The first two—-ending the war and peasant reforms—hinge on the third: Rasputin’s death. His death in itself was a goad to the Revolution. His death destroyed the myth of his invincibility -- and of royal invincibility at the same time.
During the eleven years Rasputin was in St. Petersburg, there were many attempts on his life. Poison was administered to him without effect. Bullets were fired at him point blank and seemed to pass through his body. Bombs planted in his vicinity didn’t go off - or else they did go off and he emerged from the explosions unscathed. By 1916 a legend had grown to the effect that Rasputin was “unkillable” because he was protected by some divine power. Millions of Russians believed in this legend.
Then, on the night of December 29, 1916, Rasputin was successfully assassinated. Suddenly, overnight, Russia was without a leader. Rasputin was dead, and there was no divine retribution against those who slew him.
If Rasputin could be killed, then why not those slavemasters, the Czar and Czarina? If Rasputin, with all his mystic power, could be slain, then it became conceivable to question the Divine Right of the Romanoffs to rule. Rasputin was a symbol, and if the symbol could be destroyed, then so could the system. Thus his death changed Revolution from a dream to a possibility, and very quickly to an inevitability.
“If Rasputin could be saved, if the symbol could be preserved,” Putnam said, concluding his history lesson, “today the world might not be locked in a life-and-death struggle between Communism and Democracy.”
“So you’re suggesting I prevent Rasputin’s assassination,” I summed up for him.
“It could have a profound effect.”
“My experience so far is that you can’t change history.”
“Don’t be a defeatist. You can try.”
“All right,” I sighed. “How do I keep them from killing Rasputin?”
“Hmmm. That’s a good question.”
“Thanks. Have you got an answer?”
“Well, I can tell you how he’s going to be killed. That should help for a start.”
“Okay. How?”
“He was poisoned, shot and drowned.”
“I can see how that might be fatal,” I decided.
“Believe it not, it almost wasn’t. After all that, when the police fished his body out of the river, they found water in his lungs. It proved that with all the assassins had done to him, he still almost managed to survive.”
“Who were the assassins? Where did it take place?”
Putnam answered my questions and gave me all the pertinent details of the assassination. When he was finished, I had no more idea of how to prevent it than I had before. I told him so.
“Listen,” Putnam answered. “I’ve got an idea. It’s pretty far out, but it’s the only chance. You latch onto Rasputin and stay with him. Stay as physically close to him as you can. I’ll go to work on Papa Baapuh to pick you up with the time machine as soon as possible. Only this time it will pick up two of you-—you and Rasputin.”
“Can it do that?”
“I’ll check with Papa Baapuh. I don’t see why it shouldn’t be possible if you’re both standing in the same place when the force field snatches you up. What I’ll do is ring you up when you’re ready and you can make sure Rasputin is set to be snatched.”
“You’ll have to work pretty fast,” I reminded Putnam.
“Tonight’s the night he’s due to be murdered.”
“I’ll get on it right away. I have to get Papa Baapuh to move fast in any case if you’re going to be brought back. The Red Guard is getting restless and I don’t knows how long before they’ll just decide to march in here, wreck the joint, and put us all under arrest. The situation in Tibet isn’t what you’d call stable.”
“Neither is the situation here,” I reminded him. “So get cracking.”
He promised that he would and we broke off the call. I went to sleep then. It would take Putnam at least a few hours to get set up. And if he should call me before, Rasputin was in his own room right down the hall from me. It would be no problem latching on to him.
But nightfall came and I still hadn’t heard from Putnam. Rasputin and I had dinner together-—just the two of us-- in his own lavish dining room. Afterwards, he suggested taking me out to see some of the night life in St. Petersburg. I tried to dissuade him, but to no avail. Toward midnight we arrived at an elegant private club near the center of the city.
Just after we entered, a man stood up at the opposite end of the large hall and hailed Rasputin. Arms spread wide, he made a one-man parade out of crossing the area to greet the starets. Waves of laughter followed in his wake. The man wore a red carnation in the fly of his pants!
But this was no mere Arty-the-life-of-the-party looking for a lampshade to put on his head for an encore. I realized that as soon as Rasputin introduced us. “This is Purichkevich,” he told me in German, “a reactionary nincompoop politically speaking, but a sterling drinking companion nevertheless.”
My head spun as I acknowledged the introduction. Purichkevich was one of the three men scheduled to murder Rasputin this very night. He was one “drinking companion” I definitely wanted Rasputin to avoid. As they swapped friendly political insults, I concentrated on thinking of some way to ditch him.
I was still mulling it over when the three of us took a table together. Biting my lip, I found myself staring into the eyes of an attractive girl seated a few tables away. I smiled at her automatically. She didn’t smile back. Instead she shot me a cold, haughty look that told me I wasn’t the object of her interest. When she continued to stare, I realized it was Rasputin whose attention she wanted.
Hoping to detach him from Purichkevich, I nudged him and drew his attention to the girl. Rasputin’s eyes pierced through her clothing and he licked his lips. “Who is the wench?” he asked Purichkevich in German, pointing rudely at the girl.
“She’s a dancer from Kiev. She just arrived in St. Petersburg to join the ballet company.”
“Delicious,” Rasputin decided. “I want her,” he added. He got to his feet and without a backward glance, strode over to the girl’s table. She greeted him with an inviting smile and a moment later he was seated beside her, squeezing her knee.
“He is shameless,” Purichkevich remarked to me, still speaking in German.
“That’s an odd judgment for a man who walks around publicly with a red flower in his fly,” I pointed out.
“You are hostile!” He looked at me narrowly.
“I am,” I admitted.
“You don’t like me.” There was a snarl in his voice.
“I don’t.”
“That is very dangerous—for you!” he threatened.
“I know that.”
“I won’t forget.” Purichkevich stood up and glowered at me. “Sooner or later I will hold you accountable for your rudeness.” He turned on his heel and stalked angrily away.
I took a deep breath. At least we were rid of him for the time being. A nasty customer. I hoped I wouldn’t be around long enough for him to make good on his threat.
I sat at the table and watched Rasputin operate. The girl was blushing, but she didn’t seem to mind the way he squeezed her legs and hips and buttocks under the table. Soon he was whispering urgently in her ear. She nodded and whispered something back. Rasputin smiled lasciviously, stood up, bowed to her and returned to our table.
“An assignation for later in the evening. It is all arranged,” he told me smugly.