Rasputin's Daughter Part 18

I felt like a tiny bird that had flown full speed into a large pane of gla.s.s and then, stunned, fallen to the ground. What invisible reality hadn't I seen before? What hard truth was I facing now? The betrayal was too much, I couldn't comprehend what I was witnessing. And if I hadn't been in such shock, I would have cried out in horror. Sasha hadn't come to our rescue, but to make sure of my father's death?

"Where, Prince, where?" shouted Purishkevich, that infamous monarchist with the famously pointed mustache.

"Out there!" replied Sasha, pointing directly at my father.

I tried to call to my father, to beg him to run, but nothing came out of my mouth except a horrible piercing cry. I watched as my father glanced back and laid his eyes on the man who I thought was my lover-but who was, in fact, one with my father's murderers. Oh, dear G.o.d, what had I done? What web of deceit had I fallen into?

Finally, I managed to scream, "Hurry, Papa!"

His face awash with terror, Papa hobbled on, hurrying toward me, pleading, "Run, Maria! Get away! Save yourself!"

I couldn't move. Behind my father I saw Purishkevich struggling to load a revolver. First one, then a second bullet dropped from his shaking hands into the snow. Frustrated and furious, Sasha ripped the gun from Purishkevich and raised it high. And then Sasha-none other than Sasha!-took careful aim at my father.

"No!" I shrieked. "No!"

The very next instant Sasha fired, shattering the night. Before I knew it, something went screaming through the air not far from me. Sasha had missed! Papa, I realized, was still struggling onward!

"Run!" I called to my father.

But before Papa had taken three more steps, Sasha was again raising the gun. How could this be? How could the sweet young man I had kissed so pa.s.sionately and given myself to now be so consumed with anger? How could his face be twisted with such hatred?

To my horror, this time Sasha took longer, straining to steady his wavering arm. And then, when my father was only some twenty paces from me, Sasha fired a second time-and again missed! With every bit of his strength, Papa pressed on, half stumbling, half running.

"Please, G.o.d, give him strength!" I sobbed.

But then several more figures burst from the palace, including Prince Felix and none other than Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich, that young das.h.i.+ng member of the royal family, a pistol in hand. My entire body shuddered. The grand duke was an Olympic athlete, a trained soldier, a seasoned hunter-and a Romanov bent on eliminating the "stain" of my father from the dynasty. When I saw him take confident, G.o.dlike aim at my father, I knew there was no hope.

The grand duke fired...and the bullet struck my father in the back, causing him to halt in his tracks. Slowly and with great effort, my father turned around, his hand rising slowly as if to make the sign of the cross. With great care, the grand duke fired again...the second shot struck my father directly in the forehead...and I screamed through the night as Papa tumbled to the ground, his hot red blood quickly melting away the cold white snow.

EPILOGUE.

April 1917 Four months after Rasputin's death "And then what happened?"

Wiping my eyes, I raised my head and stared across the wooden table at him, at Aleksander Blok, the man who'd once been my favorite poet and who was now my interrogator.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" I asked.

"What happened next?"

How, I wondered, had the world been turned so on its head? I gazed around, craning my head and studying this columned room, St. George's Hall, buried in the heart of the Winter Palace. Just weeks ago this had been the elegant throne room of the greatest monarchy on the face of the earth. Now it had been trashed by angry revolutionaries. And there it was again, I thought as I looked toward the dais, a distant noise coming from behind the grate. So the looting of the palace continued unabated. Yes, I thought, beware the peasant with the ax.

How strange. Just when I had begun to understand my own father, he had been killed. And just when I had found someone to love, that young man had betrayed me as had no one else.

"You understand Sasha's real ident.i.ty?" I said, looking up through a mist of tears.

"Yes, of course, Prince O'ksandr of Novgorod. A great friend of Prince Felix and Grand Duke Dmitri."

And, I thought, a dabbler in the sects of Russia, particularly the Khlysty, Khlysty, which was why, of course, Prince Felix had first drawn Sasha into the plot against my father. which was why, of course, Prince Felix had first drawn Sasha into the plot against my father.

Blok dipped his pen into some ink, took a deep breath, exhaled as if in pain, and said, "I need specific information of that night."

"Why? What do you care for truth?"

This man, one of our greatest purveyors of words whom many called the heir to Pushkin, flinched. Sure, I had just insulted him, but so what? His religion was using fine words to slice apart the complexities of the world and thereby expose the truths and the lies. Yet did I think my story, no matter how honestly he recorded it, even embellished it, would ever see the light of day? Never.

"You will write my story, but do you think it will actually be seen by any but a few officials? Do you think people in general will be allowed to read it?" I shook my head, and as confident as only a Rasputin could be, said, "Absolutely not. I'm quite sure these pages will be buried away and disappear."

Aghast, Blok looked up at me. "Why in the name of the devil do you say that?"

"Because the real truth of Rasputin is not what your people need, it's not something they can use to justify what they've done or something they can now use to fuel their revolution."

"But-"

"Everyone is running around saying that first my father was poisoned, next he was stabbed, and then he was shot, but still he lived. He lived, and nothing killed the holy devil Rasputin until he was thrown into the frozen waters of the Nevka and died by drowning. But none of that's true! I saw him killed! My father was murdered, first shot in the stomach and then in the back and finally in the head. Even the most cynical of revolutionaries wouldn't believe that even the great Rasputin could survive a bullet wound in the head. After all, he nearly died at the hands of a small syphilitic woman, so he was obviously as mortal as the rest of us."

Blok stared at me, not daring to contradict my words.

I said, "You know, of course, why Prince Felix and the others started this awful story? It's perfectly obvious, isn't it?"

After a long moment, he finally nodded. "To maintain the myth of your father."

"Exactly. There was no way a Yusupov could say that they had simply shot a peasant in the back as he tried to run away. Nor could they say that a defenseless and unarmed holy man from Siberia was easy to kill. Either statement would have enraged the liodi liodi." I continued, my voice full of anger. "So to make sure that the murder wouldn't inflame the common folk, they made up the whole story of how difficult it was to kill Rasputin, the mad monk. And then they threw in the final tidbit, that my father died not by poison, or being stabbed or shot, but from drowning. You understand why that's so important, too, don't you?"

Blok nodded, albeit slowly.

"Then go on, tell me. Tell me why."

"Because..." Blok pushed back his chair and rose, moving away from the table. "Because if your father were still breathing when he was thrown through the ice and into the freezing water, he could never become a saint."

"Exactly. Their story not only confirms his supposed evilness, it entirely prevents him from being wors.h.i.+ped-ever!-simply because liodi liodi believe that those who drown can never be canonized." believe that those who drown can never be canonized."

Blok turned and looked at me with eyes so sad, so tired, that I knew I had actually done the impossible and punctured a hole in his revolutionary zeal. This was exactly why, I knew, Blok and his cohorts would never allow the real story of the real Rasputin to get out, for it would make the revolution look like the black joke it was.

"You're sure of this, that your father was finished off by a bullet to the head?" he asked.

The crack of the gun, my father's horrible groan, the sight of him falling into the snow. Could I be more sure?

"Absolutely positive. And it wasn't Prince Felix or Prince O'ksandr or even Purishkevich who killed my father in the end. It was that splendid marksman, Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich."

"Dear Lord."

As would any Russian, Blok immediately understood the ramifications. Earlier the virulent Purishkevich had given thanks to G.o.d that the hands of royal youth had not been stained with blood. But in the end, of course, that was exactly what had happened. Purishkevich wasn't referring to Prince Felix, certainly one of the most n.o.ble young men in the country, but not royal. No, he meant Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich, an immediate member of the ruling monarch's family and a direct grandson of the great Alexander II.

It was all just as I had been told. "My father's death was supposed to be only the beginning. The grand dukes next meant to kill the Tsar, toss Aleksandra Fyodorovna in a convent, and install one of their own, the young, handsome, and modern Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich. But russkiye liodi," russkiye liodi," the common Russian people, "would never have accepted him as a pretender to the throne if they knew that he, a grandson of the Tsar Liberator who had freed the serfs, had killed one of their own, a true the common Russian people, "would never have accepted him as a pretender to the throne if they knew that he, a grandson of the Tsar Liberator who had freed the serfs, had killed one of their own, a true muzhik, muzhik, in cold blood. And the grand dukes' plot probably would have succeeded if it hadn't been so cold, if the bread riots hadn't broken out, if-" in cold blood. And the grand dukes' plot probably would have succeeded if it hadn't been so cold, if the bread riots hadn't broken out, if-"

"Of course." Blok shook his head. "And you haven't told anyone this?"

"No, absolutely not."

"You're positive?"

"Not even my own mother. I haven't been able to tell a single soul...until you."

"And why is that? Why haven't you come forward?"

"Because they threatened me, because..."

The memories came flooding back, and I turned away. As if it had happened only moments ago, I remembered it all perfectly clearly, how I had rushed, sobbing, to my father's body. No sooner had I fallen in the red snow, however, than a group of men had charged around me. Within seconds they were hauling me away, dragging me into the palace. I had screamed and cried, kicked and twisted. When someone struck me in the face, I had turned and seen Sasha.

"Shut up!" he shouted. "I'm sorry, but we had to do it. Your father left us no choice!"

I cried out again, and suddenly I felt the cold barrel of a gun on the back of my head, and Purishkevich was yelling into my ear, "Shut up or I'll shoot!"

Looking back one last time I saw Prince Felix hysterically crying out and kicking my father's body.

"Papa!" I pleaded, helplessly.

And when Prince Felix had fallen against the corpse and started beating and slugging it like a madman, I turned away, unable to bear it....

Now staring at Blok through a thick veil of tears, I said, "They kept me locked up in a coal bin for hours before tossing me out. And I'm still not sure why they let me go. All I can think is that Sasha-Prince O'ksandr-arranged it. When they did release me, however, they said that if I told anyone, they'd kill not only me but my sister, my brother, and my mother. All of us. They promised to eliminate all the Rasputins, to liquidate liquidate us." us."

"Dear Lord."

"That's why I've kept silent these four months since Papa was killed." I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the vision of that night. "It was all so horrible. Prince Felix went crazy, beating and kicking my father. Was it some repressed feeling in him? Had he both desired my father s.e.xually and hated him too? Yes, surely. As I look back, I think Prince Felix earlier that fall must have confessed himself and his feelings to my father, who in turn was only trying to heal the prince of his 'grammatical errors.'"

"And Prince O'ksandr?" said Blok, shaking his head as he wrote something down. "Do you have any idea what happened to him?"

"No. None."

"But you do understand what role he played in this, don't you?"

Nodding, I wiped my eyes. "I've since learned that he's from a very n.o.ble though not very wealthy family in Novgorod, a family that dates all the way back to the days of Prince Rurik. And when Prince Felix found out that Sasha had secret connections to the Khlysty, Khlysty, he got Sasha to snoop around for anything they could use against my father. When they couldn't find anything, they didn't just stop. No, they kept pus.h.i.+ng and digging...and they decided that Sasha, the youngest of them, should use his charms to try to get information from me, Rasputin's daughter." he got Sasha to snoop around for anything they could use against my father. When they couldn't find anything, they didn't just stop. No, they kept pus.h.i.+ng and digging...and they decided that Sasha, the youngest of them, should use his charms to try to get information from me, Rasputin's daughter."

"And this, I presume, is why you've returned to the capital, to look for Prince O'ksandr. Correct?"

I wanted to tell him, but when I stared into Blok's eyes I couldn't decide if it was safe to confess.

"Well," pressed Blok, "is that correct?"

His eyes just looked so sad, his soul so vulnerable, that I couldn't help but nod. "There's something I need to tell him, just one thing he needs to know."

"But do you have any idea where he is?"

"I know that while Prince Felix and Grand Duke Dmitri were exiled for their part in my father's murder, Sasha was imprisoned by the Tsar. I thought he would have been freed after the revolution, but I've heard from someone who heard from someone else that he was in in the Shpalernaya Prison, and...and that he might be suffering from typhus."

Aleksander Blok stared at me with something akin to horror as if I were a vision, a harbinger, of things to come. And yes, I was quite sure I was. People lost, people looking, people dying...all this wasn't just in Russia's future, it was already here, already playing over and over like a tragic dirge.

"Of course, if he was really there, the chances of his still being alive aren't very great," I continued, fully aware that Shpalernaya was the worst of the worst. "There should be lists, people should be helping one another, but people aren't talking anymore. Have you seen how frightened everyone is? I wish someone would help me, but who's ever come to the aid of a Rasputin?" I shrugged. "You don't have any idea where he could be, do you? You haven't heard anything?"

Blok shook his head.

It was just as I thought, this revolution would come to no good. The Provisional Government was not in control, and Kerensky wasn't powerful enough to maintain order. There were already rumors that the Bolsheviks were plotting a putsch. In the end, everyone would probably realize what everyone already knew, that Russia needed someone to rule her with an iron fist. So there probably would be another tsar, one more mighty than the last, though certainly not a Romanov.

But I'd had enough of it all, this poet and his interrogation. I didn't care what Blok wanted; I would be kept no longer. So I got to my feet, turned, and started for the large doors at the far end of the hall.

I hadn't gone more than ten paces when Blok suddenly barked, "Stop right there!"

I turned and gazed into the eyes of our great poet-our defeated poet. "What?"

"You said you returned to the capital to tell Prince O'ksandr something, but you haven't said what. I can only a.s.sume it's something terribly important. What is it? What does he need to know?"

With eyes nearly as intent as my father's, I stared right back at him. "I want him to know that I'm planning to leave not just Petrograd but Russia, and I'll never be back." Somehow I knew it was safe to tell Blok the rest, so, gently touching my stomach, I added, "And I want Sasha to know that I'm pregnant with his child-yes, he is the father of a new generation of Rasputins. The shaman shaman back home in our village believes it will be a girl, so if by chance you ever see him, tell him that too. Tell him he is the father of this Rasputin's daughter." back home in our village believes it will be a girl, so if by chance you ever see him, tell him that too. Tell him he is the father of this Rasputin's daughter."

Blok watched the young woman cross the large room defiantly, her figure tall and confident, her stride direct and determined. He didn't doubt that Maria had spoken the unfettered truth of her father's life and death. It was amazing how much she knew and understood. Almost everything, actually.

But he had to remain focused. The old order was gone, the new had arrived. It was not about these little personal tragedies but the future and what it would bring. Right now a great storm had swept across Russia, changing and electrifying everything. He knew they were in the middle of it, these days so dark and turbulent...but then? When the storm pa.s.sed and the skies cleared, would the transformation be complete? Once he had been so sure, now he was not.

Blok gazed across the huge throne room and watched as Maria Rasputin reached the tall gilded doors, slipped through one, and pulled it shut behind her, disappearing into history. So be it, thought Blok, as he took his pen, dabbed it in his pot of ink, and jotted down notes for the report he would write on Matryona Grigorevna Rasputina for the Thirteenth Section. He already knew he wouldn't mention that she was with child. Indeed, he decided he would deem her harmless and of no further interest. Odd, he thought, how her openness, her story-the truths she so freely gave-in turn protected her from other truths, albeit very painful ones. No, he was glad he hadn't told her.

Laying down the pen, Aleksander Blok took a deep breath and ran both hands through his thick wavy hair. Rising, he headed from his simple oak desk toward the pair of doors just to the left of the dais. It had been through these doors that the tsars had entered St. George's Hall. And as he walked, Blok's eyes fell on the exquisitely carved wooden grate located next to the dais, open on this side but covered on the rear with a silk curtain. Not only had trumpeters, tastefully unseen, once stood behind the fancy grillwork heralding the royal entry, but advisers and ministers had huddled there unseen, overhearing all that transpired before their tsar.

Blok, who'd noticed Maria glance at the grate several times, wondered if she had suspected.

Taking hold of the large gilded door lever, he pressed down, pushed open the door, and entered a much smaller albeit regal room, the plaster walls painted a pale blue, the cove ceiling covered with detailed plasterwork that was akin to filigree. Here the tsars had gathered before making their grand entry. Now, however, the atmosphere was decidedly somber, for on this side of the grate were two armed guards and their prisoner, a severely ill man who sat securely tied to a chair, his mouth covered with a thick white cloth.

"Remove the gag," ordered Blok.

One of the guards, a broad-shouldered man with a bushy mustache, reached down and all but yanked the cloth away. The prisoner, his face covered with a s.h.a.ggy beard, coughed sharply and gulped in a large breath of air.

He did indeed look horrible, thought Blok, staring down upon the young man, who'd been captured and imprisoned the very day after Rasputin's murder. True, mused Blok, the months of deprivation and interrogation, even torture, had left the young man as pale as a winter field and as thin as a shaft of wheat. Even worse, a deep red rash was crawling up his neck, he was having trouble breathing, and, by the perspiration beaded on his forehead, it was obvious he was running a high fever.

"Prince O'ksandr?"

"Y-yes?" came the dazed reply.

"To be honest, Prince, the Provisional Government doesn't quite know what to do, whether to treat you as a national hero or a common murderer."

"Please...just let her go."