“I’ll do whatever I must to keep her.”
“Prince Yuri, of one thing I am certain. She must be kept from the starets. I fear she is very vulnerable to him.”
“Teddie, you don’t mean—?” Yuri’s stomach churned with fear and loathing. “I don’t want to say it. I don’t want even to think it . . .” He closed his eyes, but he knew it must be said, for Katya’s sake. “Teddie, you know the rumors as well as I about Rasputin’s women, the Rasputini.”
Teddie gasped. “Never!”
“How can you be so certain?”
“She would never be unfaithful to you.”
“They say he hypnotizes them, bends them to his will—”
“Not Katya!”
“I wish I could be as certain as you,” Yuri said miserably.
A silence of several moments followed, then Teddie said urgently, “Prince Yuri, you should go after her.”
“If that’s where she wants to be . . .”
“Don’t you know your wife better than that?” Teddie said with reproach.
“I’m simply not sure anymore.”
“She is a frightened little girl, Prince Yuri. She was upset this evening?”
“Very.”
“Don’t let Rasputin have her.”
“I’m afraid of what I’ll find if I go.”
“Have faith in her, young man, and especially have faith in God. She needs you, Yuri, to protect her from—our God only knows what! Rasputin is a devil, but, in Katya’s eyes, he is dressed like a lamb. How can she fight an evil she can’t see? We must fight for her.”
“She’ll hate us if we do, and I don’t think I have the courage to face her hatred.”
“Then, she is lost.”
“Oh, Teddie!” Yuri groaned, dropping his head into his hands.
Teddie moved to the daybed and put a motherly arm around Yuri. “It’s all right, dear boy. We can still pray for her. God is merciful.”
Yuri raised his head, wiping a hand over his moist eyes. A new resolve washed over him—a strength to do what must be done. He hardly knew where it came from. Perhaps he didn’t need to speak his prayers before God answered them. “You pray, Teddie. I must go into the lion’s den.”
Teddie smiled. “I will sit right here and pray until you return victorious.”
From somewhere deep within the depths of her soul, Katya found the strength to stand. She rose from the bed, but Grigori was instantly on his feet also. He put his hands on her shoulders—hot, heavy hands. He fixed his gaze on her.
It struck Katya all at once, like the kind of spiritual revelation Rasputin himself often spoke of.
The spirit of God cannot be in this man.
Perhaps it had been at one time, and fragments of that occasionally continued to spill over into the present. Four years ago he had accepted her when no one else would. He had loved her as even her father and mother hadn’t. He had taught her spiritual truths. But whatever had driven him in the past, whatever had drawn Katya to him, was not present now. It could not be. What he was doing was wrong.
Terribly, terribly wrong.
He was breathing hard. Lust glinted from his compelling eyes. “Take off your clothes,” he ordered.
“What?” She shook her head, trying to clear her muddled senses.
“Do you think I degrade you, Katichka? I purify you.” He caught her gaze once more. “Give yourself to me, and you will give yourself to God. Only then will you find the grace of God.”
She closed her eyes to try to break the power he seemed to have over her. But he began to push her back onto the bed. His physical strength was too much for her.
“Please . . . Father Grigori . . .”
“Don’t fight it. This is for you, Katichka.”
“Oh, God . . .” she cried.
“Yes, Katichka!”
She felt sick and empty. She had once loved Father Grigori, revered him. How could she be such a poor judge of character? But what did she know? She was confused. He was a man of God. The rumors couldn’t be true. Could they?
It’s wrong . . . it’s wrong, the voice in her head chanted silently.
But what if by cutting him off, she cut off her only hope?
Then she thought of Yuri, his tender love, his gentleness. Even tonight, when he had every right, he had not forced himself upon her.
What Rasputin was doing was nothing like that. She felt no love, no tenderness. Only . . .
Lust.
Selfish desire.
He said it was for her, but it wasn’t what she wanted. He said it would make her close to God. But at that moment, she could not have felt further from God. She felt dirty, sick.
He held her firm with one surprisingly strong arm while he fumbled at her clothing with the other.
“No, Father Grigori!” she said, trying hard to infuse force into her voice. She struggled to gather back her will. She tried to push him away, but by now he was so absorbed in his deed that he seemed not to be aware of her at all.
58
Yuri drove the carriage himself, whipping the horses, driving them as fast as possible through the city streets. He, too, was driven with an urgency he didn’t understand. But a voice in his head kept saying: Hurry! Hurry!
Something told him Katya was in danger. He couldn’t explain it, and for once in his life, he didn’t try. Maybe he’d feel foolish if he arrived at Rasputin’s all hot and lathered only to find that Katya was not even there. But a terrible knot in his stomach, a twisting of his heart, told him he was right. He knew she was with the starets. She had been wanting to go for weeks now. It only took a crisis like tonight to push her to defy Yuri and make that visit.
About a block away from Rasputin’s, he slowed the carriage. He knew the place was watched by police and, thus, it would be unwise, under any circumstances, to make a scene. Some of the police were there to inform on Rasputin, but some were there to protect him. Yuri didn’t want to be arrested for threatening the man—unless the starets needed threatening, in which case Yuri would take the risk of arrest. He’d do whatever needed to be done to protect Katya.
There were people petitioners and the like, milling about outside the place and more people lined up on the steps leading up to the flat. Yuri threw down his cane and raced up the three flights of steps, two at a time, ignoring the pain in his leg, and ignoring the looks and comments of those he hurried past. He was not about to wait in line. That urgent voice in his head still throbbed.
Only when he reached the door did a modicum of propriety afflict him. He paused and knocked. The servant girl he had seen before answered.
“Is Princess Fedorcenko here?” he demanded.
“I am not at liberty—”
“Tell me now!” He glowered at her with the same menace he had once turned upon a burly, thieving sergeant. The young girl wilted under his force.
“I . . . I . . .”
He shoved past her, striding into the house with all the authority of an Okhrana raiding party.
“Katya!” he called, looking into each room as he came to it.
He came to the dining room. She had to be there, for she was nowhere else. The women in the room, sitting placidly around the table, sipping tea, looked up, startled at his abrupt entry. But Katya wasn’t among the ladies.
Now, he was starting to feel foolish. His little voice had been all wrong.
“Dr. Fedorcenko,” said a woman he knew from the hospital.
“Countess Petrov.”
He was about to apologize—until he noted a peculiar look cross the woman’s face followed by a skittish glance toward a door that led off the dining room. Rasputin’s bedroom. A new panic seized Yuri. He started toward the door.
The countess ran up to him. “You can’t!” She grabbed his arm to restrain him.
“She’s in there, isn’t she?”
“He will purify her,” said the countess.
“No!” Yuri groaned as he wrenched his arm from her grasp.
He fl
ung open the door. In an instant he took in the awful scene. They lay on the bed, Rasputin on top of Katya, apparently fumbling at her clothes. Katya was struggling—thank God!—fighting.
The starets was trying to rape her!
Yuri’s experience at the Front, when he had attacked the sergeant, was the first time he realized he was capable of violence. But that incident was nothing compared to what he was feeling now. He could never have pulled the trigger and killed the sergeant. But, if he had a gun now, he knew he would have killed Rasputin. What the Grand Duke Dmitri said about protecting loved ones was true. He would kill to protect his wife.
But he had no weapon, only his bare hands—the hands of a surgeon, hands devoted to saving lives. They were primed for murder now.
He raced up to the vile monk, grabbed him by the shoulders of his dirty cassock, and yanked him from his prey.
“What the—?” Rasputin grunted, still panting from his sexual frenzy.
But Yuri smashed a fist into the man’s face, not giving him a chance to say more. The starets stumbled back and fell to the floor. Yuri took that moment to appraise Katya. Her blouse was torn open; her other clothes were askew; she was sobbing and shaking.
“Katya, are you all right?” Yuri said.
She couldn’t speak, but she nodded her head. He prayed that meant he wasn’t too late. But a fear gripped him that it might not be so.
“What did you do to her?” he screamed at Rasputin. He grabbed him by the collar and yanked him to his feet, then drew back his fist to deliver another blow.
“You would raise your hand against God’s servant?” said Rasputin.
“You are nothing but a lecherous beast!”
“You fool! You speak your own doom—”
Yuri let his fist fly. But this time the starets ducked with amazing agility. Yuri attempted a quick follow-up to the missed blow. He raised his hand but never got further than that.
He had not heard the approach of the police. They rushed up behind him and threw restraining arms around Yuri almost before he realized what was happening.
“That’ll be enough, now!” ordered one of the police.
Yuri, his body still pumping with fury and violence, struggled against the hands that held him.
“What’s going on here, Grigori Efimovich, sir?” The gendarme sounded far too sympathetic toward Rasputin for Yuri’s liking.
“The boy lost his head—” Rasputin began.
“He tried to rape my wife!” Yuri yelled. Oh, God, please let it be that he only tried! Katya was still sobbing on the bed, unable to allay his worst fears.
“He doesn’t understand,” said Rasputin.
The gendarme cocked his eyebrow as if he didn’t understand either, but he said to Yuri, “Assault is a serious crime.”
“You fool!” cried Yuri. “He’s the one who should be arrested for assault!”
“You want me to arrest the priest?” The man actually laughed.
And Yuri now understood all Felix and his friends had meant. Rasputin was above the law, above punishment. He had free rein—with everything in Russia and everyone. No one was safe. If he wanted to have his way with a man’s wife, then, so be it. If he wanted to dispose of an adversary, then the enemy was as good as dead.
“You are going to do nothing?”
“So, Father Grigori,” said the gendarme, ignoring Yuri’s question, “shall I arrest this man? Do you intend to press charges?”
Rasputin focused his steely gaze at Yuri, but, amazingly, Yuri was not affected. He stared back with more hatred than he thought himself capable.
“Let him go,” said the starets. “This man will destroy himself. He doesn’t need me to do it.”
The two policemen holding Yuri dropped their hands. Yuri rushed to Katya’s side. “Come, Katya, let’s get out of here.” When she did not immediately respond, he placed an arm around her. “Katya,” he entreated.
Slowly she moved her hands from her tear-streaked face. She gazed at him vacantly, as if he were a stranger. Renewed panic clutched at Yuri. He had been too late! Then a glimmer of light fluttered through her wasted eyes. She seemed to slowly come to herself—at least a small shadow of herself. But it was enough for her to recognize Yuri and look upon him with need, if not love. With his help, she rose from the bed. But she was so shaky that she had to lean heavily upon him in order to move.
They had to walk past Rasputin to get to the door. Katya averted her eyes from the man. But Yuri could not help giving him a final glare.
“Katya Larentinovna,” said Rasputin, his tone shaking with the intensity of an Old Testament prophet, “you have sealed your doom. You have turned your back on God’s anointed. You will never have children. You will lose one more prematurely, then you will have no more.”
Only then did Katya look at him. Her eyes were stabbed with fear and pain. Yuri jerked her forward. That man would have no more hold on her if he could help it.
Yuri could physically protect Katya from the starets, but he had little control on the emotional effect of the man. Days after the attempted rape, Katya was still sullen and silent. Yuri had hoped, now that Katya saw what the man’s true motives were, she would be better. He hoped that in rescuing her, she would come back to her husband.
What Yuri soon realized was that though Rasputin had not violated Katya physically, he had still raped her soul. And there could be no lower crime than that. He twisted spiritual things to fit his vile lusts, causing his poor victims so much confusion they didn’t know what to do. It was possible they might even heap recriminations upon themselves for thinking ill of the priest. Yuri didn’t know if Katya felt that way. He didn’t know what she felt at all! She said very little about that or anything else.
Yuri’s mama came often to see her, but mostly just sat by her, holding Katya’s hand. Katya hardly left her bed in the days following the encounter with Rasputin. Yuri had hoped that seeing Irina would help pull Katya from her silent depression, but the moment she laid eyes on her daughter she broke down in uncontrollable sobbing.
All of this only made Yuri think more than ever of Felix Youssoupov’s plan to do away with Rasputin. And, after three days of Katya’s silent despair, Yuri had no problem at all with going to an apothecary with his personal prescription for a sizable amount of potassium cyanide.
“Got a rat problem at the hospital, doctor?” asked the pharmacist.
“A very large rat,” said Yuri grimly. Then realizing how ominous his words sounded, he added, “but not in the hospital, in my home. A terrible problem. This should take care of it.”
“I should hope so!”
Next, Yuri went to see Felix.
“Do you know what we talked about a few days ago?” Yuri asked.
Although he and Felix had had several conversations since then about professional matters, Felix knew exactly to what Yuri was referring.
“Yes . . .”
“I’ve gotten what you wanted me to get.”
“You have?” Felix smiled solemnly. “So, you are in?”
Yuri nodded. “I’ve come to see that the man’s reign must end and that because of his power there is only one way to see that it happens.”
“I know this isn’t easy for you, Yuri. It isn’t for any of us. But it is a truly noble cause. It is the only way to save Russia.”
“I suppose you are right, but I won’t attach an aura of nobility to it. We are going to murder a man—there is no other way to put it. God only knows if it is the right thing to do. I just have to do what I feel must be done and pray God will forgive me.”
“Personally, I am willing to live with eternal damnation, if it will save Russia,” said Felix with passion.
“Felix, I must confess something to you—”
“Save it for a priest, Yuri. I lay no judgment upon you.”
“It’s nothing like that, really. It is just that I can’t have you thinking my motives are purely altruistic. I have a personal vendetta against the man. You see . . .
three nights ago, he tried to rape my wife.”
“Yuri, I am so sorry.”
“I’m afraid what he did to her damaged her, not physically, but in her heart, her very soul. God only knows if she will ever be mentally well again.” Yuri’s voice trembled as he expressed for the first time his deepest fear. “The man must be stopped before he harms anyone else. Do you know, when I suggested to the police that he be arrested, they just laughed in my face. They know they can do nothing to stop him. No one can.”
“Except us,” said Felix. “Everyone else talks about it, the Duma, the nobility, the tsar’s own family. But they still think there might be an alternative, some way to get rid of him and still remain clean and safe. Our passion for the cause makes us beyond fear of repercussions.”
Yuri nodded. “How soon can we do this? I want to get it over with before I find my fear again.”
“After Christmas, December twenty-ninth. Dmitri’s social schedule is quite heavy, especially with the holidays, and that is the first day he has free. We feel it might arouse too much suspicion for him to cancel a previous engagement.”
“That’s less than a week away.”
“Yes.”
Yuri gave Youssoupov the packet of poison. “Keep this,” he said, “just in case I lose my nerve.”
59
Christmas of 1916 was a dismal holiday in the city. No one felt like celebrating. For Nicholas, tsar of Russia, it was especially demoralizing. He had never felt more isolated. It had been bad enough when he felt the sting of criticism from his subjects, but now it had spread to his own family. His mother refused to come to Tsarskoe Selo while Alexandra was there. Nearly all the grand dukes had come to him with passionate appeals to form a government acceptable to the Duma—a true constitutional monarchy, with ministers they had confidence in. To them he had replied, “When I ascended the throne, I solemnly promised to pass on an autocracy to my son. And that I will do.”
Alexandra had been more pointed. “This talk of pleasing the Duma is ridiculous,” she said. “My husband is an autocrat. How could he even consider sharing his divine rights with a parliament?”
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