered shirt. “The old woman made this for me with her own hands. She kisses my feet. I do anything with her that I please.”
“Aw, I’ll bet you’re not even the real Rasputin,” challenged one of the onlookers.
“Yeah!” said another. “You’re an imposter!”
Rasputin took another draw from the bottle. “How dare you! Questioning me! I am the tsar’s confessor. I am the tsaritsa’s lover. I am—”
“Prove it!”
Suddenly with a violent swing, Rasputin threw the bottle against a wall where it dented the plaster before it shattered and fell to the floor. “I’ll show you!” he cried. Then he tore open his trousers.
An uproar rose from the throng—a mixture of shock, glee, and outrage. For a brief moment, Cyril stared in stunned silence. His first thought was: How are we going to get out of this one? Then he sprang into action.
“Let’s move!” he ordered the police. And, with them behind him, he strode into the room, parting a way through the gathering with his cane. Cyril threw his own great coat around the starets, covering the fool as best he could, then placing an arm around him, he said soothingly, “Come, Father, I need to see you alone.”
“Why, my old friend Cyril Karlovich!” slurred the priest. “I am always at your service.” He turned to the crowd. “Duty calls. But save some vodka for me. I’ll be back.”
“Not if I can help it,” muttered Cyril under his breath as he led Rasputin away.
Cyril got the man safely home, where he saw him crash on his bed in a dead stupor. He’d sleep until noon. Now Cyril had to do what he could to repair the situation, or at least doctor it a bit, before it reached the ears of the tsar. It was two in the morning now, and no doubt news of the incident had already spread to Rasputin’s enemies, who would be quick to use it against him. Cyril had to be faster.
Very early the next morning he made a telephone call to the minister of internal affairs, Prince Shcherbatov, making a complete report of the incident—his watered-down version, of course. Cyril could have written the report himself, but he deemed it more advantageous for it to be in someone else’s hand. Let Shcherbatov, who was openly hostile to Rasputin, bear any Imperial displeasure that might descend from it. This was a prime opportunity for Cyril to use masterfully to his advantage.
50
News of the events at the Villa Rhode spread like a ravenous fire through the city. The public devoured it eagerly. Rasputin was doom
ed for certain now. No one could survive such a shameful, public disgrace of the empress. Surely she would finally see the light and put the debauched priest where he belonged—where the snow and ice never melted.
Not if I have anything to do with it, Cyril swore to himself. When Rasputin was sobered up the next day, Cyril made sure the starets knew his version of the story.
“That’s all the tsar needs to know about last night,” Cyril said. “A little more to drink than usual, the noise and such got a bit out of hand. Nothing more, do you understand?”
“I don’t need to lie. Papa will forgive me.” Rasputin looked a complete wreck after the night’s debauchery—a man to be truly pitied. Cyril prayed that would work in the man’s favor when he was called before the tsar to answer for himself.
“No one is suggesting that you should lie, Father Grigori. Heaven forbid! Only that you protect the royal family from . . . ah, sordid details. The tsaritsa’s delicacy must be protected at all costs.”
“Ah yes . . . Mama is so fragile. I am her protector, her savior.”
“And it wouldn’t hurt to save yourself while you’re at it.” And me, too, Cyril added to himself.
He was tiring of the agriculture ministry, and he feared the ministry was going to end up a scapegoat for war shortages and the like. Critics were already talking about mismanagement and poor planning in allowing so many peasants to leave the fields for the Front. He didn’t want to be around when things crashed in. The ministry of the interior might not be any safer haven, but that’s where the real power was inside Russia, and Cyril still coveted the top post in that ministry. He’d been hinting to Rasputin about this for the last two years. Shcherbatov’s days had to be numbered, and the Villa Rhode incident might just be his undoing—there was always a way to make such a scandal reflect on the Minister of the Interior. Cyril was determined to milk this thing to his personal advantage.
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