Robert Alexander - Rasputin's Daughter

Oh, God, I thought as I stood in my room, unbuttoning my dress and letting it fall to the floor. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to be observing my stupid father and his ridiculous actions. And I certainly didn’t want to be under the sharp eye of our fat housekeeper. I didn’t belong here anymore. I wanted to be with Sasha. I wanted to tell him my worries. I wanted his advice. I yearned for his arms around my shoulders, his tender caress, his sweet kiss.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed in my underlinens, I realized that my mind and body were numb. I wanted nothing more than sleep…and yet how could I dare to close my eyes at a time like this? If I drifted away, how could I warn my father about the grand dukes? Better yet, how could I keep Papa from hurting himself, from doing something stupid and dangerous, like going to the Gypsies to drink and dance? It occurred to me that I should take a blanket and sleep on the floor in front of the main door. No, I thought, Papa could still slip out the back. Perhaps I should nail both doors shut. Or perhaps I should telephone the palace and beg to speak with the Emperor himself and plead for his help. Oi, finding myself lost between three doors, I didn’t know where to turn or what to do.

As she crawled into the other side of the bed, Varya said, “You’ve been crying a lot lately. What’s the matter?”

“I’m just a little worried, that’s all,” I replied, blotting my eyes. “I…I need to talk to Papa, and yet I can’t bother him. But if I go to sleep, I’m afraid I’ll miss him.”

“You mean you’re worried he’ll go out and you don’t want him to?”

“Exactly.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” said Varya, clambering back out of bed.

“Wait!”

“Hush, I’ll be right back.”

“You can’t disturb Papa in his study!”

“Don’t worry, I won’t. What do you think I am, some kind of durachka?” Cute little idiot?

There wasn’t much I could control in the world, so few things over which I had any influence, my sister being one of the very few exceptions. Just then, however, I was so exhausted I was practically helpless. I should have hurried after Varya to make sure she wouldn’t do something stupid like walk in on Papa and the supposed Sister Vera, but as the seconds ticked by, my energy trickled away. Fortunately, I heard Varya’s light steps returning a few short minutes later. In her arms were Papa’s tall black boots-nothing fancy and only slightly polished, the leather creased and softened from near-endless wear. They were the kind a peasant would wear for years and years, not in the fields but on Sundays or into town to trade grain. Even though Papa had been given fancy velvet breeches and hand-embroidered blouses and wore them often, his tall country boots were the one thing he had never abandoned for big-city footwear and never would.

With a big huff, Varya blew her bangs upward. “I hid his special fur coat once when I didn’t want him to go out, but it didn’t work. He just took his old wool one. But he always wears these boots, and he’d never go out without them.”

“Molodets.” Smart girl, I said.

“And he always shouts when he can’t find them.”

Of course he does, I thought with a smile. Whether he got up in the middle of the night, determined to search out some entertainment, or rose in the early morning and wanted to go to the banya, I’d certainly hear him pacing around and shouting for his boots.

Appeased, I took the boots from Varya and tucked them just under my side of the bed. With the last of my strength, I shed the remainder of my clothes and slipped on my nightdress. As I crawled into bed, I leaned over the lumpy mattress and kissed my sister on the forehead, then turned off the light and snuggled under the covers. Rolling onto my stomach, I reached under the edge of the bed and brushed my hand over the soft leather. Like the mighty River Tura that flowed through our village, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief flood my body. Tonight at least we were all safe. Within an instant, sleep carried me away.

Oddly, I didn’t dream of Sasha but of my mother’s pelmeni-meat-filled dumplings-that were a staple of any Siberian diet. Mama always made them with not just two but three types of meat-beef, pork, and lamb-ground together with garlic and salt and pepper. She made them by the hundreds and kept them frozen in a bank of snow just outside our rear door. Throughout the long winter she would pluck them like dill weed, dropping a dinner’s worth into the large kettle of boiling water that roared nearly every night on the fire. I loved mine slathered with our home-churned butter and a dollop of sour cream so fresh it was still silky sweet. More recently, even though it wasn’t at all Siberian, I’d taken to following the aristocrats and sprinkling them with a bit of that French import, vinegar.

I dreamed, too, of the last time all of us Rasputins were home and gathered around the dinner table as one. Our parents had drunk vodka, while we children, as a very special treat, sipped the birch-tree juice we had gathered that afternoon in containers of bark. And honoring the joy of being all together, Mama had dropped two special pelmeni into the pot, one filled with salt, the other hiding a one-kopeck piece. With delight Varya had bitten into the coin, thrilled by the omen, certain it meant her grades would be good. I was glad to spy my mother secretly slipping the salt-filled dumpling to my brother, for when simple Dmitri bit into it, he hooted with delight.

“Good luck for one year!” he shouted, a smile spread across his wide, pimply face. “Good luck will follow me for one year!”

And when I woke with sweet memories, I wasn’t at all surprised to open my eyes to darkness. I had no idea what time it was-night or day-but when I rolled over and groped for Papa’s tall boots, my hand came up empty. With a gust of panic, my hand slapped everywhere and found nothing. When I’d gone to bed, I’d tucked the boots right there on the herring-board parquet floor, hadn’t I? A horrible premonition swept through my soul.

From somewhere in the flat I heard movement, and through our cracked door I saw a sliver of light. Mother of God, I realized, Papa had sneaked in here and found his boots, and now he was getting ready to go out. In the flash of a second, I was completely awake, throwing aside the thick covers, leaping out of bed, and rushing barefoot from our room. What time was it? Where was Papa going?

I blew down the hall as fast as a fearful wind. Papa’s door was half open, the room glowing a soft red from the icon lamp, but he wasn’t there. Where in the name of the devil had my father got to? And where was Dunya? Turning, I moved on, poking my head into my father’s study and finding it empty, then hurrying through the dark and abandoned main salon. Holding up the edges of my nightgown, I dashed to the front door, which was shut tight. Looking at the hooks lining the wall, I saw Papa’s fancy fur was gone.

From the kitchen came sounds of shuffling. Perhaps Papa was avoiding the security agents by sneaking out the back? Wasting no time, I passed through the dining room and into the kitchen, where the single overhead bulb was burning. But there was no one. And then, from behind the curtain, I heard subtle rustling.

“Dunya?” I called.

“Maria, is that you?” she replied from her cot. “My child, what are you doing up now? Don’t you know it’s the middle of the night?”

“Where’s Papa?”

“Gone out.”

“Gone out? Where? When?”

There was more rustling and a groan as Dunya pushed herself to her feet. A second later, the curtain was pushed aside. Clutching her nightdress over her ample bosom, Dunya glanced at the clock and then at me.