When we finally finished eating our fish, I volunteered to do the dishes.
Awash with remorse and twisted in confusion, I lingered at the sink over each glass, each plate. For good or ill, I had to recognize what I had always known, that Papa did have a kind of power. But did that mean I should support him, no matter what?
I had just finished washing and drying everything right down to the last spoon when the doorbell rang a second time that day. At first I couldn’t imagine who it could be. Then it struck me: Olga Petrovna had returned. Had that poor woman come back, perhaps on her hands and knees, pathetically determined to service my father in any way possible, just in exchange for one of his notes? Oh, God, I thought, bolting out of the kitchen. I had to protect her from the very thing she so desperately sought: my father’s so-called help.
Determined to reach the front door before Dunya, I raced from the kitchen, through the dining room, and into the salon. But there was no sign of our housekeeper, let alone my father or sister. Had Dunya retreated to her room upstairs and Papa gone back to bed? Was Varya reading in our room? I didn’t know, didn’t care. Simply relieved that no one else was around, I made a beeline for Papa’s study, knowing exactly what I needed and where to find it.
Like most of our countrymen, Papa could barely read, let alone write. For that reason he would write out his notes ahead of time, sign them in his bearish scrawl, and keep a stack of them ready to hand out to petitioners who pleased him. Wasting no time, I went directly to his desk and snatched one from the pile:
Dear Friend,
I beseech you to have pity on this poor, suffering creature and do as requested. My blessings upon you.
Father Grigori †
These few lines were, I knew, more than enough to open any door and almost enough to accomplish any task in all of Russia. This, I thought as I quickly started out of the room, would do her fine. This would be more than enough to keep Olga Petrovna’s husband in Petrograd.
Determined to get to the front door before Dunya, I raced down the hall and through the salon. When I reached the front hall and the foyer, however, I still saw no sign of our housekeeper or anyone else. Though I should have been worried, and though I should have called out to see who was actually ringing, neither occurred to me. Both ashamed of my father and worried about what he would demand of Olga Petrovna, I clutched the note in one hand and with the other threw open the door-to find not a small woman in a cape standing there, but a man in an enormous fur coat.
“Gospodin Ministir Protopopov!” I gasped, immediately recognizing him by his thick pointed nose.
For the past few months he’d been coming to our house often, no doubt because his career had been advanced only due to Papa’s influence. When he’d been plucked from the Duma-our parliament-and named Minister of Internal Affairs, none had been more shocked, more outraged, than the famed monarchist Vladimir Purishkevich, whose hatred of my father was known across the land. But Papa thought Protopopov a good man who would prove to be a good link between the throne and the Duma, and he had insisted on the appointment to the Empress. In turn, the Empress, believing in my father’s heavenly visions, had insisted on it to the Emperor.
“Good evening, young one,” said the minister, politely removing his puffy fur hat from his greasy head. “Is your father at home?”
Glancing down the hall into our salon, I still saw no one and heard nothing. I had no idea whether or not Papa was asleep or passed out from drink, but I wanted no one else in our home tonight. What should I say?
“Papa’s asleep and asked not to be disturbed.”
“Well, then, perhaps you can tell me. I received a report that a young terrorist was in the area last night. Apparently some of the agents chased him into your courtyard.”
“What?” I asked in disbelief.
“Yes, and the bastard was bleeding quite badly. One of the agents thought he disappeared into your building.”
Dear God, I thought. He couldn’t be talking about Sasha, could he? Suddenly my face was burning, and I clasped a hand over my mouth.
“This would have been quite late. You didn’t hear or see anything, did you?”
All I could manage was a terse shake of my head.
“Better yet, I trust you weren’t disturbed?”
My voice barely above a whisper, I said, “No.”
“Very well. However, please tell your father I stopped by.” Handing me an envelope, he said, “And please give him this letter. My agents intercepted it, and while we don’t know who wrote it, I have my suspicions. In any case, I believe the threat is real. Please ask him to read it very, very carefully, yes?”
“Of course, Gospodin Ministir.”
“And remind him not to be going out late at night. Things are much too dangerous for him to be traipsing about in the dark hours.”
“Of course.” Taking the envelope in hand, I realized that our security was ultimately the responsibility of this minister, and I asked, “Did you see any of the security agents downstairs? They were gone last night, and they might be gone again tonight.”
“Ah, well, I suppose I didn’t see any of them,” he replied, without any great surprise. “I’ll check on that right away. Good night, my child. I wish you a peaceful sleep.”
He bowed his head again, slipped his hat back on his slick head, and disappeared like a big bear rumbling down the steps, grunting as he went. I had no idea why Papa cared for this man, for I certainly didn’t, and neither did most of the country, from what little I’d read in the papers.
As I shut and locked the door, I started trembling. There’d been only one person bleeding in our house yesterday, of course, and that had been Sasha. But what did that mean? What had happened and what was he involved in? Terrorism? Revolutionary activities? It couldn’t be. I couldn’t have misread him so horribly, could I? And yet…he’d been hurt and on the run, obviously scared and definitely unwilling to explain what had happened.
It suddenly occurred to me why Protopopov wasn’t surprised there were no guards: He knew there weren’t. In fact, he’d probably ordered them away, because even though he needed Papa’s blessing to keep his position, he didn’t want to be seen coming here. If there were no guards, there were no written reports. And if there were no written reports, his regular visits to Rasputin would not be revealed.
Oh, Lord, was the adult world I was just entering really so dirty, let alone so conniving?
Envelope in hand, I hurried back through the salon to the window in Papa’s study. Peering down, I saw a large, fancy vehicle. It had to be the minister’s car, and of course it was, for seconds later Protopopov emerged from our building and scurried into the rear seat. As the vehicle quickly disappeared, all I had to do was wait.
And as I waited, of course, I started fiddling with the envelope. Gospodin Ministir Protopov wanted Papa to read the anonymous letter, but that would be difficult if not impossible because my father was only semiliterate. Ultimately, I knew, it would probably be me who read him the letter anyway, so within seconds I was tearing it open.
Grigori,
Our Fatherland is in danger, both from beyond our borders and within. The fact that you receive telegrams from high places in cipher proves that you have great influence. Hence we, the chosen ones, ask you to arrange matters so that all ministers should be appointed by the Duma. Do this by the end of the year so that our country may be saved from ruin. If you do not comply and if you do not stop meddling in affairs of government, we shall kill you. We will show no mercy. Our hand will not fail as did the hand of the syphilitic woman. Wherever you are, death will follow you. The die has been cast; the lot has fallen on us ten chosen men.
So, I thought, my heart shuddering, Papa’s second sight of his own death was not really so difficult to envision. It was, instead, little more than common sense, given how many enemies he had. In fact, could we even trust Protopopov, whom many called nothing more than an excitable seal? Bozhe moi, could he in fact be one of the “ten chosen men”?
I heard a noise on the street and looked back out the window. Without any urgency, a black automobile emerged on the edge of the street. A few long moments later, several men got out and made for our building. So. I was right. Now that Protopopov was gone, the guards were back.
In disgust, I turned away from the window and threw the envelope on my father’s desk. The truths of the world were being laid down before me like cards, each one trumping the last, and I was deeply pained. And yet the truth I most wanted-that of Sasha-was unseen, the most illusive card. If only I could talk to him and ask what in the name of God he was involved in. Would another two years go by before I saw him again, or this time had he vanished forever?
Making my way out of Papa’s study, I stepped to the edge of our empty salon and glanced around. I saw a simple room lined with many chairs, the walls hung with a few plain etchings. How many fine women had sat here, women with fancy feather boas and diamonds of the first water, women who were lost in their meaningless lives and wanted nothing more than to kiss my father’s hand or at least the hem of his filthy blouse. How many poor souls had come here as well, for who else was willing to listen and help them, the downtrodden of my country, except one of their own who had by fate risen to the very top? Everyone in Russia, it seemed, was desperate for a miracle, and many people were turning to Papa in search of it. Oddly, if he were to survive these dark days of rumor and innuendo, no one required that very miracle more than my own father.
With still no sight or sound of either Papa or Dunya, I moved on. As I passed his bedroom, I saw that the door was shut. I wanted to knock but dared not, for I heard his deep, muttering voice from within. Was he on his knees lost in prayer? Was he begging for forgiveness? I certainly hoped so.
Actually, it wasn’t hard at all to gain entry to Rasputin’s home and family. In fact, I was quite eagerly received. After all, they were just simple peasants and that is the peasant way, to open heart and home.
I never met his son, the simple one. And I never really got to know the younger daughter. It was the older one, Maria, with whom I became friendly. I remember how surprised I was the first time I met her. She looked so much like him. Not just the hair. Not the small chin, either. No, it was her eyes. She had his eyes, so piercing, so intense. The resemblance actually frightened me.
But, no, I feel no remorse for what I have done, none at all. We did what we did because we had to, because we had no choice. Rasputin was destroying the prestige of the monarch and tearing the nation apart.
The only mistake we made was in not acting sooner.