Robert Alexander - Rasputin's Daughter

“Sasha,” I said, finally pulling back, “you’re freezing.”

“I was desperate to see you. I’ve been waiting out back for hours.”

“How did you get in?”

“Someone came out the back door and I caught it before it shut.” He kissed me lightly on my forehead, my eyebrows, my cheeks. “Is everything all right? Did you really go to the Palace?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And?”

“There was an emergency,” I said, wanting to tell him everything and knowing I would. “I’ll tell you later. It was amazing.”

Suddenly his lips were fluttering down my neck. And suddenly I was having trouble breathing. My eyes fell shut, my breath came short and shallow. Which is when I heard it, steps from within our apartment.

“Sasha,” I said, pushing away from him, “you really shouldn’t be here, not now, not so late.”

“But-”

“My father will kill me if he finds you here.”

And someone was up. I could hear it clearly now, the sound of someone walking about.

“Please, let me stay. I’d love to meet your father.”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

Suddenly I was afraid. Not just of what Papa would think if he walked in here and saw Sasha, but of everything else. I still hadn’t had the chance to tell my father about my surreptitious visit to the Sergeeivski Palace, how I’d been forced to flee through the watery cellar, or, most important of all, the warnings from Elena Borisovna.

Gently nudging Sasha out the door, I said, “Sasha, you can’t stay here now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, good night, my sweet,” he said, with one last little kiss.

And he was off, my delectable Sasha. I locked the door behind him and then listened to him make his way down the dark, steep rear stairs-his clothes rustling as he left-and then nothing.

I took a deep breath and turned away from the door.

I really did need to talk to Papa. What if he was gone by the time I woke up? What if something happened to him, even tonight? Or to the Tsar or the Tsaritsa? What if the grand dukes acted in one decisive swoop-perhaps as early as tomorrow-first, assassinating my father, second, locking the Empress in a monastery, and, finally, forcing the Tsar from the throne, maybe even killing him too? Bozhe moi, I was never going to be able to sleep until I talked to my father and made him understand just how serious the situation was. How could he not see it? I cursed myself for not speaking of it earlier, but in all the confusion and desperation at the palace the only thing that had mattered was saving the Heir. There hadn’t been a moment to tell Papa about the threats being made against him and the Emperor and Empress. And thinking of the high treason floating throughout the city, I was as stirred as if I’d drunk four glasses of tea. I had to talk to Papa before he went to sleep. He had to do something. At the very least, he should summon Minister Protopopov. Never mind us, but perhaps a special troop of soldiers should be dispatched this very hour to protect the royal family.

Putting Sasha out of my mind, I quickly made my way through our apartment, expecting to find Papa wandering about. When he wasn’t to be found, I went right up to his door, which was shut tight. Had he already gone to sleep? Leaning forward, I could hear his deep voice mumbling and moaning. No, he was lost in prayer, perhaps continuing his work for the Heir, as he often did from afar. I imagined him out of bed, prostrate before the icon in the corner, crossing himself and touching his head to the floor over and over again. I knew from experience that rousing him from his entreaties to the Lord was more difficult than waking him from his deepest sleep. But I was so worried about the dangers I had no choice, so I carefully turned the doorknob and pressed open the door. The room was dark, of course, with the only light coming from the tiny red oil lamp hanging in front of the icon he most valued, his simple, unadorned copy of the Kazanskaya. Papa’s voice was indeed deep and full of passion, but he wasn’t praying. Peering in, I realized with a horrible start that while Papa was indeed prostrate, it was not before a piece of wood with its holy depiction of the Virgin Mother and Child. Rather, he was lying face down on our very own Dunya. They had both dropped their clothes on the floor and crawled into Papa’s narrow metal bed, and beneath the blanket that barely covered their moving naked bodies, I could clearly see my father holding our housekeeper by her soft parts. So involved were they that they didn’t even notice my intrusion, and so shocked was I that I couldn’t even gasp, for I had stopped breathing.

Behind me I heard the distinct squeak of a floorboard, and I spun around in absolute terror. Varya, dressed in her nightgown, was making her way toward me. I nearly slammed my father’s door.

“Is Papa still up?” asked my sister. “I want to kiss him good night.”

In total panic, I held my fingers to my lips. “Shh! He’s asleep!”

Hurrying toward Varya, I grabbed her by the arm and spun her around. What had I just seen? My heart pounding, the only thing I knew for certain was that tonight was not the time for my younger sister to learn what I now knew, that our dear housekeeper, who was like our second mother, was in reality just that.

“We can’t disturb Papa,” I snapped.

“Hey, let go of me!” Varya whined. “That hurts!”

“Come on, Papa needs his rest…and so do we! You have to go to bed.”

“But-”

Like an angry schoolmarm, I dragged Varya back to our room, where I practically shoved her into bed.

“Now go to sleep, Varichka,” I said, heading out as quickly as I could lest she see the tears welling in my eyes. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. I’m just going to finish the dishes.”

“Oh, all right!” She was yawning as she crawled under the covers. “But I hate it when you push me around like that.”

Back in the kitchen, my tears fell one after another into the dishwater. Did this mean that Papa didn’t love our mother? Was he going to leave us? What about the sanctity of marriage he so often preached?

“To hell with him!” I cried aloud, slamming my fist into my thigh.

Biting my lower lip, I thought of the many stories told back home over the kitchen sink, of how my parents were married when Papa was twenty and she a few years older. I had come to understand that my mother, like all peasant wives, had been chosen not so much for her beauty, which was limited, and certainly not for her wealth, which was nonexistent, but for her strength and ability to manage farm life, which were exemplary.

Through the cracks in the family stories, however, I had also come to understand that while my mother always loved Papa, in time she had turned away from him. Now that I thought about it, I remembered how things had changed between them after Mama had had an emergency hysterectomy. Had the operation that saved her life in fact killed something else-namely, her need for amorous attention? Mama always claimed she tolerated my father’s long absences from home because she supported his religious life-but that was a total lie, wasn’t it? And what kind of lie was my supposedly holy father-who spoke so often of the blessings of love-living as well?

Right then I hated them all-Mama, Papa, and especially Dunya. Dunya, who was always so sweet to us but who was nothing more than a conniving wench who’d wormed her way into our home and into my father’s pants. A fresh wave of tears burst from my eyes. Everything felt dirty and horrible: this apartment, my entire family, and me. I wanted to run away, flee this place and this life.

And then I heard it again, more knocking at our rear door. Oh, God, I thought, flooded with a kind of bitter joy, Sasha was back. Shaking the dishwater from my hands, I took a towel and dried my eyes. I was just about to reach for the door and pull it wide open when it came, an all too familiar chant that in this case was more like a threat. In an instant I knew it wasn’t Sasha.