The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  “What have I done, Katya?” he murmured over and over.

  Alexandra refused to believe her Friend was dead. But the report that the starets was missing bore such ominous tones. He had been last seen leaving his house the night before with Alexandra’s nephew, Felix. Then there was a report of a drunken orgy and shots being fired at the Moika. Pourichkevich had been there bragging about killing the starets. Somehow Dmitri Pavlovich was involved as well.

  Alix was amazingly calm, though she knew it was the calm of hollow emptiness rather than peace. Anna Vyrubova was with her and the children, but she longed for her husband to return to her. She had written him a letter and then sent him a telegram. He asked her to keep him apprised of the situation. Of course he had the war to tend to, but did he fully understand what the loss of Grigori would mean?

  Even she did not want to think of that. It was simply too awful to contemplate. For if her dear Friend was dead, it might also mean a death warrant for her son. . . .

  Cyril Vlasenko had assured the empress that he would personally direct the investigation of the starets’ disappearance. He doubted the man would be found alive, but he didn’t tell the tsaritsa. Evidence was piling up quickly, all implicating—of all people—that effeminate milquetoast, Prince Felix Youssoupov!

  The Chief Commissioner of Police delivered an updated report shortly after lunch on December thirtieth.

  “Your Excellency, I personally questioned Youssoupov,” said the Commissioner, General Balk. “He denies that Rasputin ever came to his house last night. He says he entertained some friends and things got a bit out of hand. The Grand Duke Dmitri was toying with a pistol and shot one of the dogs.”

  “What about Pourichkevich’s confession?”

  “The prince says Pourichkevich was drunk and had been likening the dog to Rasputin, with regret that it was the dog instead of Rasputin that was dead.”

  “I know Pourichkevich—we are both involved in the Union of Russian People. The man never drinks. In fact, I believe he belongs to a temperance organization.”

  “Believe me, that is not the only hole in the prince’s story. Witnesses saw him leave Rasputin’s flat with the starets. But Youssoupov refused to divulge the names of his guests last night. And he refused to allow a search of his home, claiming that the law forbids the searching of the homes of members of the Imperial family without an order from the tsar.”

  “I’ll get an order. You have no idea about accomplices?”

  “I have some names gleaned from witnesses and indiscreet servants. Besides Youssoupov and Pourichkevich, the Grand Duke Dmitri was almost certainly at the Moika last night. I am all but certain there must be others involved, but I have no leads.”

  “Well, keep all of them under close surveillance. Can’t have any of them slipping away. Besides, they may inadvertently lead you to other conspirators.”

  Later in the day, Cyril obtained from the tsaritsa an order to have the known suspects, that is, Youssoupov and the Grand Duke Dmitri, placed under house arrest. In actuality, she wanted to have them shot. Of course none of it was legal because only the tsar could have members of his family arrested. But the suspects cooperated with the arrangement, nonetheless.

  Anna came to the Zhenechka home later in the day, completely ignorant of her son’s involvement in the death of Rasputin. Yet there was no way he could hide from her the fact that something dreadful was wrong. Had he tried, she would have known by his wasted appearance. But he had no strength to hide anything just then.

  The moment he saw her he crumpled into her arms.

  “Oh, Mama! I’ve done a terrible thing!” She embraced him and he wept in her arms. “I killed him, Mama—!”

  “Say no more, son,” she said softly. “Confession may be good for the soul, but there are other things to consider right now as well.”

  Yes, of course. He had to gather his wits about him. If his loved ones knew nothing, they would never be placed in the impossible position of testifying against him. He was, however, still amazed that no one had yet implicated him in the crime. He supposed it helped that he had never been a close associate of either Youssoupov or the grand duke. No one would dream that someone of his social level would be involved in a conspiracy with members of the royal family.

  When Yuri heard that the whole city was cheering the demise of Rasputin and toasting the conspirators as heroes, he was not in the least bothered that his name was unknown. But it was hard to live with his continued freedom after he heard of Felix and Dmitri’s arrest.

  Then Uncle Paul telephoned with news that the body had been discovered. The police had found blood on the railing of the bridge where it had been dumped. They had also followed tire tracks in the snow that led from that location, three miles away, right to the Moika. The terrible roads in Petersburg proved hazardous once again.

  Upon hearing the news, Yuri had to excuse himself so he could be sick in the privacy of the washroom. He still feared that a carelessly forgotten clue would lead to him. But getting caught weighed least on his mind. At times he even considered turning himself in, but was dissuaded from that by Katya’s and his mother’s tears. What weighed heaviest on him as the hours passed was the awakening realization that he had made a terrible mistake. He had taken a man’s life; he had destroyed his Hippocratic oath. Even if he never was arrested, he’d have to live with that.

  Each successive day brought new evidence against the conspirators, but none more shocking, more demoralizing to Yuri than when the autopsy report revealed there was water in the starets’ lungs. Rasputin had still been alive when they dropped him in the river!

  Finally, the legal repercussions came. No matter what the tsar may have felt about Rasputin, he could not let his murderers off scot-free. Youssoupov was exiled to his estate in Kursk. The grand duke was ordered back to the war to the Persian Front. Yuri was finally vaguely connected to the crime, but because no solid evidence implicated him, he never faced charges. However, Yuri’s involvement was known well enough—probably thanks to the loose-tongued Pourichkevich—so that when Yuri was out, strangers often came up to him and patted him on the back. Yuri wondered if there could be a worse consequence for him. Soukhotin, too, was not implicated and returned to the Front—perhaps enough of a sentence for any man. The police had no doubt of Pourichkevich’s complicity, but he was spared judgment. Even the tsar knew better than to touch a member of the Duma under the present political climate.

  All in all, the five conspirators were let off easy, indeed. But Yuri felt no relief at all. He knew that every one of them would suffer in ways the tsar would never imagine.

  Worst of all, nothing really changed in Russia. Rasputin’s murder brought a flurry of passion and excitement in the country, but in less than two weeks, all the fervor had died away and life continued on the same corrupt, miserable path as always. That, to Yuri, was the most defeating blow of all. What a fool he had been to think that Russians could change so easily! He should have seen that things had already gone too far. Maybe if Andrei had been around, he would have set Yuri straight.

  Suddenly Yuri had a strong desire to see his brother. Andrei represented a kind of security and stability to Yuri, the idyllic past, a time when they had been young with dreams and hopes . . . and a papa to guide them on the path to manhood.

  Not even on the day of his father’s death had Yuri ever felt the truth more strongly: All those things were gone forever.

  63

  Andrei had never been more homesick in his life. How he wished he had been faithful about communicating with his mother! At least then he might have a letter or two from her with which to console himself. But he’d let too much time elapse after that first and only letter he wrote her. Now he was too ashamed to write.

  Perhaps he would feel better if there was something stimulating happening where he was. A bit of vital activity would help keep his thoughts from straying to home . . . to his dear Russia . . . and his family. But life in the emigre community had taken
on the quality of—how had Krupskaya once described it?—a “dog-trot” existence. He had moved to Zurich with Lenin a few months ago. Lenin had preferred Zurich because the libraries were better there; Andrei had stayed with Lenin, hoping to be nearer to the center of activity, as paltry as it was. But still nothing happened. Andrei had not left his home and loved ones for this. Those who had been in exile for years tried to console him and instill patience in him. But Andrei wasn’t a patient man, and he longed for action.

  Those enjoying more scholarly pursuits, like Lenin, could find diversion in the well-stocked libraries. Out of sheer desperation Andrei had done a lot of reading, but where others of his circle were pursuing Voltaire, he had discovered Mark Twain. He defended himself with the fact that Twain had been a great supporter of Russian revolution. In Twain’s books, the ruling classes were always the villains, and the protagonists were always simple proletariat types.

  Andrei had hoped the Zurich Youth Rally would offer some excitement. Many revolutionary-minded young people from countries all over Europe were now in Zurich fleeing conscription in imperialist armies. Perhaps there might even be a new Russian face among them with news from home. Wartime made current news difficult to come by.

  Lenin gave a rousing speech that day at the rally, exhorting the youth to stay the course of the revolutionary struggle. He stressed the importance of an international revolution freeing all the proletarian masses. Exile and the lack of progress in Russia had greatly broadened Lenin’s outlook. He was talking much more these days about the incompetent Swiss government than about Russia.

  Lenin concluded his speech with a statement that Andrei knew was weighing on the Bolshevik leader more and more.

  “We of the older generation may not live to see the decisive battles of this coming revolution. . . .”

  Yes, even Lenin was despairing of the “dog-trot” life of an exile. Was he spending most of his waking moments thinking of ways to get home? Andrei was. It was, in fact, becoming an obsession. Inessa had gone home once and been arrested and exiled again. But Andrei was beginning to think it was worth the risk. What if Talia were there? What if there was another man in her life? He couldn’t stand the thought of losing her without even a chance to express his love to her.

  As Andrei left the meeting, pulling up the collar of his shabby overcoat against a gust of icy February wind, he wondered how much longer they could stand this life. How had Plekhanov and Zasulich and so many others done it, exiled for decades?

  The wind almost carried away the voice calling Andrei’s name. Uncertain that it had been his name he heard, but anxious for any diversion, he turned and was greeted by a face he had not seen in years.

  “Daniel!”

  “I knew I’d find you eventually!” Daniel laughed as he embraced his brother-in-law. “It’s my lot in life to keep my wife’s two little brothers in tow.”

  “I can’t believe it’s actually you. But then, I shouldn’t be surprised to find you a few miles from a war.”

  “What a reputation I have!”

  “Well, I can tell you right now, you’ll find little news in Zurich. It’s the dullest place on earth.” Then he added with a grin, “But the Swiss do have remarkable chocolate, and there’s a place near here where we can satisfy even the most stubborn sweet tooth.”

  “You’re the one with the fondness for sweets, if I remember, but lead the way. I want something warm, whether it’s sweet or not.”

  They went to a little bakery two blocks away, a place Andrei frequented and where he was well known. The wife of the baker, Madame Fortier, greeted him cheerily and immediately poured out two tall mugs of hot chocolate. Daniel also ordered several pastries and insisted on paying.

  “I won’t argue,” said Andrei. “My budget allows one glass of Fortier chocolate a month. Occasionally I get a little more by working in the bakery.”

  Daniel squeezed Andrei’s muscular arm. “I’m happy to see poverty isn’t wasting you away.”

  “I get a little more than chocolate when I work in the bakery,” Andrei said sheepishly.

  “It would appear!”

  “Tell me the news from home, Daniel!” Andrei asked eagerly as they seated themselves in a corner of the bakery. “We know next to nothing about what’s going on in Russia. And I know even less about Mama and everyone.”

  “You could have written, Andrei—”

  “Please, Dan, I don’t need to be browbeaten. I know I am a rotten son. And I know Mama would forgive me all my rottenness. But . . . I don’t know . . . writing never did come easy for me. I love them all no less.”

  “I’m sorry. We’ve all been really worried about you. But, okay, enough of that. Now for news. Are you ready? There’s a lot.”

  “I’ve been ready for two years.”

  “Let’s see . . .” Daniel rubbed his chin, obviously searching back in his mind two long years so he wouldn’t leave anything out. “Your mama married Misha; Yuri married a countess named Katya, and he also helped to assassinate Rasputin—”

  “Wait a minute!” Andrei shook his head. “Maybe there’s something wrong with your Russian—or I didn’t hear right.”

  “My Russian’s perfect,” said Daniel. “And I am sure you heard right.”

  “Mama and Uncle Misha got married! That’s a shock enough. But what’s this about Yuri and Rasputin? I can’t believe it.”

  Daniel explained all the details he knew, but still Andrei found it hard to fathom.

  “I would never have thought Yuri capable of such a thing.”

  “He isn’t, Andrei. It has torn him apart. Not only the act itself, but the fact that it has done no good at all. He convinced himself that it was for the good of Russia, that it would save Russia and the tsar. But now, weeks later, the tsar continues in his dreamworld, convinced he can continue in the autocracy as a benevolent ‘Little Father.’ He won’t give an inch to the liberals.”

  “Good! Neither tsar, nor liberals, nor even poor Yuri’s sad act of patriotism will save Russia. The savior of Russia is here in Zurich, Daniel, if only he is given a chance.”

  “Zurich is a long way from Russia.”

  “We know that only too well. Did you hear Lenin’s speech today?”

  “Yes. Even he is beginning to doubt if he’ll have a part in what is to come.”

  “Would you like to talk to him, Daniel?”

  Daniel grinned. “Do you think I looked you up just to gaze on your pretty face?”

  “But I doubt he’d talk to an American capitalist named Trent.”

  “I can be somebody else, Andrei. Just get me in to see him. Exposure in a mainstream American newspaper could only help his cause.”

  “I didn’t know you were such a champion of the socialists.”

  “I’m not. Neither am I a capitalist—not at heart. I can only promise to write an objective article. No one can, or should, ask for more than that.”

  “I’ll speak to him. But in return, I want more details about the family. Tell me about those weddings. Tell me about Mariana and my nieces and nephew. Is my grandfather still alive? What about Uncle Paul and Raisa and . . . Talia, that is, if she is still in Russia.” He tried to be casual about his final words but Daniel seemed to read a great deal more into his slight hesitation.

  “Talia returned to Russia around Thanksgiving—that is, about the end of November. Last I heard, she decided to remain there until the end of the war.”

  “What about her dancing?”

  “She’s more concerned about her family. She couldn’t bear to leave her mama and Anna once she got home.”

  “So, she is . . . uh . . . unattached?”

  “It sounds like that would matter to you, Andrei. But, yes she is—as far as I know.”

  “Will you be going home, I mean to Russia soon?”

  “I haven’t been there in three months. You can thank Mariana’s detailed letters for all I’ve been able to tell you. She was able to get delicate information, such as about Yuri, out by
way of the American Embassy. I’m very anxious to get back. Things are bad there—shortages of food and fuel, not to mention the situation with Yuri.”

  “Was he arrested?”

  “The tsaritsa wanted to have Rasputin’s murderers executed—two were members of the royal family. But they received fairly mild discipline instead. And, thankfully, Yuri was never implicated. He’s suffering nevertheless.”

  “The poor fellow,” said Andrei with real sympathy.

  “Anyway, I’ll be on my way back soon. I would have left a week ago but I met a fellow, a socialist, who knows Lenin and was able to tell me how to find him. I had hoped that in finding him, I would find you, too.”

  “I wish I could go with you.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “For one thing, I am a Russian national. I can’t be traveling around as freely as a cocky American.”

  “It hasn’t been so easy for me either with relations between the U.S. and Germany steadily heating up. I’m sure the States will enter the war at any moment. But there are ways of getting around, Andrei—many I’ve used with great success.”

  “Daniel, if you do get home, would you . . . ?” Andrei paused. What was he thinking? Would he pass words of love to Talia through another? It was stupid of him to even consider it. Yet his greatest fear was that if he ever did see her again, he would find her married, surrounded by a passel of children. But he couldn’t very well express his love and ask her to wait for him through Daniel. For one thing, it was assuming too much—even for him. She had a life that he had not been part of for years. He was the only one clinging to a past that was probably gone forever.

  “Never mind,” he added. “Just tell everyone I’m well and love them. That’s all.”

  “I still think you can tell them yourself.”

  “If only . . .”

  “What if I could get you papers, Andrei? The capitalist steel tycoon, Daniel Trent, might be good for something, you know. I have a few connections in the right places.”