Rasputin's Daughter Part 1

RASPUTIN'S DAUGHTER.

by Robert Alexander

PROLOGUE.

Petrograd, Russia.

April 1917.

It wasn't clear who had betrayed me.

As I was dragged through the ransacked halls of the Winter Palace, a silent armed soldier on either side, I wondered who had been spying on me, who had leaked word of my return to the capital. How had these two young militants known to come searching for me at our apartment on Goroxhovaya? Who had ordered them to break down my door, chase me through our rooms, and carry me off?

"Let me loose!" I screamed, after they'd caught up with me in the kitchen. "You can't do this!"

Only one of the soldiers spoke, the tall one, who was at best only a year or two older than me. He waved a signed and stamped piece of paper right before my face and barked the darkest words that could be said in Russia.

"By order of the Thirteenth Section!"

I fell silent, not simply out of fear but because now it was perfectly clear. There was no escaping the all-powerful Extraordinary Commission of Inquiry for the Investigation of Illegal Acts by Ministers and Other Responsible Persons of the Tsarist Regime. Of course I had nothing to do with politics. But I knew very well why I was of interest to the Thirteenth, which had been charged with the gravest of revolutionary duties, "investigating the activity of the Dark Forces."

Sandwiched between the two guards, I was led through the palace, which was no longer glowing and regal but filthy, littered with broken furniture, muddy carpets, shredded curtains, and torn portraits. I started crying. Where had all this hatred come from? What poison had killed our love of tsar and country and, far worse, of one another? Were the newspapers right? Could one person have ruined so much? Had Papa really been that almighty?

My eyes darted about for hope-a familiar face, a sympathetic smile, an easy escape. Instead I saw only a whirl of chaos, room after room destroyed by a landslide of rage. As I was dragged into a gallery with dark red walls, I gazed up and saw scores upon scores of portraits of war heroes staring down on me. Finally, the soldiers kicked open a pair of regal doors and shoved me into St. George's Hall, the main throne room of the tsars, including that of our very last, Nikolai II.

But the silver throne no longer sat upon the dais.

Instead it had been smashed, hacked to pieces and thrown aside, and the royal canopy above it ripped away. Likewise, a red velvet panel with the enormous double-headed eagle had been cut from the wall. At that moment I knew, despite the chaos of these days, that this revolution had been a stunning success: There was no going back, not now or even in the decades or centuries to come. The monarchy was gone from Russia forever.

Without slowing, the two young soldiers pulled me through the vast room with its columns of white marble. There at the far end, just to the side of the ravaged dais, sat a man reading something-a report, I a.s.sumed. As we approached, he looked up and rose to his feet. He was dressed in military garb, though I couldn't tell his rank. The closer we came, the more certain I was that I knew this man with the wavy hair, the narrow puffy eyes, the thin lips. But where had I seen him before?

"Matryona Grigorevna Rasputina?" he asked, his eyes all over me like a painter's.

I could tell he was searching for family resemblances. And of course he found them, he couldn't miss, for I had my father's long dark hair and his sharp blue eyes, broad forehead, and small chin. The man before me made no attempt to cloak his shock and revulsion, and under his disapproving eyes I started to shake.

Though I was on the verge of crying again, I tried to hold myself proudly. Here in the capital I was known by a far less provincial name.

"You may call me Maria."

"Age seventeen?"

"Eighteen."

He dabbed a pen in an inkpot, wrote something down, and then waved the pen like a scepter at the soldiers. "Leave us."

Their tight grasp on my upper arms had been like tourniquets; now, released, I felt a sudden rush of pleasure. The boy soldiers turned, not in unison, and sauntered away, leaving me with this strange man. He alone couldn't represent the much-feared Thirteenth Section, could he?

As I watched, he carefully placed the sheaf of papers he'd been reading in a folder. With a bold stroke of his pen, he made a notation on the cover.

"What's that?" I inquired.

"A report."

"A report on what?"

"On someone I just interviewed."

"Are you going to throw them back in prison, or are you-"

"I will ask the questions and you will answer them," he snapped. "To start, tell me why you've returned to the capital."

Just then I heard a strange noise. Looking toward the dais, I saw a large fancy grate in the wall. Were looters having their way in the next room?

Carefully measuring my words, I said, "I've returned to Petrograd to find a friend."

"Who?"

I wanted to say, Someone I desperately need to see, someone I once loved Someone I desperately need to see, someone I once loved. But I had to be strong. I dared not let my interrogator see how much I hurt inside, let alone betray the information I was carrying. There was not a doubt in my mind that if the Thirteenth Section knew what I did, I'd be tossed directly into the Peter and Paul Fortress. Perhaps I'd even be shot. It was for these very reasons that my mother back in Siberia had begged me to stay home.

"For whom are you searching?" he demanded.

"A friend who...who has been imprisoned."

"I see," he replied, as if he'd already heard that story a hundred times, which I was sure he had. "And do you know why you are here?"

Desperate to move on, I said, "There are many things I don't understand, especially why two young xhama" xhama"-rogues-"would break down my door and drag me from my home."

That long mouth with the thin lips drew itself into a tight pinch of...amus.e.m.e.nt? No, of course I wasn't what he expected.

Containing his humor, he said, "Be seated. My name is Aleksander Aleksandrovich, and I mean to ask you about your father."

That was all it took, just his first name and patronymic. There was not a girl with any brains in the capital who was not in love with this man. Yes, of course I knew who he was, and my entire body trembled. For years I had cherished his beautiful words as much as his beautiful photograph.

As forcefully as a priest, I chanted: "To sin shamelessly, endlessly,To lose count of the nights and days,And with a head unruly from drunkennessTo pa.s.s sideways into the temple of G.o.d."

My would-be interrogator was suddenly blus.h.i.+ng. "I wrote that."

"Of course you did." It simply sprang from my mouth. "You're Aleksander Aleksandrovich Blok, and that was my father's favorite poem. I recited it to him the very night he was killed.... In fact, your words were practically the last I spoke to him."

The color rushed from his face and he turned as pale as snow on a moonlit night. His own heavenly images of sinful Russia had touched the heart of the devil incarnate? His motifs of heartache and remorse were the last blessing the evil one had heard before meeting...death?

I'd never hated a man so much before. Sitting before me was not only Russia's most romantic poet in more than a century, not only our greatest gift since Aleksander Pushkin, but the person who'd once been both my savior and my inspiration. When I, a peasant girl from the distant countryside, had landed in the Steblin-Kamensky Inst.i.tute, a school for daughters of good home and breeding, I was like a reeba bez vodii reeba bez vodii-a fish without water-lacking in friends, stylish clothing, courtly manners, a fancy home, personal maid, or anything else that a girl of good society took for granted. But I did have this poet's images and words, and they had helped transform me from a clumsy derevenschina derevenschina into a worldly young woman. into a worldly young woman.

My voice quivering as if I were hurling hate on a deceitful lover, I gasped, "Why in the name of G.o.d did you bring me here? What do you of all people want from me me?"

Blok stared straight at me. "I need to know what happened the night of December sixteenth, the night your father was killed." He paused. "Allow me to explain, Maria Grigorevna. I was drafted into the army and now serve the Provisional Government. As secretary of the Extraordinary Commission, I have been present at most of the interviews with former ministers and those closest to the former imperial family."

"Oh, really?" I said, mocking him. "I've wondered where you were and what you were doing. I haven't seen any new poems from you in quite some time. Is that why?"

He glared at me. By the depth of the furrows creasing his forehead, I knew I'd hit not only a sore point but probably a sore truth. I couldn't have been more pleased.

Pressing on, I said, "So you've found something more interesting to do...such as gathering gossip?"

"Maria Grigorevna," he said, as sternly as a commandant, "it's my job to take the stenographs from the interviews and edit them into readable form. As I've been going through the endless pages on your father, however, I find that not only is Rasputin more a mystery than ever but the truth of his murder is more and more unclear."

"Of course it is. After all, both monarchists and revolutionaries have proved equally adept at twisting both my father's life and his death into political legend."

"They say that first your father was poisoned, next shot, then stabbed. But still he lived, and frantic to kill him, they finally threw him through a hole in the ice and-"

Bitterness stinging my tongue, I interrupted. "Don't you know better than to believe the stories told by a man's enemies?"

"Yes, but..."

As his words trailed off, I could see it in his eyes, his fascination with my father, which wasn't surprising, since the entire Empire had been obsessed with him-or, more correctly, with the myths about him. And yet, as I stared at Blok, there seemed to be more. Could he be one of the few who admired my father, who saw Papa as the ultimate revolutionary, the peasant who'd climbed from the lowest rung to the very top and done what no terrorist had ever been able to do, overturn our entire society?

Suddenly I blurted out the truth. "If you really want to know who murdered the mysterious Rasputin and how, I can tell you. I can tell you exactly what happened on the night of December sixteenth because I was there and saw it all with my own eyes. First, though, you must realize one thing: I was and am a devoted daughter. I loved Papa, and he...he loved me."

The tears came then, and there was not a thing I could do to stop them. Staring blankly ahead, I simply let the large salty drops roll one after another down my cheeks. But I was not crying because I loved my father. I was crying because I felt so guilty.

"What is it, Maria?" Blok asked, with surprising softness.

I swiped at my eyes. What could I say about my father, the greatest of all Russian enigmas?

"You have to look at the final days of his life," I said, my voice quivering. "I learned everything I know about Papa during that last week."

"Then you must tell me every detail of those days, right up to and including the night of the sixteenth, when he was lured to the Yusupov Palace."

"Yes.... But since when has anyone in Russia been interested in honesty, let alone truth?"

CHAPTER 1.

December 1916.

One week before Rasputin's murder.

It was past eleven in the evening when the telephone rang in our apartment, which wasn't that unusual because people were always in need of Papa's help, and in our city, the city of Peter, clocks had never made sense. Though we were fast approaching the lowest point in the year and the day's light had been barely more than an indifferent blink, sleep for all of us was elusive.

Still wearing my favorite blue dress, I was sitting on the bed, Pushkin's Evgeni Onegin Evgeni Onegin and Bely's and Bely's Peterburg Peterburg by my side. But instead of reading these famous poets, I was captured by a new one, Marina Tsvetayeva, who a few years earlier had achieved my dream of publis.h.i.+ng a book when she was just eighteen. Several of my small pieces had already been set in type, but would I ever write enough poems to fill an entire book? by my side. But instead of reading these famous poets, I was captured by a new one, Marina Tsvetayeva, who a few years earlier had achieved my dream of publis.h.i.+ng a book when she was just eighteen. Several of my small pieces had already been set in type, but would I ever write enough poems to fill an entire book?

As the phone rang a second and a third time, I glanced at my young sister, Varvara, who was dozing fitfully on the other half of the bed we shared, her head buried beneath a lumpy down pillow. When the telephone continued its shrill noise, I pushed aside my books and in my stocking feet hurried from our small bedroom into the hall. Where was our maid, Dunya, and why wasn't she answering? Many people a.s.sumed that because of our royal connections, we lived a grand life, rich in material goods and waited on hand and foot, but that was not so. Our third-floor apartment at 64 Goroxhovaya Street, just a block from the Fontanka River, was, to the surprise of many, a mere five rooms-our salon, the dining room, Papa's study, his bedroom, and Varvara's and my room-that was it besides the bath and the kitchen. And none of our rooms in this five-story brick building was grand. Even our neighbors were rather ordinary. Katya, who lived upstairs in Flat 31, was a seamstress. There were also a clerk and a kind ma.s.seuse, Utilia, who often complained that Papa bothered her for affection.

When I came into the hall, I was, as usual, greeted by music and loud voices. Papa loved Gypsy music-particularly the Mazalski Gypsy Choir, so lively and full of fun, just like Papa's heart-but tonight he had a lone balalaika player in the salon. From somewhere I heard my gregarious father's laugh rise with delight. I also heard the giggle of a woman-no, I realized, women women-but I had no idea who they were. Every day seemed to bring scores of desperate strangers into our home. From morning to night there was a queue outside our door and down the three flights, a line of princes and paupers, bankers and bakers, lawyers and factory workers, waiting their turn to see Papa and beg his influence or have him heal them.

Rus.h.i.+ng to the black phone on the wall, I picked up the heavy earpiece, cupped it to my ear, and spoke into the mouthpiece. "Ya Vas slushaiyoo." I am listening to you.

"This is the Palace operator. One moment, please."

My heart immediately speeded up. Despite the late hour, I a.s.sumed it was the Empress. The very next moment, however, there was a click and I immediately recognized the voice of the Empress's only close friend, the person many were calling the second most powerful woman in all the Russias.

Speaking with the slight lisp that always made her sound as if she had a mouthful of porridge, Madame Vyrubova uttered the most commanding phrase in the nation: "I'm calling on urgent business from the Palace."

She begged to know if my father was home, and I a.s.sured Anna Aleksandrovna that he was. Then I lowered the earpiece and let it hang from its long cord. It was good fortune that my father was indeed here, I thought as I hurried down the hall, for often toward midnight he would go out. Just the night before, Honorary Burgess Pestrikov had treated him to quant.i.ties of wine and food at the Restaurant Villa Rode; it was four in the morning when Papa had stumbled into the apartment and collapsed on the sofa, where he slept until ten. The night before that, he'd stayed out all night with Madame Yazininskaya, presumably at her flat, for he did not return until lunch the following day.

Pa.s.sing through our dining room, I swerved around several cases of sweet red wine a councilor had just brought, a gift that particularly pleased Papa because of the Dry Laws the Tsar had decreed soon after the start of the war. I then skirted our bra.s.s samovar, its fire gone out, and the heavy oak table, which was laden with a basket of flowers and plates of biscuits and sweets, nuts, dried fruits, cakes, and other delicacies that appeared day in and day out for our stream of guests.

By the sounds from the salon, I a.s.sumed that was where I would find Papa. In fact, he was not there. Rather, I found the lone balalaika player, strumming the melancholy tunes of our land, and two women, both huddled on the floor. One was our eternally loyal maid, Dunya, one of Papa's earliest disciples, who'd followed us from Siberia and who was, I couldn't help but notice, getting fatter by the week. The second was Princess Kossikovskaya, a young beauty of the best society. The princess had a number of diamonds sparkling in her rich brown hair and hanging from her ears, while strands of huge pearls drooped from her neck, but right then and there, hunched over on her knees, she didn't look so elegant. She was quite drunk.

And when I heard the beauty retch, I understood why Dunya, who was holding a basin to the young woman's smeared lips, hadn't answered the phone.

"Dunya, where's Papa?" I demanded.

"Back in his study," she said, with a quick wave over her shoulder.

I bit my lip, for it was not without some dread that I hurried out of the room and down the hall. Reaching the door of Papa's room, I raised my hand to knock-but hesitated. We were never, ever supposed to interrupt when Papa was healing someone...and yet if he was being summoned by the Empress, wasn't that more important? Absolutely, I thought, and I knocked firmly, albeit hesitantly.

A moment later came his gruff reply. "Da, da. Please enter at once!" Please enter at once!"

His study was small and narrow, with an icon and its oil lamp in one corner, an old oak desk, and, of course, his pathetic leather sofa, which was nearly rubbed bare. Perched on a chair in front of the sofa was Papa, wearing loose black pants, tall black leather boots, and a lilac kosovorotka, kosovorotka, a s.h.i.+rt b.u.t.toned at the side of the collar. Every day any number of women begged for Papa's attention, but I had no idea how he treated them. Peering in now, however, I saw my father leaning forward and holding his visitor, none other than Countess Olga Kurlova, by the knees. The countess, wearing a pink Parisian silk dress that appeared loose, perhaps even unb.u.t.toned in the front, was one of the great beauties of the Empire, with thick blond hair and cheeks that were high and distinguished. She was from Moscow, I knew, and though her family was neither so very n.o.ble nor, from what I heard, so very rich, she was a favorite in the capital, sought after by society for her seductive looks and keen wit. a s.h.i.+rt b.u.t.toned at the side of the collar. Every day any number of women begged for Papa's attention, but I had no idea how he treated them. Peering in now, however, I saw my father leaning forward and holding his visitor, none other than Countess Olga Kurlova, by the knees. The countess, wearing a pink Parisian silk dress that appeared loose, perhaps even unb.u.t.toned in the front, was one of the great beauties of the Empire, with thick blond hair and cheeks that were high and distinguished. She was from Moscow, I knew, and though her family was neither so very n.o.ble nor, from what I heard, so very rich, she was a favorite in the capital, sought after by society for her seductive looks and keen wit.

As if I had walked in on a pair of lovers, Countess Olga gasped and clutched at the top of her dress.

"What are you doing here?" Papa asked with a scowl. "I thought it was our other guest. You know you're not supposed to bother me when my door is closed."

Averting my eyes, I said quietly, "There's a call of urgent business...from the Palace."

"What's that you say? Speak up, child!"

"There's a call from the Palace.... It's urgent, Papa."

All but forgetting about me, my father turned to the luscious countess and bragged, "Ah, Mama needs me. Mama needs me at the Palace."

Horrified that a peasant would refer to so lofty a personage in such coa.r.s.e terms, the countess stared at him in shock. While some members of the court were permitted to address Her Majesty by her first name and patronymic-Aleksandra Fyodorovna-her lowly subjects were supposed to refer to her either as the Tsaritsa or the Empress. Never, ever, as Mama.

"I don't need them, I can just go back home to Siberia," my father boasted, holding up a sloppy finger to make a fine point. "But they wouldn't last six months on the throne without me! Really, not six months!"

"The phone, Papa!" I reminded. "You're wanted on the telephone!"