Hat firmly gripped in hand—both literally and figuratively—Rasputin, an abject and repentant man, stood before the tsar, who was home from the Front for a visit.
“Can you deny this report, Grigori?” the tsar asked angrily, waving a sheet of paper, now crumpled, in his fist.
Several weeks had now passed since the incident. The tsar had overlooked the first report sent to him, which had been skillfully watered down by Vlasenko. It had seemed such a trifling matter at the time, especially with a war on. That report said the starets was drunk in public, dancing and making noise. However, yesterday he had received a new report. Shcherbatov said he had later personally investigated the matter when further details had reached him concerning the evening at the gypsy nightclub. This second report revealed all the gory details.
“Oh, Papa!” wheedled Rasputin, head bowed. “I never claimed to be a saint. I am truly a sinner, perhaps even the worst of sinners. I am human. I am weak and lowly, not worthy to be called of God. Please, Papa, forgive me.”
“You have brought disgrace to the Crown!”
“Curse the evil liquor!” cried the priest. “The pain from my wounds forces me to turn to the vodka for relief. Then sometimes I lose my head. Pray for me, Papa, that I can be strong enough to refuse it, that it will never touch my lips again.” Suddenly he fell on his knees before the tsar. Tears spilled from his eyes. “Save me, Papa! Save me from myself. Lift up my wretched plight to God!”
Nicholas felt a bit awkward with the starets whom he had so venerated now bowed before him, seemingly broken and contrite. For a moment he didn’t know what to do. Then he lifted his hand and laid it on Rasputin’s head.
“You are forgiven,” the tsar said. What else could he say? Grigori was a friend, and to turn his back on the man now would have been too callous and vindictive for a man of honor to do. God himself instructed that a man should forgive those who have wronged him seventy times seven. Yet, as the Little Father, Nicholas also knew it was expected of him not only to forgive his wayward child but also to discipline him. “Grigori, you must return to your home in Siberia for a time. It simply would not be good for my other subjects if I did nothing to censor you for what happened. Do you understand?”
“Oh yes, Papa. You are more merciful than I deserve.”
The tsar’s next undesirable task was to face his wife. He was glad he’d be leaving in a few days for the Front in order to take command of the army. She was so pleased about his new status as commander in chief that she might not be too upset about Rasputin.
He was wrong.
“Nicky! How could you?”
“I had to do something, Sunny, dear.”
“Sometimes you let them walk all over you. Don’t you realize when they attack Our Friend, they attack the dynasty itself? By sending Grigori away it’s as much as saying those horrible stories are true.”
“We’ve been over this ground before, Sunny.”
“Yes, we have . . .” She gave a long-suffering sigh. “And someday you will actually raise your voice to naysayers like that awful Shcherbatov and maybe even pound your fist on the table once or twice. You must be firmer with them. They just don’t fear you enough, Nicky. Especially when you give in so readily on issues like this. You are the tsar. And you are now commander in chief of the whole army. You must make people fear you, or they will crush you.”
“I will try to do better in the future, my dear. But I only did what I felt was best. Please try to understand. It was an untenable situation.”
“I’ve heard that the man at the Villa Rhode was nothing more than an imposter—someone our enemies hired to behave so and bring disrepute upon Our Friend’s name.”
Nicholas sighed. Let her have her fantasies, he thought. What harm could it do? “Nevertheless,” he replied, “people are going to believe what they wish even if we were to prove them to be lies.”
“They want to think badly of him—of us. It kills me when I think about what people are saying, the awful accusations. They wouldn’t say such things if this were a real autocracy, as it was meant to be.”
“I’m trying to maintain as much power as I can, Sunny.”
“I know, dear.” She moved close to him on the divan and put her arm around him. “My poor Nicky.” She laid her head on his shoulder, gently stroking his beard with her hand.
“I wish it could be like this always, my Sunny one. Just you and me—and the kiddies, of course—in our own little cottage, perhaps on the Black Sea. No affairs of state, no wars. Just sunshine and sand and the smell of salt and fish in the air.”
Nicholas sighed. That’s the life he was suited for. His father had known it all along, had not even tried to prepare him for leadership. He had been born a second son—with good reason, he was certain. Only the cruel hand of fate had thrust him into a position he not only loathed, but feared as well. He was doing the best he could for the good of the kingdom. That would have to be enough. “And tomorrow I must return to Stavka,” he added. He had to face reality.
“Come, my love,” said Alexandra, “I will make your last night here one that will carry you through many days of hardship.”
He reveled in the sudden passion burning in his wife’s eyes, almost forgetting his distressful lot in life.
Cyril’s plan was working beautifully—almost as if it really were a plan. In truth, it was merely that events were finally falling into place in such a way that at last favored him.
Rasputin was gone to his village in Siberia, but Cyril knew it wouldn’t be for long. And so did the public. Before, he had been sent to Pokrovskoe, only sixteen hundred miles from Petrograd, and always returned. The public, especially the Duma, was outraged that Rasputin had received nothing more than a slap on the hand for his shocking conduct. Cyril gloated at their dismay, ignoring warnings that this was the last straw, that the tsar would regret thumbing his nose in such a way at the Duma.
In the meantime, during the weeks of Rasputin’s absence, Cyril kept in close contact with the starets and with the detachment of agents sent to protect and spy on the man. In turn, he also kept in contact with the tsaritsa, passing on to her innocuous news about Rasputin, his state of health, etc. At the same time, he made certain Alexandra did not hear other choice tidbits about her favorite monk, such as his drunken behavior on the trip to Siberia, or the row he’d had with the ship’s captain, or the fact that when Rasputin arrived at his home village of Pokrovskoe, he was so dead drunk his daughters had to carry him home.
But the Minister of the Interior seemed bent on undermining Cyril’s work at every turn. The man even leaked a story to the press that strongly linked Rasputin to the Germans. On top of that, Shcherbatov also joined with eight of the tsar’s ministers to sign a letter opposing the tsar’s taking over command of the army and urging him to reconsider. As a result of the letter, four ministers were immediately dismissed, including Shcherbatov. Cyril couldn’t have been more delighted. The time was right for men such as himself to attain power.
Cyril kept Rasputin informed of these events, making certain the starets understood that Cyril was the man for the vacant ministerial position. Rasputin thus sent a telegram to the tsaritsa. Cyril never saw its contents but he could guess at the gist of it: “Count Vlasenko is a man who thinks like us. He is a loyal subject. He will protect and uphold the honor of the Crown. He is deserving of a promotion.” Perhaps the starets might even have gone so far as to say, “God told me that Count Vlasenko should be Minister of the Interior.”
When the telephone call came, Cyril tried to be as reserved as a minister was expected to be. But the grin plastered across his face remained there for two full days. His lifelong dream was at last realized. He was Minister of the Interior. He had arrived. Let old Viktor Fedorcenko top that! It didn’t even bother him when a member of the Duma approached him and said, “Your appointment more than ever convinces me that the dynasty is doomed. If you truly cared about Russia, you would resign.”
Cyril had laughed
. Resign, indeed! The only way anyone would extradite him from this office was to drag his dead body away.
He threw himself immediately into his work. There were bribes to collect, kickbacks to arrange, revolutionaries and Jews and foreigners to harass. And, of course, the name of the Duma member who had spoken so indiscreetly to him was put on the police list to be closely watched. Cyril was, at last, a truly happy man.
After the ministry of the interior fell to Vlasenko, other key ministry positions toppled in quick succession. All went to Rasputin followers, devotees, or lackeys—depending on one’s frame of reference.
Alexandra sent daily letters to the tsar at the Front, frequently containing hers and Rasputin’s suggestions and opinions about political matters.
“Dear Lovey,” she wrote once, “I don’t like that Minister of War, Polivanov. You know he is Our Friend’s enemy. He protested giving Grigori a war office car, saying it was too fast. He’s afraid the police spies won’t be able to keep up with Our Friend. The nerve! You must get rid of the man, Hubby. Don’t dawdle in making up your mind.”
Some believed all the power of the government was now in the grimy hands of the Mad Monk, the peasant starets from Siberia—he and that German woman, the tsar’s wife. Probably closer to fact was that the government was in no hands at all. The tsar was happily and blindly tending to the war; Rasputin and Alexandra were haphazardly following their emotions; the ministers were either looking out for their own interests or simply too ignorant to know what interests to look out for. And the Duma, in the interest of patriotism, was standing back and letting it all happen.
Russia was tottering on a precipice. And no one did anything. Some citizens were looking in the wrong direction. Some were gaping into the hole, stunned to silence. Some didn’t believe the precipice existed, and others firmly believed they would never fall in. Still others saw the inevitable and deemed it in the hands of fate.
But there was yet another group of Russians, poised and ready to push the country toward its calamity.
51
Anna read the letter from Misha again. She had it all but memorized now. It might be the last letter she’d receive from him for a while. Shortly after this letter had arrived four months ago, she had been notified that he had been taken prisoner and was in a POW camp. Part of Anna was glad he was out of the war, yet she had heard that conditions in the camps were terrible. And more than that, she knew Misha well enough to know that he would make every attempt to escape. Anna could never be entirely at peace—not until this war was over and he was at her side.
“I won’t let you go again, no matter what,” she said to the pages she held in her hands.
It was difficult to believe she was really married to Misha—two years! She wanted to have a life with him before they were too old to enjoy it. He had taken one leave since the war began, and it had been far too short. But at that time he promised her, once again, that he would retire from the military when the war was over. Now that they were married, he was anxious to be a family man.
“Oh, God, please let it happen,” she murmured.
She thought about last Christmas. It seemed so far in the past now. If the Christmas of 1914 had been festive with Mariana’s arrival, the Christmas of 1915 had been a full-blown celebration. Everyone had been there—except Andrei.
Yuri and Misha had been home on leave, and Daniel was there, though he did manage to get to Petrograd far more often than the soldiers. Talia was home from her tour of America, and Viktor and Sarah came up for the holiday from the Crimea.
What a time they all had together! It had almost been as if the war did not exist, and for a whole week they all pretended that there would be no more partings. But the day after New Year’s, Yuri and Misha left, and Daniel followed a few days later. Yuri had managed another leave before the spring offensive in May. Now it was less than two months before the Christmas of 1916; Anna did not expect a repeat of last year’s celebration.
At least Mariana and the children were still here. She should have returned to America, but it was hard for her to leave her mama. She did consider sending the children back without her, but she had never been separated from them before. Still, it was risky staying in Russia. Unrest, due to widespread strikes and shortages, was the rule now. Little food could be found in the markets, and there were long lines to get what food was available—at hideously inflated prices. Basics such as meat and flour had risen in price nearly three hundred percent.
Part of the problem was transportation—the railroad rolling stock had been commandeered for the war. But fewer crops were being planted, too—there were simply no men to work the fields. Anna had heard from her sister, Vera, that the Burenin plot in Katyk was lying mostly fallow because her sons were at the Front and her husband was in poor health. After the crisis of 1905, Anna and Raisa had always kept a small stockpile of staples, but even that was becoming seriously depleted. Katya sent what she could from her grandmother’s larders, but those supplies, too, were getting low. No one looked forward to the approaching winter.
Anna wondered where it would all lead. Paul said the Duma was finally waking to the surrounding chaos, but he feared it was too late. They had demanded the resignations of the premier, Stürmer, and Cyril Vlasenko. Many moderates and even staunch monarchists were openly discussing deposing the tsar. But there was little agreement on who to replace him with. Some favored the tsarevich with the Grand Duke Nicholas as regent, others supported the tsar’s brother Michael. Other rumors had it that the Grand Duke Nicholas would stage a coup d’etat. And those who wanted to get rid of the Romanovs completely were growing more and more vocal.
Amid all this uncertainty, Anna wished more than ever their men could be with them. She was not so independent that she did not feel acutely the need for Misha’s protection. And she knew Katya was feeling this even more lately. She was six months pregnant—a gift from Yuri’s spring leave. But she wasn’t doing well. Actually, the doctor was surprised she had carried the child this long. Katya had been bleeding off and on throughout the pregnancy. A week ago, she had taken to her bed with premature labor. Anna spoke to her yesterday and there had been no improvement. The poor girl was scared.
Mariana had gone to visit Katya a couple of hours ago and should be home soon. Anna prayed the news would be good. Mariana had taken a midwifery course in America, mostly because when she had been expecting her first child she had been curious and wanted to know all she could about the process. It was a godsend now. Doctors were scarce in the city, and when Katya could see her doctor, he was very impatient and told her as little as possible about her condition. Mariana’s medical training was a great comfort to Katya—and to Anna, too! When the time came, if a doctor could not be reached, Mariana would be more than capable to handle the situation.
Suddenly Anna heard the noise of children in the hall. Mariana was back. Zenia tumbled first into the parlor where Anna sat. She ran up to Anna and jumped into her lap.
“Kiss, Gamma!” she said, then planted her wet lips on Anna’s cheek.
Glad to have a diversion from her thoughts, Anna grinned and returned the gesture, adding a loving hug to it. Then Katrina strode into the room, so pretty in a royal blue dress, trimmed with blue and white ribbons, and more blue ribbons tying back her auburn curls.
“Hello, Grandmama,” she said in such a grown-up tone for a six-year-old. She slid with the fluid grace of a ballerina onto the sofa next to Anna. Anna kissed her cheek and gave her a squeeze with her free arm. “Aunt Katya was feeling better today. She had lunch with us. But Zenia spilled her milk on Aunt Katya’s bed—”
“Now, Katrina, don’t be telling tales,” Mariana said as she entered with John close behind.
“I was only going to say, Mama, that it didn’t upset Aunt Katya, but rather she just laughed. And I haven’t seen her laugh in a long time.”
“That is true.” Mariana took a chair adjacent to the sofa. John stood behind her, seeming to take up the position of man of
the house.
“I’m so glad to hear it,” said Anna.
“I play wif Reena,” said Zenia.
Anna noted that the children’s Russian was excellent, even Zenia’s, with its childish lisp. Mariana had worked hard to make sure her children didn’t lose their heritage, but there was a marked American air about them, too. They spoke both English and their Russian with unusual accents.
“They’re getting to be great friends,” added Mariana. “It’s so good for Irina to have children around. Before we came, she had no playmates.”
Mariana paused and reached into her handbag and withdrew a folded paper—a newspaper by all appearances, but small like the underground pamphlets Anna often saw being handed out surreptitiously on the streets. “Mama, look at this.” She handed the paper to Anna.
Anna unfolded it. Its name was Freedom. She glanced up at her daughter before looking further. “Mariana, perhaps you’ve been in America too long, but here it is not a safe thing to take such material.”
“I know, Mama, but look closely at the front page and you will know why I had to take this.”
As Anna studied it, her eye was immediately drawn to a cartoon drawing. Central to the drawing was a large, almost Bhuddalike figure, obviously intended to be Rasputin with his long, dark beard and evil, piercing eyes. In his arms, nestled like children, were the tsar and tsaritsa. The caption read, “Who rules Russia?” But it was the signature of the artist that Anna really noticed. Malenkiy Soldat.
“Andrei . . .” breathed Anna.
“I knew you’d want to see it, Mama,” said Mariana. “We can burn it when we’re through.”
“At least he’s alive. It’s a mixed comfort, however, knowing what he’s doing.”
“It’s not that much of a surprise.”
“No . . .” Anna glanced again at the drawing, trying to visualize Andrei working on it. She hoped he was happy—and safe. “Do you think he is in Petrograd?”
The Russians Collection Page 224