When he’d dropped me at the rear door late last night, Sasha had embraced me, saying, “Take care, sweet one. I’ll see you soon.”
“When? Tomorrow night?”
“Yes, I’ll try.”
“Promise?”
“Absolutely,” he said, kissing me on the forehead.
Now climbing out of bed, I felt no shame for having given myself to Sasha. Just yesterday I would have been terrified that Papa might find out, but today I didn’t care, not a bit. Nevertheless, there was no need for him to find out, was there?
It hadn’t occurred to me just how late I’d slept, and I couldn’t tell from the low dark clouds in the December sky, but when I looked at a clock I saw that it was nearly one in the afternoon. Given the healing at the palace and then my late-night adventures, it wasn’t really a surprise. What did astonish me, however, was to learn that Papa had already risen and had been seeing petitioners, one after the other, since nine that morning.
Stepping out of my room was like stepping into a bazaar. No wonder, I thought. It was Saturday, and Saturdays were always Papa’s busiest. Today, December sixteenth, would be no different. Women of every age and fashion were buzzing through our apartment, some of them old and dressed in black, others young with abundant curves, some made up with Parisian rouge, and others pale and homely. Our dining room table was strewn with today’s gifts-candies and flowers, fruits and nuts-while the samovar was steaming before a near-continual line of supplicants in search of winter’s antidote, tea. The telephone seemed to ring nonstop.
Making my way into the washroom for my morning toilet, I noticed right away a sense of nervousness, of desperation.
“In the Duma there’s talk of nothing but revolutsiya,” said one woman quietly, standing in the hall, eating a biscuit and sipping tea.
Her friend pressed close to her and muttered, “Just terrible… Did you hear what Maklakov, the Duma deputy, has been saying around town? He’s saying it won’t be a political revolutsiya but one of rage and revenge of the ignorant masses! He keeps shouting, ‘Beware the peasant with the ax!’”
“Bozhe moi!” gasped the first, crossing herself, biscuit in hand.
Frightened, I hurried past the two women. Once I’d washed and brushed my hair, I peered into the salon, searching for my father. And there he was, standing before a very proper lady with a feather boa and another woman in a worn cardigan, the first holding his right hand, the second kissing his left. Why, I couldn’t help but wonder, were these women-not just these two, but all of them here today-so willing, so eager, to give up control and submit to my father? Were they that needy, that scared, that desperate? On the other hand, Papa, his eyes settling on nothing and no one, seemed not to notice any of the attention. In fact, he looked frightful, his hair more disheveled than ever, his blouse wrinkled, and the sash around his waist loose and sagging. Spotting me, Papa pulled away from the two women and started across the salon. Never had I seen such dark rings beneath his eyes.
“Hello, my little bee,” Papa said softly, kissing me on the forehead. “Did you rest well?”
Averting my eyes, I nodded. Did he have any idea that I’d spied him in bed with Dunya? Better yet, did he even suspect that I’d sneaked out last night? Amazingly, the answer to both was, I knew, no.
“Papa, I’m worried.”
He shrugged and looked past me. “Faith has been lost.”
“But people are saying the worst things. People right here in our apartment are talking, and…and…”
“You think I don’t know it will soon come to an end? There are enemies everywhere-yes, even here within our home.”
His passivity shocked me. Never had I heard or seen my father so demoralized. Had he had a vision during the night, or had he simply come face-to-face with common sense? Then again, was he beyond the brink of exhaustion?
No matter my anger and disappointment in him, I knew at least that I had to warn him, so I said, “Do you remember Elena Borisovna, the one whose grandson you healed?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, she said-”
He pressed the long hard index finger of his right hand to my lips. “Shh, my sweet little bee. I hear and follow the words of God and no one else.”
“But-”
Again he kissed me on the forehead. “Go and eat a bowl of steaming hot kasha-don’t forget the crispy onions!-and then some fish. Clear your soul of worries. Eat, and then prepare to go out. You and your sister must meet your cousin Anna this afternoon.”
“But, Papa, I…”
He walked away with all the authority of a tsar who’d just muttered the imperial bit-po-semo-so be it. For a moment I was tempted to run after him and grab him by the sleeve. I wanted to hit him and yell at him, even to confess my adventures. Instead, guarding my secrets and my passion, I turned and slowly made my way through the handful of petitioners. For the first time, I sadly realized that my father and I were not only traveling separate and divergent paths but our paths were destined never to cross again.
Toward three in the afternoon, Varya and I were indeed forced into an excursion with our cousin Anna, who was newly arrived in the capital. Much to Anna’s delight, we went straight to Nevsky Prospekt, where we visited the numerous shops of Gostiny Dvor and then, crossing the street, the tall arcade of Passazh. Much to my dismay, we took dinner at the small apartment of Anna’s close friends, who had moved to the capital some five years earlier. We didn’t return home until after ten that evening, and when Dunya greeted us at the door I couldn’t even look her in the eye.
My back to her as I hung up my cloak, I asked, “Where’s Papa?”
“He has a visitor.”
“Still?” said Varya as she slipped off her boots.
“Your father has had a very busy day,” our housekeeper replied as she handed us our tapochki, for she would not allow us to go about in our stocking feet in such cold weather.
When I peered into the salon, I saw that it was empty, meaning, of course, that Papa had escorted his guest to his small room with the sofa. This in turn told me not only that my father’s visitor was surely a woman but probably a blonde-and almost certainly buxom as well.
Irritated, I demanded, “Who’s visiting Papa at this hour? What’s her name?”
As if she thought nothing of it, Dunya said lightly, “Sister Vera.”
Shaking my head in disappointment, I headed off toward the kitchen. Her name might be Vera, and she was probably someone’s sister, but I doubted if she was a sister of truth.
“Maria,” called Dunya, “where are you going at this hour?”
“To make some tea. I need to stay up so I can talk with Papa.”
“Nyet, nyet, nyet. It’s much too late already.”
“But it’s important!”
“Whatever you have to say can wait till morning.”
“But-”
“Off to bed, the two of you-scoot!”
Freezing there in the hall, part of me was ready to explode at her-didn’t she know I understood what was going on between Papa and her?-while the other part wanted to fall into her arms and tell her not only about Elena Borisovna’s warnings but about Sasha as well. Instead, I went off to bed, sure of only one thing-that it would be best for all of us to quit Petrograd by the light of tomorrow’s sun. Perhaps Sasha could follow, but Papa, for his own safety, needed to leave the capital as soon as possible. I was sure that if he lived for a while in the distant woods he could find what he had lost, the very thing the depravity of the city had stolen from him: his hunger for true spirituality. In the past several years, Papa’s face and body had become so fleshy and full, sated by bottomless wineglasses and endless feasting.
Oh, God, I thought as I stood in my room, unbuttoning my dress and letting it fall to the floor. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to be observing my stupid father and his ridiculous actions. And I certainly didn’t want to be under the sharp eye of our fat housekeeper. I didn’t belong here anymore. I wanted
to be with Sasha. I wanted to tell him my worries. I wanted his advice. I yearned for his arms around my shoulders, his tender caress, his sweet kiss.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed in my underlinens, I realized that my mind and body were numb. I wanted nothing more than sleep…and yet how could I dare to close my eyes at a time like this? If I drifted away, how could I warn my father about the grand dukes? Better yet, how could I keep Papa from hurting himself, from doing something stupid and dangerous, like going to the Gypsies to drink and dance? It occurred to me that I should take a blanket and sleep on the floor in front of the main door. No, I thought, Papa could still slip out the back. Perhaps I should nail both doors shut. Or perhaps I should telephone the palace and beg to speak with the Emperor himself and plead for his help. Oi, finding myself lost between three doors, I didn’t know where to turn or what to do.
As she crawled into the other side of the bed, Varya said, “You’ve been crying a lot lately. What’s the matter?”
“I’m just a little worried, that’s all,” I replied, blotting my eyes. “I…I need to talk to Papa, and yet I can’t bother him. But if I go to sleep, I’m afraid I’ll miss him.”
“You mean you’re worried he’ll go out and you don’t want him to?”
“Exactly.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” said Varya, clambering back out of bed.
“Wait!”
“Hush, I’ll be right back.”
“You can’t disturb Papa in his study!”
“Don’t worry, I won’t. What do you think I am, some kind of durachka?” Cute little idiot?
There wasn’t much I could control in the world, so few things over which I had any influence, my sister being one of the very few exceptions. Just then, however, I was so exhausted I was practically helpless. I should have hurried after Varya to make sure she wouldn’t do something stupid like walk in on Papa and the supposed Sister Vera, but as the seconds ticked by, my energy trickled away. Fortunately, I heard Varya’s light steps returning a few short minutes later. In her arms were Papa’s tall black boots-nothing fancy and only slightly polished, the leather creased and softened from near-endless wear. They were the kind a peasant would wear for years and years, not in the fields but on Sundays or into town to trade grain. Even though Papa had been given fancy velvet breeches and hand-embroidered blouses and wore them often, his tall country boots were the one thing he had never abandoned for big-city footwear and never would.
With a big huff, Varya blew her bangs upward. “I hid his special fur coat once when I didn’t want him to go out, but it didn’t work. He just took his old wool one. But he always wears these boots, and he’d never go out without them.”
“Molodets.” Smart girl, I said.
“And he always shouts when he can’t find them.”
Of course he does, I thought with a smile. Whether he got up in the middle of the night, determined to search out some entertainment, or rose in the early morning and wanted to go to the banya, I’d certainly hear him pacing around and shouting for his boots.
Appeased, I took the boots from Varya and tucked them just under my side of the bed. With the last of my strength, I shed the remainder of my clothes and slipped on my nightdress. As I crawled into bed, I leaned over the lumpy mattress and kissed my sister on the forehead, then turned off the light and snuggled under the covers. Rolling onto my stomach, I reached under the edge of the bed and brushed my hand over the soft leather. Like the mighty River Tura that flowed through our village, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief flood my body. Tonight at least we were all safe. Within an instant, sleep carried me away.
CHAPTER 20
Oddly, I didn’t dream of Sasha but of my mother’s pelmeni-meat-filled dumplings-that were a staple of any Siberian diet. Mama always made them with not just two but three types of meat-beef, pork, and lamb-ground together with garlic and salt and pepper. She made them by the hundreds and kept them frozen in a bank of snow just outside our rear door. Throughout the long winter she would pluck them like dill weed, dropping a dinner’s worth into the large kettle of boiling water that roared nearly every night on the fire. I loved mine slathered with our home-churned butter and a dollop of sour cream so fresh it was still silky sweet. More recently, even though it wasn’t at all Siberian, I’d taken to following the aristocrats and sprinkling them with a bit of that French import, vinegar.
I dreamed, too, of the last time all of us Rasputins were home and gathered around the dinner table as one. Our parents had drunk vodka, while we children, as a very special treat, sipped the birch-tree juice we had gathered that afternoon in containers of bark. And honoring the joy of being all together, Mama had dropped two special pelmeni into the pot, one filled with salt, the other hiding a one-kopeck piece. With delight Varya had bitten into the coin, thrilled by the omen, certain it meant her grades would be good. I was glad to spy my mother secretly slipping the salt-filled dumpling to my brother, for when simple Dmitri bit into it, he hooted with delight.
“Good luck for one year!” he shouted, a smile spread across his wide, pimply face. “Good luck will follow me for one year!”
And when I woke with sweet memories, I wasn’t at all surprised to open my eyes to darkness. I had no idea what time it was-night or day-but when I rolled over and groped for Papa’s tall boots, my hand came up empty. With a gust of panic, my hand slapped everywhere and found nothing. When I’d gone to bed, I’d tucked the boots right there on the herring-board parquet floor, hadn’t I? A horrible premonition swept through my soul.
From somewhere in the flat I heard movement, and through our cracked door I saw a sliver of light. Mother of God, I realized, Papa had sneaked in here and found his boots, and now he was getting ready to go out. In the flash of a second, I was completely awake, throwing aside the thick covers, leaping out of bed, and rushing barefoot from our room. What time was it? Where was Papa going?
I blew down the hall as fast as a fearful wind. Papa’s door was half open, the room glowing a soft red from the icon lamp, but he wasn’t there. Where in the name of the devil had my father got to? And where was Dunya? Turning, I moved on, poking my head into my father’s study and finding it empty, then hurrying through the dark and abandoned main salon. Holding up the edges of my nightgown, I dashed to the front door, which was shut tight. Looking at the hooks lining the wall, I saw Papa’s fancy fur was gone.
From the kitchen came sounds of shuffling. Perhaps Papa was avoiding the security agents by sneaking out the back? Wasting no time, I passed through the dining room and into the kitchen, where the single overhead bulb was burning. But there was no one. And then, from behind the curtain, I heard subtle rustling.
“Dunya?” I called.
“Maria, is that you?” she replied from her cot. “My child, what are you doing up now? Don’t you know it’s the middle of the night?”
“Where’s Papa?”
“Gone out.”
“Gone out? Where? When?”
There was more rustling and a groan as Dunya pushed herself to her feet. A second later, the curtain was pushed aside. Clutching her nightdress over her ample bosom, Dunya glanced at the clock and then at me.
“Maria, my dear, you need to go back to bed. It’s-”
“I need to speak to my father!” I demanded.
“Milaya maya devochka,” my dear young girl, “it’s not even after midnight, and you’ve only been asleep for an hour. Now, really, you must return to bed. It would do no good to have you get sick!”
“Did Papa go out alone?”
“Nyet.”
Oh, God, I thought. “Did someone come fetch him? Who? Who did he leave with?”
“What’s the matter, Maria? Why are you so nervous?” Like a calming mother, Dunya ran one of her hands through my hair. “Everything’s all right, my child. He just went out with Prince Felix, that’s all.”
“Oi,” I moaned, jerking away from her.
“What’s the matter? Everything’s fine. The t
wo of them have had plans for tonight for quite some time. There’s nothing unusual about it, really. I was lying on my cot and heard everything. The prince came to the back door here and rang the bell, your father answered, and they left for the Yusupov Palace. Princess Irina is to be there. They only left a minute ago-”
A minute ago? I lunged for the back door and charged to the top step.
“Papa! Papa, wait!” I screamed.
There was no reply, not even a hollow echo. They’d already left the building, but maybe there was still time. If I hurried, if I was quick enough-if, if, if. In that instant I was tearing back to my room, casting aside my night clothes and pulling on my dress.
“What’s going on?” asked Varya, sitting up in the dark and rubbing her eyes. “What time is it?”
“It’s late…I’m going out,” I said frantically. “Papa just left, and I have to catch him!”
“Oh,” she moaned as she rolled over and went back to sleep.
Moments later I was grabbing my cloak and scarf and gloves and heading through the kitchen.
“What on earth are you doing, Maria?” demanded Dunya, standing in front of the door like a mother bear blocking the exit from her cave. “You can’t go out at this hour! And certainly not by yourself!”
“I have to catch Papa. I’ve got to tell him something, I’ve got to warn him!”
“Nyet, I forbid it! It’s too late, it’s too cold! Your mother would kill me for letting you go.”
Nothing had changed, and yet everything had. My task now was not to follow what someone decided was best for me but to take care of what needed to be done. I had no choice.
“Out of my way, Dunya,” I said, with firm determination.
“Wh-what?”
Rasputin's Daughter Page 20