Robert Alexander - Rasputin's Daughter

Suddenly my father’s right hand came out of nowhere, slapping himself in the head with a loud thwack. Almost immediately his left hand batted at his very own cheek and gave it what appeared to be a painful pinch. Then, with both hands, he started tugging and yanking at his collar, wrestling furiously with himself. Startled, I swayed to the side and nearly fell, and the harlot spied me spying her and screamed. I screamed. And my father, who’d been sitting there, burst to his feet. Before Papa could see me, I leaped sideways off the crate and tumbled to the snowy ground. Shocked, I lay there in the frost. What was going on in there? What had I just witnessed? Papa wasn’t having sexual relations with this woman-at least not yet-for, I realized, she was naked but he was not. Was it an audition of some sort? Could he be treating her for what he frequently called the most tenacious of womanly problems, lewdness?

A pair of hands came from behind, lifting me up, and I half screamed. “Oi!”

Turning around, I expected to see one of the security agents. Instead, whom did I see but Sasha.

“Maria, are you all right?” he asked, gently helping me to my feet.

“What are you doing here? How do you keep popping up?”

He looked at me with a funny grin. “You asked me to come to your house, you asked me to wait by the back door. And I was there, waiting, when I heard your voice and saw you coming out the front. So I followed you. I thought maybe you were leading the way to a café or someplace where we could talk.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“So what’s happened? What are you doing back in this…this alley?”

I wanted to stand there and wallow in confusion, even self-pity. I wanted Sasha to wrap his arms around me. I wanted simply to saunter off with him. But of course I couldn’t.

“I came to get my father.”

“And where is he?”

I motioned up to the window. “Up there.”

“Doing what?”

“I’m not sure, but I have to get him to”-I shouldn’t have said anything, but I just blurted it out-“to the Palace.”

“Really? What’s-?”

We both heard it then, a voice loudly muttering and cursing.

“Sasha, I think that’s one of the security agents. Maybe you’d better not be here now.”

“Right,” he nodded, already slipping away.

No sooner had Sasha melted into the shadows of a doorway than the voice grew into shouting. Turning, I saw not one of the agents coming around the corner of the building, but my very own father. He wasn’t wearing his thousand-ruble fur coat. No, he had on his real coat, the peasant sort, made of wool and long and tight at the waist. And he hadn’t come out to yell at me. Rather, he didn’t even know I was there and was instead just stumbling along, yelling, beating himself with his fists, pulling his hair, even kicking himself.

“You fool! You idiot!” he shouted, cursing no one but himself.

It emerged softly, rolling innocently across my full lips. “Papa?”

He gave himself one last forceful punch in the chest, turned, and saw me. Shocked, he stopped his flaying and stared.

“Dochenka maya,” he said tenderly, “what are you doing here?”

“I…I…”

I had no idea what to say, even where to begin. Instead my hand simply started to rise, and I found myself pointing up to the room with the lightbulb. Amazingly enough, the naked woman with the blond ringlets and the shockingly bright red lips was standing there in the window, a tattered quilt now thrown around her shoulders and her eyes opened wide in shock.

“Oh, her?” My father laughed. “That’s Anisia, the prostitutka. Have you not met before?” Seeing my face twisted by the enigma of his world, Papa said quite innocently, “Yes, sure, I hire Anisia from time to time. She’s very helpful. I use her, you see, to tempt me, to unearth the lust hidden deep in my soul. She brings my terrible thoughts, the very worst ones, right to the surface of my skin. She draws them out of me like sweat in a banya, these lascivious thoughts I don’t even know I’m carrying. And when she draws them to the surface of my consciousness-well, then I can deal with them. Then I can beat them away.”

As if I’d swallowed my tongue, I stared at him, unable to speak.

“Don’t look so shocked, my dear Maria. It’s all very deliberate. Even the saints used to do this, stare at naked harlots in order to find purity of soul. This is the path I struggle so hard to follow as well, not the path of simple Believers but that of a real Christ. How else am I supposed to make my spirit strong unless I continually battle the flesh?” Looking right at me, he hit himself in the face with his own fist. “Besides, I find self-abasement very effective. It keeps me humble and on the right path.”

The joy of suffering. The eternal need to drive Satan out of one’s own body. The never-ending search for self-purification. Beating away sin with sin. All in the glorious quest of repentance and holy forgiveness. What could be more pagan? More Orthodox? And who, I sobbed within, could be more Russian than my very own father, Rasputin?

As I took Papa by the arm, I stole a glance over my shoulder and waved a quick farewell to Sasha, who was only just stepping out of the shadows.

By the time we returned home, Dunya and my sister were already waiting out front for us. Taking him by his arms, we rushed Papa upstairs and changed him into a fresh kosovorotka.

“You are coming with me, Marochka,” my father said, as we pulled the shirt over his head. “I’m so exhausted there’s no doubt I’ll need your help.”

Knowing that my father’s commands were every bit as absolute as the Empress’s, I obeyed silently, following him down the stairs and into the back of the royal limousine, which had just arrived. All at once we were racing toward Tsarskoye Selo, the vortex of Russian politics, gossip, scandal…and tragedy. But as we sat there in the rich leather seats, I didn’t speak or even look at my father for fear of the anger and confusion that would burst forth. Besides, the most important thing was for him to gather his strength for his duties ahead. And so I gazed out the window in thought.

The greatest attack on Papa had come three or four years earlier, when his former friend and ally in Christianity, the monk Illiodor, turned so rabidly against him. Whether or not Papa had in fact raped a nun, as was proclaimed, Illiodor began shouting everywhere that Papa was a holy devil set on destroying the very foundation of Holy Mother Russia-the monarchy-and that he was pandering to the Yids as well as aiding the new capitalists, who, the fanatic monk claimed, were hell bent on debasing the Russian soul.

To launch his famous attack, Illiodor released a letter that he had stolen from our home in Pokrovskoye, a letter tucked in my father’s little wooden desk and written by none other than Her Majesty the Empress, to my father:

My beloved, unforgettable teacher, redeemer, and mentor! How tiresome it is without you! My soul is quiet and I relax only when you, my teacher, are seated beside me. I kiss your hands and lean my head on your blessed shoulder. Oh, how light, how light do I feel then. I only wish one thing: to fall asleep, to fall asleep…forever on your shoulders and in your arms. What happiness to feel your presence near me. Where are you? Where have you gone? Oh, I am so sad and my heart is longing… Will you be soon again close to me? Come quickly, I am waiting for you and I am tormenting myself for you. I am asking for your holy blessing and I am kissing your blessed hands. I love you forever.

Yours, Mama

Not even the censors could stop the wide publication of this letter, and it caused a scandal of the greatest magnitude. People of every level of society were aghast at the thought of their Empress kissing the foul hands of that dirty peasant, and the worst rumors started running everywhere, even supposed eyewitness accounts of Khlyst activities in the cellars of the Aleksander Palace itself. Soon thereafter an even worse story started circulating as quickly as a hot fire in a parched forest-that Rasputin had molested the Tsar’s second daughter, Tatyana.