Rasputin's Daughter (27 page)

Oh, Papa, I thought as we ran, you can’t be so stupid, can you? Are you nothing but an ignorant peasant after all?

Holding hands, Sasha and I bolted around the last corner. But we were too late. At the far end of the arching passage a motorcar painted military gray roared to a start and took off like a leaping tiger. Breaking away from Sasha, I started running as fast as I could. By the time I reached the street, however, the motor was speeding around a corner, and the last I saw of it was its black canvas top and rear windowpane of mica.

Feeling completely helpless, I stood there in the cold night air. What should I do, just return to our apartment and wait? Telephone the Empress-and say what, that I was desperately worried about my father? No, though I was on the verge of tears, I knew exactly my next step.

I called over my shoulder, saying, “Sasha, I’ve got to get to Prince Felix’s palace on the Moika Kanal.”

“No, Maria, that’s not a good idea. Why don’t you-”

“You don’t understand, I have to!”

“But-”

Glancing up and down the narrow snow-swept street, I searched for a horse cab. “I’ve got to find a driver.”

Understanding how determined I was, Sasha came up and brusquely kissed me on the cheek. “Wait right here.”

“Why? What are you going to do?”

“When I came there was a motorcar parked in front of a restaurant back there. Just give me five minutes.”

He was off that very instant, dashing to the left, down the street, and around a corner. I didn’t know if he was going to try to bribe the driver or steal the car, but the moment he disappeared, I knew this was wrong. I couldn’t involve him. Who knew what was going on tonight and just how dangerous it really was, but this was family business. I had no choice. My mind made up, I turned in the opposite direction and made my way quickly down the block. As I hurried along, I glanced back only once, desperately sad but relieved there was no sign of him.

Seconds later I emerged on Goroxhovaya Street, which to my dismay was deserted. Were this the middle of the day, the terribly straight street would have been full of horse cabs, their drivers, huge men with bushy beards wearing thick blue coats and square red hats, perched up front. But of course this was the middle of the night. When I searched up and down the street, there was nothing, no cabs, no sledges, certainly no motorcars. A squall of snow suddenly burst from the skies, and the flakes fell large and heavy on my head and shoulders, dusting me like confectioners’ sugar. Was it hopeless?

Then I heard it, that most famous of Russian sounds, the jingling of troika bells. And not just heavy brass bells but silver ones, their chime fine and sophisticated in the still night. Any family of significance had their own troika with silver bells precisely tuned so their vehicle could be heard coming, as this one was. Or was it going? I looked one way, another, searching for a sound that seemed to bounce out of every street and off every building. My heart began beating faster, for with each moment the bright sound grew. Suddenly, a magnificent sleigh pulled by three horses burst out of a side street, the middle horse high and proud, the side horses lean and fast. In a flurry it turned my way. The coachman was cloaked in a heavy fur, and when I saw the peacock feather sticking like a flag from his big black hat, I knew I was right, this was a private sleigh.

Waving my arms madly, I leaped into the street. At first the troika didn’t slow and barreled down on me, snow flying from the horses’ hooves, the bells ringing away. Finally the burly driver spotted me, this speck in the street, and pulled back on reins as thin as leather threads. I didn’t budge until the three horses, steam spouting from their nostrils, slowed to a prance and then a stop just steps from me.

“I need to hire you!” I said, running around the side.

The driver stared down at me like an amused bear ready to swat a pathetic bee. “This is a private sleigh, young lady.”

“I have an emergency-”

“Sorry, I’m no Vanka,” he said with a chuckle, referring to common horse-cab drivers, all of whom were so nicknamed. “Besides, I’ve just dropped off my master and am returning to the stable. My night is through.”

When I saw him ready to crack the reins, I shouted desperately, “Two hundred rubles for an hour of your time!”

He froze, looked down upon me, his grin wider yet, and said, “And where does such a young thing as you come upon such great money? That’s more than I make in months!”

“I’m Rasputin’s daughter,” I said, more proudly than ever. “Take me to the Yusupov Palace and back, and I swear there’s two hundred rubles in it for you. Agreed?”

He thought for only a moment, then calmly said, “No doubt you’ll find the sable blanket in the rear seat very warm.”

I clambered in the back and we took off with a jolt. Speeding along, we were halfway down the block when I heard a desperate plea calling through the snowy night.

“Maria, no!”

Pushing myself up, I peered out the back of the troika. Sasha was running after us like some sort of crazed man. I kissed my hand and held it up to him in loving farewell.

And then I shouted out, not to Sasha but over my shoulder to the driver, calling, “Faster!”

The night of Rasputin’s death, I remember, it was just two or three degrees above freezing and a damp snow was falling. I know for a fact that Maria thought it was up to her to save her father, that she thought she was his last hope. And perhaps she was. What she didn’t know was that we knew her every move, nearly her every thought, which meant that every step she took was in fact a misstep.

And another strong memory, yes, most definitely: I remember staring down at Rasputin’s body as it lay in the snow. He was wearing a fur coat and a beaver cap. And, too: His coat was flung half open and he wore a blue silk shirt embroidered with cornflowers, a thick crimson cord around his waist, and…and, oh, yes, black velveteen pants and high black boots, all of which was very grand for a peasant, very grand indeed. Someone told me later that the Empress herself had stitched those cornflowers on his shirt with her very own hand.

To tell you the truth, you’ve never seen such a trusting victim. Right up to the end Rasputin didn’t suspect a thing. I kept thinking he would. After all, he was famous for his second sight.

You know about that telegram, don’t you, the one from the Grand Duchess Elizavyeta, the Tsaritsa’s sister? She congratulated us! The very day after the murder, she wrote, “All my ardent and profound prayers surround all of you for the patriotic act.” Can you imagine, she, a nun, congratulating us for committing an act of murder? That was how widely hated, how dangerous, that bastard Rasputin was.

Actually, you know, the only thing I keep coming back to, the only thing that haunts me, was that poor girl, Maria. You can’t imagine the shock on her face. I see that in my sleep, her absolute horror. The blood, too. She was covered with blood.

Everyone in the city knew the palaces of all the grand dukes and nobles, including, of course, that of the most princely family, the Yusupovs, who after the Tsar were said to be the richest in Russia. Their sprawling palace at 94 Moika held, according to gossip, a gilded theater, picture galleries that held treasures of the world, bowls of uncut jewels, and room after room, some five hundred in all.

When the troika rounded a bend in the canal and the majestic yellow façade of the palace came into view, I wondered where in the name of God my father could be in there, in which wing, on which floor. Or was he even in there at all? If by chance it was all a ruse, if Prince Felix meant my father mortal harm, could he have driven him elsewhere? Peering ahead, I spied lights burning in a corner room. I only hoped it was really a party, that Papa was in there, dancing and drinking his Madeira. But how would I get in to find out? No matter whose daughter I was, there was no way I would be admitted, not at this hour and not in my plain dress. Even if I made a scene at the front door I wouldn’t be allowed entry, nor would my father, if indeed he was there, be able to hear me.

Pointing to a side alley, I shouted up to the fur-covered driver, “Pull in there!”

In one giant arc the troika came swooping into the narrow street, slowing to a comfortable stop.

“Wait here,” I said to the driver as I climbed out of the rear. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

“Now wait a minute, young lady. I wasn’t born yesterday. How do I know you’ll return…and how do I know I’ll get my rubles?”

“We live at sixty-four Goroxhovaya, third floor. If I don’t come back, go there and ask our housekeeper, Dunya, for the money. On the name of Xhristos, I promise you’ll get paid.”

As he shook his head and rolled his eyes, he said, “Fifteen minutes, no more!”

“Fair enough.”

Pulling my cloak tightly around me, I hurried off. Within a few quick steps I emerged onto the street, turned to my left, and crossed to the granite sidewalk along the canal. Just ahead the Yusupov Palace, so massive and severe, nearly as formidable as a prison, rose up in the snowy night.

Oh, Papa, I thought, are you in there?

As if in reply I heard it clearly in my mind, a silent plea: Yes, Marochka, sweet daughter of mine. Come quickly, quickly!

Suddenly a sense of forgiveness flooded through me, and at that moment I knew not only how much my father needed me, but how deeply Papa and I were connected, how much of me was simply him, both literally and spiritually. The next moment, however, I felt a shock of mortal fear rip through me. Something terrible had already transpired against him. I knew it for certain, for I could feel his pain in my soul.

Shuddering, I hurried forward, following the edge of the frozen Moika. On this end of the palace sat a courtyard, which was separated from the street by a short stone wall and gate. And while I saw neither motorcar nor carriage parked inside, I did spy a small service door tucked in the side wall of the palace itself. Up ahead I could see but few lights on in the expansive building, most of them in the corner closest to me. That made sense. Palaces as huge as this were usually divided up, one wing for the parents, one for the younger generation. Yes, those lighted rooms were undoubtedly part of Prince Felix’s apartments; who else would be up so late? Even as I approached the structure I heard revelry of some sort-music, actually. Pausing, I heard a song blare through the double-paned window. Was the prince hosting a soirée of some sort? Were those the sounds of a small band? I couldn’t really tell. I could see shadows within, some movement, but nothing more specific, for heavy draperies framed the sides of the windows and lace curtains covered the center.

Hugging the wrought-iron railing along the embankment, I hurried on, scanning the façade of the palace, which rose some three or four stories. There had to be more than fifty or sixty large rectangular windows facing the street, and all but a very few were dark. Reaching six tall white columns that framed the entry, I saw the doorman sitting just inside, snoozing away.

I crossed the narrow road and went right up to the palace itself. Along the base of the structure was a series of half-moon cellar windows, and I peered in one after the other, finding them not only dark but covered with thick iron bars. Standing on my toes, I reached up to the metal sill of one of the ground-floor windows and tried to see in but could not. The room inside was black, and the heavy curtains were drawn tight against the cold.

Wasting no time, I headed toward the corner where the lights burned. With some sort of soirée going on, Papa was more than likely there. These early hours-it had to be near one in the morning-were his favorite for drink and dance, and the possibility of merriment relieved me a bit. Perhaps I was all wrong to worry. Hoping so, I neared the windows and could hear the music more clearly. In fact, I recognized the tune, one of the most popular of the day, “Yankee Doodle.” I heard words in what I knew was the English language and surmised that the music wasn’t coming from a small band but from one of those new machines that only a prince could afford, a gramophone. Even as I listened, the tune came to a scratchy end and started over.

The only windows filled with light were the last two or three ground-floor ones, and I stood again on my toes and tried to peer up into one of them. The fine white curtain was so sheer it was nearly transparent. The first thing I could make out was a brightly lit sconce on the right wall, second was the barely discernible image of someone crossing the room. I could see nothing more. And above the loud music I could hear nothing, no laughing or talking.

Then I heard a scream, not one of pleasure or delight but deep and coarse.

My entire body went rigid with panic. That had been no princess in distress, no fine lady either. It had been a man-my father. I recognized his shout immediately, for the tone of his distressed voice resonated deep within me. I jumped up, tried to see in the window, but couldn’t. The only thing I could see was the blazing sconce on the wall, and the only thing I could hear was the cheerful fast-paced words of “Yankee Doodle.”

Then the end happened faster than I could have imagined: A single shot rang out. But it didn’t come from behind the lace curtains of the ground-floor room. Rather, the blast seemed to circle my feet, followed immediately by another scream, this one less powerful and infinitely more desperate.

“Papa!” I cried aloud.

Bending over, I saw faint light emerging from an arched window in the cellar. I fell to my knees, clung to the heavy iron bars, and tried to see in but couldn’t, for the window was covered with heavy drapes. In my heart of hearts, however, I knew exactly what had happened: Papa had been led to the palace, taken down to some basement room, and then…then…

I tugged like a crazy woman at the window grate, but of course it didn’t budge. I turned to the right, the left, peering helplessly up and down the street. What could I do? Who could help? Even if I shrieked to the heavens, it wouldn’t matter.