The Rasputin Dagger

by Theresa Breslin

  I waited expectantly.

  ‘Here.’ She penned the transfer note and thrust it at me. ‘Take this to the Matron at the Tsarskoe Selo hospital. But have a care, Nina. And don’t forget, you’ll be welcome here if you ever decide to return.’

  Her last sentence made no sense to me. My intention was to return within a few weeks – when Rasputin came back to the Alexander Palace.

  ‘I’m sorry to lose one of my best nursing assistants. Also’ – she made an awkward movement with her hands – ‘things are changing. The regime is shaky. I wouldn’t like to see you getting caught up in any … unpleasantness.’

  I wondered what she meant by ‘unpleasantness’. Unlike the workers in the military hospital of the Winter Palace, I didn’t have to queue for food. I ate filling meals, slept in a downy bed, and had Sergei to drive me backwards and forwards between the city and Tsarskoe Selo hospital. My tasks at other times were light, primarily consisting of entertaining Alexei with a story each evening to send him to sleep.

  Of course I overheard gossip, and mingling with palace staff and family gave me an insight into the concerns of both. The servants at the Alexander Palace did not truly believe the Tsarina was plotting with the German government, and the Commander of the Imperial Guard respected the Tsar and Tsarina. These people would not turn against the Imperial Family.

  And yet … Fetching a glass of hot milk for Alexei from the kitchen one night, I overheard a maid whispering: ‘It’s a pity that Vladimir Ulyanov is cooped up in Switzerland. He’s the man to take us out of this mire.’

  ‘Yes,’ the cook muttered. ‘Lenin the Leader would sweep away the whole lot of them.’

  I was aghast at the change in their loyalty. Surely these mild-mannered servants would be horrified at the thought of bloodshed. They weren’t revolutionaries like Fyodor, who threatened to shoot anyone who disagreed with him; or Stefan, who wouldn’t be happy until the Romanovs were deposed. They liked the family they served and had a lot to lose if there was a change of regime. They were fed and clothed and kept warm … yet, they wanted change.

  Their gossip made me uneasy. Why were they grouching? They’d less reason to be aggrieved than the workers in the city who were sending their children to bed hungry every night. The palace staff ate well. The Tsarina’s instructions to be frugal for the war effort meant fewer luxury goods were used in the kitchens, but everyone’s stomach was full and, when winter came, the fuel stores of the palace would be stacked high with coal and dry wood. I’d forgotten that Galena had said that the city was no more than a large village. The imperial staff kept in constant touch with family and friends there; most of them had lost relatives in battle and knew many who were being ground down by constant poverty.

  Which was more than I did.

  My days were busy nursing. My free time was spent chatting to Olga and her younger sisters while we sat sewing, and in the evenings I attended to Alexei. My visits to Petrograd became less frequent. I took to writing letters addressed to Galena, Dr K and Stefan. I only ever received replies from Dr K. In one of these I enquired about each of them individually. Dr K wrote back with their news, and to say that Stefan was asking how I was getting on with helping the Tsarina run the country.

  I was about to replace the letter in its envelope when I noticed something written down the side in familiar handwriting. It was Stefan’s! I had to take the paper to my bedside lamp and turn it sideways to decipher his scrawl:

  It was a quip equal to any of Tomas’s and it made me smile. Within my heart there was a sudden ache of longing, the like of which I had not felt since first I’d left Yekaterinburg.

  That night I slept with the letter under my pillow.

  The days passed like this until one evening, when I’d just begun my nightly story, the door to the sitting room was flung open abruptly. Without warning or prior announcement a voice boomed out:

  ‘It seems that I have a rival?’

  ‘Holy Father!’ The Tsarina half rose from her chair to greet an obviously highly important visitor.

  He was dressed in black trousers, of the sort that peasants wear, loosely gathered into long leather boots. His tunic was also black: cuffed at the wrist, high-collared, with a single embroidered sash slung down diagonally from one shoulder and tied around his waist, Siberian style.

  ‘At last! At last!’ The Tsarina was almost weeping with relief and joy. ‘My prayers are answered. You heard me calling upon you and you came!’

  He paused, his figure framed in the doorway. He was tall with a shaggy mane of hair. Square of shoulder and long of face, the man had striking features – deep-set eyes and a distinctive nose. His gaze, roving freely, took in everything before him. Even from there his presence filled the room. He didn’t need to announce himself. His identity was obvious: branded as a drunkard, a charlatan and the ruin of Russia – here was the man they called Rasputin.

  I sat up, utterly stunned by the sight of him. Not by his eyes, or his wild hair, or his height, or his voice, or any part of the magnetism that emanated from this person. It was something else which held me rooted in my seat.

  Tucked in the sash which crossed his chest was a dagger.

  The blade was curved, the handle set with white pearls. And within their heart a ruby stone shone blood red.

  Chapter 20

  Rasputin’s eyes fixed on me.

  ‘I hear that the Tsarevich has a new attendant. Someone who can stave off Alexei’s headaches and reduce his pain by the power of words alone.’ He was smiling as he came into the room, but there was a ripple of resentment in his tone. ‘And this person is also from Siberia. Perhaps the Imperial Family has no more need of Father Grigory Rasputin?’

  ‘Never say that!’ the Tsarina responded. ‘I have been demented by your absence. The Tsar is at the Front and I’ve had no one to turn to. We are constantly pestered with aggrieved relatives and disobedient government ministers. Their incompetence is appalling and they seem incapable of following a simple order. Beleaguered on all sides, we require you here more than ever.’

  ‘We had no one to lead us in our prayers,’ said Olga. ‘Father Grigory, you are our spiritual director.’

  Her sisters joined in with their own exclamations of joy at seeing him again. Alexei stretched out his arms as a much younger child does, in the expectation of being lifted up by a favourite adult.

  Ignoring the chorus of greetings, Rasputin made his way slowly towards me. ‘I wish to introduce myself.’ He indicated for me to stand up.

  When I got to my feet, my head was on a level with his shoulder. I had not switched my attention from the dagger and now it was directly before me: a perfect match to the one which lay in my carved casket. How could that be?

  I glanced up. Rasputin was watching me with a curious expression. Galena’s warning echoed in my ears. Immediately, I looked at the floor.

  Rasputin placed both his hands on the top of my head. Then he slid them down my cheeks to cup my face. Determinedly I kept my eyes downcast. His hands were cool, the skin surprisingly smooth. With long fingers he took firm hold of my chin and tilted my face up to meet his own.

  I opened my eyes.

  And trembled under the intensity of his gaze.

  His face was very close, covering mine as the sun might do the moon. Blotting out my light with superior radiance. My head went limp in his grip.

  The colour of his eyes was dark, almost black, the pupils deep pools – waxing like a spinning planet and burning with a strange inner light. A pinpoint of red which …

  ‘Receive the Spirit,’ he murmured, and blew gently into my face.

  His breath was hot and sweet, and yet was a cool balm to my soul.

  ‘Nina.’ He spoke my name the way no other ever had. It was as if only he knew how to pronounce it, with an emphasis that drew me towards him. Like an invisible drug his personality coiled around my being.

  His eyes grew larger.

  I was drowning.

  He took his hands from m
y face and placed them on my shoulders. When he moved, a glint of fiery light flashed from the dagger held in the sash across his chest. Ah! It was not identical to mine. This one was a mirror image! The blade of Rasputin’s dagger curved in the opposite direction.

  The daggers were a matched pair!

  My mind, hooked by that thought, shifted from its dream-like trance to the present moment. I blinked. Time had passed. And I had no idea if it was minutes or hours.

  Then I heard a bird call from outside and noises within the palace … and became aware of the heavy silence in the room. I looked around. The Tsarina and her children were transfixed like wooden figures in a medieval tableau. They waited, as if only by Rasputin’s authority could they resume their life.

  I straightened up as Rasputin dropped his hands to his side. Still he was observing me and I saw now that there was a slyness in his eyes. His hypnotic hold on me had loosened and he wanted to know why. Noticing where my attention lay, he plucked the dagger from his sash and held it up.

  ‘Do you like beautiful ornaments?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ I answered him steadily.

  ‘Surely jewellery has some appeal?’ he cajoled. ‘These pure white pearls would make a fine necklace for your pretty neck.’

  I stepped back as Rasputin reached to touch my throat. Apart from him I seemed to be the only person in the room capable of independent movement. And then I recalled how, when travelling through the countryside, Papa and I had met many pilgrims trudging the roads. Some were preachers or practising faith healers and earned their living by charitable donations. They were known as starets. Most villagers welcomed them, but sometimes stones were thrown, or they were mocked and rough boys and dogs set upon them to chase them away.

  ‘Often these starets are delusional,’ Papa told me. ‘And it is the worst type of delusion, for it is self-delusion. They believe themselves to be a direct channel to the spirit world. Being absolutely convinced of this aids them in convincing others that their delusions are real. They can control the minds of their followers by means of their voice and their eyes.’

  I seated myself upon the sofa, spreading my skirts wide so that the monk could not sit beside me. Rasputin gave a soft laugh. Then he turned and clapped his hands. At once the children joined in, clapping and smiling.

  Rasputin spent the rest of the evening regaling us all with tales of adventures he’d had, being chased by wolves and fighting a bear single-handed. At bedtime he gave each of us a cone of incense he’d brought from his retreat at the monastery of Verkhoturye. We placed them in pottery burners and lit dozens of candles. He began to pray; chanting in a mellow voice which rose and fell in a rhythm that lulled the senses. As he raised his eyes to heaven, the sound ebbed and flowed, a combination of mouth music and mystical incantation. It seemed as if he was communicating directly with the Almighty.

  And … I was a child again, half sleeping, my head in the crook of my father’s arm as we listened to a storyteller in a remote village. And suddenly the words were familiar! I came awake and alert in the present time. Where others might think Rasputin was talking in tongues, I now recognized the language as an obscure Siberian dialect.

  Was this man a total trickster?

  The heady smell of our offerings combined with the cosy glow of the candles to create comforting warm contentment, and before the Tsarina and her children retired for the night Rasputin blessed them individually, laying his hands upon their heads.

  Chapter 21

  Rasputin was waiting in the corridor outside my bedroom.

  ‘Why are you fascinated by the dagger I carry?’

  He’d blocked my way and was obviously not going to move until I answered him. We were not so far from the rooms of the other personal staff so I was not especially intimidated.

  ‘What makes you think I am?’

  Rasputin gave me a knowing look. ‘I see on your face what others do not. I see beneath the skin.’

  ‘Ye … es,’ I responded slowly, to allow myself time to think. It was obvious that he was an observant person, and had noticed my gaze fixated on the dagger he carried. I saw only one course of action if I was ever to find out the background to the dagger Papa had kept inside the carved wooden casket. I returned his gaze steadily. ‘I own a similar dagger.’

  He laughed – a braying scornful sound. ‘Child, you are mistaken.’

  ‘Mine has the same design: a ruby within a setting of pearls.’

  ‘Impossible! If you knew where this weapon came from you would understand why.’ Rasputin shook his head. ‘There is no dagger which exactly matches the one I carry.’

  ‘I did not say that my dagger was exactly the same. I said that it is similar. The difference between the two daggers is that their blades curve in opposite directions.’

  ‘No!’ The change in Rasputin was frightening. His face paled, he tore at his beard and tears flowed from his eyes. ‘No! No!’ he repeated. ‘This is an ill omen!’ He beat his fist upon his chest. ‘Am I not the one to be saved?’ he cried. Incoherent ramblings poured from his lips. ‘I was sent to help the Russian people. My work is not yet done.’

  I cowered against the wall as he ranted, but he seemed to have forgotten my presence.

  Finally he flung himself on his knees and, turning his face, damp with perspiration, upwards, he chanted over and over, ‘If it is to be, then I accept my fate.’

  I tried to squeeze past him to reach my room, but his hand shot out and he grasped my wrist.

  ‘Come with me!’

  I struggled silently. He was stronger than me. My throat closed over in terror, and I could not shout for help. Against my will he dragged me along the corridor and through a series of rooms until we came to a section of the palace unknown to me. They may have been state apartments, or an imperial suite, used before the family moved to their present living space. We stopped in a reception hall. The windows were unshuttered and the light of the moon spread an eerie white glow upon the floors and walls. The decoration was formal: golden paint and wallpaper, gold ornaments, with heavily gilded furniture.

  Far from any other living person, no one would hear my screams.

  Rasputin dropped my hand and paced about, mumbling to himself and peering at the paintings which adorned the walls. I leaned against a pillar, shaking so much I could hardly stand. The door was ajar. I willed my legs to function and tried to walk towards it.

  ‘By the bones of St Peter!’ The yell he let out caused me to freeze. He leaped across the room, grabbed me round the waist and propelled me towards a particular painting. ‘Look!’ he commanded. ‘The figure dressed in the skin of a wolf. See what Ivan the Terrible carries in his bandolier!’

  The scene depicted the very first Tsar of all the Russias. His fierce gaze stared out at us. In years past Ivan had terrorized his nobles and courtiers, committing unspeakable atrocities upon them and the peoples of the lands he subdued. The artist had drawn a portrait of a battle where Ivan the Terrible stood with his foot on the bloodied body of a vanquished enemy.

  In the sashes of the bandolier which criss-crossed his chest two daggers were set: a matched pair with their handles nestling side by side. Each hilt was encrusted with pearls and centred with a single flaming ruby.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I whispered.

  ‘These daggers are bewitched.’ Rasputin had recovered his composure.

  ‘Bewitched?’ I repeated stupidly.

  ‘When I was given my dagger,’ said Rasputin, ‘I was told that it was one of a pair which carried a special enchantment.’

  ‘Who gave the dagger to you?’

  He ignored my question to continue with his tale. ‘Recently, an older servant here told me of this painting. He said that the daggers had once been treasures of a Siberian tribe. Forged from metal by their first ruler, each ornamented with freshwater pearls and a giant ruby stone, and prayed over by their staret, holy priest, the daggers carried both a blessing and a curse.’ A cloud shifted across the sky and t
he moon’s light was dimmed.

  ‘What kind of curse?’ I shivered in the darkness as Rasputin’s voice rolled around the golden hall.

  ‘The twin daggers!’ Again Rasputin was working himself into a frenzied state. ‘Murderous and Merciful! Alpha and Omega! The Beginning and the End!’

  ‘What happened to the daggers after Tsar Ivan died?’ I cut in with my question to divert him.

  ‘The next Tsar kept them, and they were passed down through the Imperial Family, to the present Tsar. But they were stolen from him. They disappeared, until—’ He broke off.

  ‘Until what?’ I prompted him.

  ‘Our meeting is an ill omen!’ The cloud moved on and the moon’s light showed Rasputin starkly outlined like a great beaked bird of prey. ‘You have been sent to warn me of my own doom!’ There were flecks of spit upon his beard. He was quieter, but an undercurrent of unease hung about him like a dark cloak.

  ‘The Tsarina simply sent for me to help with Alexei while you were away.’ I strove to speak in a manner that would calm him. ‘That is my purpose in being here. I do not have your faith-healing skills. All I do is tell stories at night.’

  ‘Stories …’ He meditated for a moment. ‘Stories have power,’ he said. ‘A story is the most powerful weapon in the wide, wide world.’

  ‘We both know stories are not real.’

  ‘We both know that stories have meanings that are very real,’ he countered my statement. ‘They are multi-faceted and many-layered.’

  I considered my reply and, while I did, I realized that in this conversation Rasputin was speaking without his mask; he’d abandoned his role of the flamboyant prophet. We were having a genuine discussion. ‘They bind people together,’ I said. ‘Validate their culture and emotions and give the humblest a voice.’

  ‘And stories never die,’ Rasputin added.