Robert Alexander: Rasputin's Daughter

The footsteps behind me were gaining speed, getting closer, banging harder, louder, as the stranger charged after me faster and faster. Climbing as quickly as I could, I came across another splash of blood on the marble steps. Then I saw a bloody handprint smearing the wall.

Holding my cloak and my dress up over my knees, I ran faster, higher. Following the broad, rounding sweep of stairs, I had nearly reached our floor. I wanted to cry out for Dunya, faithful, loving Dunya who had served us for so long, who was nothing less than a second mother to me. She would come. She would rush to the door. She would save me. She wouldn’t have gone upstairs to her small room, not yet. No, she would never leave Varya alone in the apartment. Dunya would be there, dozing on the tiny cot in the kitchen, waiting for Papa and me to come home. I was going to bang on the door, and she was going to come to my rescue.

But when our door came into view, a wind of panic swept through me. Crumpled on the floor and leaning against the door itself was a young man. Instantly I spotted the source of all the blood: the wounded left arm, clutched so tightly to his side. When he looked up at me weakly with his dark brown eyes, nothing could have surprised me more.

“Maria…help me,” he pleaded.

Shocked, I gasped. “Sasha!”

It had been two years since we’d met on the steamer to my village, and yet I recognized him at once, just as I recognized the fear and desperation in his eyes. Yes, Sasha, as full of terror as a wounded deer, glanced up at me and then toward the stairs. Who was the stranger after, Sasha or me?

“Please, I…I-,” he began.

Sasha had been the first and only one to steal my heart, and for a single day he’d been the love of my life. Then he’d burned me with a kind of betrayal I’d never thought possible. But right then and there as I stared down on him, his strength and will sapped from loss of blood, I forgot all the damage he had done to my family. Without thinking, I knew the right thing to do.

I lunged over Sasha and at our apartment door, finding it, as I feared, locked. Not wasting a moment, I jumped up, snatching a hidden key from a ledge above the door. As quickly as I could, I jabbed the key in the lock, twisted, and heaved open our door. Sasha made a feeble attempt to get up but couldn’t, so I grabbed him by the shoulders and half dragged him inside. Glancing out at the staircase, I saw the shadow of the burly man coming up the last steps, and I hurled our door shut and slammed the lock, bolting it tight. Slava bogu-thanks be to God.

Sasha crawled across the floor and collapsed again, and I stood by the door, breathing hard. Outside I heard the stranger charge the last few steps, hurling himself right against our door, which shuddered from the dull forceful thud. Standing in our reception hall in near darkness, I clasped my hand over my mouth. Who was he? What did he want?

Then everything was quiet. I could hear nothing but my own panting breath, deep and quick. The next instant I saw the doorknob itself twist ever so slowly, to the right, to the left, as the man tried yet again to force his way inside.

Backing away, all I could think was, Where is Dunya? Dear God, could something have happened to her? To Varya?

Recoiling from the door, I turned and looked down at Sasha, whose left arm was drenched with blood. My country sensibilities told me there was no time for anger, no time for questions. Throwing my muff and cloak to the floor, I hurried to him.

“Where are you hurt, just your arm?” I asked, as I bent over him.

“Yes…”

“Come on. We’ve got to get you bandaged.”

He stared up at me, his eyes glassy and faint.

Taking him by his good arm, I said, “Can you stand up? I need to get you into the kitchen.”

“I was…was attacked-”

“Yes, I can see. I want to know everything…I want you to tell me everything. But first we have to take care of your arm.”

“I’m sorry…”

“All the way up, that’s it, that’s good.”

I had to lift him to his feet, and then, with his right arm over my shoulders and my left arm clutching him around his waist, we started slowly toward the kitchen. I just hoped he wouldn’t pass out before we got there.

Whatever role Sasha had played in the attack against my father, there was nothing to fear now; he was too weak, too faint. As I led him stumbling along, I was actually relieved. Somehow I would make sense not only of this-what had happened tonight and how he’d come to our home-but also of the past events.

As we stumbled along, I glanced into the salon, half hoping to see the drunken Princess Kossikovskaya and Countess Olga dozing away. Instead the room was dark, its many chairs pushed neatly up against the walls. When we passed through the dining room, I noted that the bronze chandelier was still lit, but the pastries and nuts, the dried fruits and candies, had all been put away, as had the large brass samovar. Dunya had obviously worked hard after we left, not only seeing that the ladies departed without a problem-perhaps she had called one of their footmen to escort them-but making our apartment ready for the following day, when another horde of my father’s seekers and devotees would line up outside our door and down the long stairs. So she should be still awake.

When I steered Sasha into our kitchen, however, I found it dark, the single electric bulb hanging from the ceiling extinguished. Dismayed, I led him across the room.

“Just hang on to the sink while I get a stool. Can you do that?” I asked, as I reached out with one hand and pulled the light chain.

Flinching as the light burst on, he nodded.

Leaving him at the sink, I dashed to the far corner, where I yanked aside a curtain. To my dismay, the cot tucked into the corner was empty. Grabbing a small wooden stool, I returned to Sasha and placed it right behind his knees. As he sat down, a deep, painful moan trickled from his lips.

“It’s okay,” I said.

But it wasn’t. None of this was right, particularly Dunya’s absence. She was supposed to be with us from early morning until late at night, cooking and cleaning, until, just like all the other maids in the building, she would retire to her small chamber under the rafters of the very top floor. She shouldn’t have left yet, not without either Papa or me at home. She should be in her little corner, resting and watching out for my sister. Dear Lord, was Varya all right? Could she be missing too?

“Sasha, I have to check on my sister. Are you all right for one minute? You won’t faint, will you?”

He shook his head, attempted a small laugh, and said, “And I won’t run from you either.”

“No, I don’t think you could.”

I raced from the kitchen and down the hall. Papa’s first child, a son, had died soon after birth. His second, Dmitri-our brother, Mitya-was sweet but mentally simple and lived and worked with Mama in Siberia. I was next and had moved to the capital seven years earlier. Last was Varya, several years younger, who had come to St. Petersburg just three years ago. She was my friend and confidante. Please, I prayed with pounding heart, let her be safe, let her be unharmed.

Dashing to our room, I threw open the door. And there she was, the dear lump, buried beneath the comforter and fast asleep, blessedly hogging most of the bed, as was her annoying habit. Despite the ruckus and my deep, heavy huffing and puffing, she did nothing more than moan and squirm. After a moment of standing there, staring at her peacefully sleeping, I shut the door.

So had nothing happened here tonight? No, I thought, as I made my way back to the kitchen, that wasn’t right. Sasha, after two years, had shown up wounded, and Dunya had gone missing. Worse, some thug had chased me up the stairs-was my would-be assailant still lurking outside the door? Gospodi, perhaps I should place a call to the Aleksander Palace. A message could be got to my father, who would be beset with worry. And the Tsaritsa would see that someone was sent at once for our protection. I must call immediately, I thought.