“Anushka! Anushka!” he called, as the Tsar and Tsaritsa watched in amazement.
She stirred and opened her eyes for the first time.
“Speak to me!”
Her lips trembled and she barely spoke. “Pray for me, Father…”
“Wake up and rise!”
Her eyes opened wider but she did not move.
Father dropped her hand and stumbled in exhaustion from the room, muttering, “She will be a cripple, but she will live.”
Now, wasting no time, Madame Vyrubova hobbled along, steering us through the large doors and into a reception area, forgetting the registry-where our presence was, nevertheless, duly noted by an official who had worked for this tsar’s father and even the one before that. We passed some silent guards in magnificent uniforms, moved through a double door, and went down the long center corridor with its magnificent roll of carpet from the Caucasus. The Tsaritsa’s private chambers were here, in the rooms on the left, and the stories to be told about tonight, I was sure, would place Rasputin there, probably in Aleksandra Fyodorovna’s favorite room, her mauve boudoir. Adding to the tales of Rasputin was a national obsession; I’d just heard of a fashionable hostess who’d tacked up a sign in her salon that read NO TALK OF RASPUTIN. Mention of my father in the press was strictly forbidden, so “supposed” eyewitnesses were always cropping up, conveying “supposed” information about Papa in the time-honored Russian mode: gossip. In this way, endless nasty stories were spread, both at court and at the market and as far away as the front. Not long ago I had heard Dunya ranting in the kitchen, complaining that the stories had traveled as far as Berlin, where the Kaiser’s propagandists not only expounded on them but made sure their spies returned and planted them again in Petrograd, creating yet more uproar.
“Mark my word, there are German spies doing their dirty work everywhere,” Dunya had said, furiously stirring a pot. “Gossip heard once is titillating, heard twice and it’s interesting, but when it’s heard three times people take it as fact. And the Germans are cleverer than we are. They know the best way to topple the Tsar is to attack his consort, who of course is one of them, a German princess by birth.”
When I saw no trace of stockings beneath Madame Vyrubova’s thick sable coat, I could only imagine what would be going around tomorrow. Someone would claim, no doubt, that she had been waiting for Rasputin naked beneath her resplendent fur.
I heard a door open at the far end of the long corridor, and a tall elegant woman stepped through. It was the Empress Aleksandra Fyodorovna herself, one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen, tall and thin, her face finely carved, her hair thick and long, though tonight, much to my surprise, it was let down as if for bed. Along with her ever-present strands of freshwater pearls hanging from her alabaster neck, she wore a long white silk robe, nothing more. Her eyes, usually clear blue, were swollen and red.
Upon seeing me, the Empress couldn’t hide her surprise and froze, shaking her head ever so slightly. Madame Vyrubova, who maintained her coveted spot by her keen ability to read her mistress’s wants, immediately stopped and caught me by the arm. Papa, however, continued on, marching right up to Her Imperial Highness. And, no, he did not fall to his knees before her, nor did he bow and seek the bizmyen-the opportunity to kiss his sovereign’s hand. Rather, he strode up to the Empress as if he were her equal, even her superior, and kissed her Siberian style, three times on the cheek. Then, much to even my surprise, the Empress muttered something ever so quietly and swooned like a lost lover into Papa’s arms.
“Come, my child,” said Madame Vyrubova, spinning me around lest I see more. “The driver will take you home.”
“Please may I visit Maria Nikolaevna?” I begged, referring to the Tsar’s number three daughter, with whom I had become quite friendly.
“All good children are asleep at this hour, as well you should be. I don’t know what I was doing, I should never have let you in. And I wouldn’t have if it weren’t so cold.”
“But-”
With her hand firmly planted in the small of my back, Madame Vyrubova steered me quickly down the hall, through the double doors, and to the reception hall, where several guards snapped to attention.
“See that she is returned at once to the city,” Anna Aleksandrovna commanded imperiously. “Make sure the driver escorts her not just to her building but right up to her apartment.”
“What about-,” I started to say.
But there was nothing I could do. For all intents and purposes, I was being returned to the city by imperial order. I could not protest, just as there was no question but that the orders would be obeyed.
Madame Vyrubova stepped to a side table and scooped up a handful of candies wrapped in wax paper. They were my favorite, butterscotch balls made right here in the palace confectionary. She then grabbed my muff from me, pinched one end of it shut, and stuffed the candies inside. Pressing the muff back into my hands, she whispered in my ear.
“You must not talk about tonight to anyone, no matter their position. Am I clear, my child?”
“Most certainly, Anna Aleksandrovna.”
“Good,” she said, kissing me on my forehead. “Now hurry off, my dear!”
One of the guards, a burly man with a dark mustache, took me gently by the arm and escorted me to the main door. Just before I stepped into the frigid night air, I turned. Rushing like a jealous lover, Madame Vyrubova had pulled up her magnificent fur coat and was hobbling as fast as she could back into the palace.
Not only were her ankles completely naked, so were her legs.
You ask when did I myself first make Rasputin’s acquaintance? Well, the first time I ever laid eyes upon him was four winters ago. I had heard he was in town, and, since I was eager to see him for myself, I stopped by my friend’s house, where Rasputin was apparently residing for the week. I knocked on the door, but my friend was not home. I was just about to leave when I heard screaming. Quite worried, I ran around back to the kitchen…and what did I find but that monster on top of a young scullery maid, ripping away her clothing. He was quite drunk even though it was still morning, and he was having his way with her, this young girl, can you imagine! I reached for a large iron pan and hit him. I hit him so hard, he fell to the floor and didn’t move. When I saw the blood flowing from his mouth and nose, I feared I had killed him, but after a moment he started to stir.
Do you know how many times since then I have wished I had hit that devil a second time or stabbed him with a knife? If only I had killed him back then! Just think how much pain I would have spared the Motherland.
CHAPTER 4
Tucked into the warm brown leather seats of the same Delaunay-Belleville limousine, I ate one butterscotch ball and then another and another. As I was whisked back into town at nearly the same speed with which we had been taken to the royal village, I consumed a total of six candies. It was approaching two in the morning, and I should have been lulled into a quick, comfortable sleep. Instead, my mind whirled faster and faster. If Papa was sure someone was plotting his death, why wasn’t he doing anything to prevent it?
As we turned onto Goroxhovaya, I looked behind us and saw the looming Tsarskoye Selo train station. Staring ahead, I saw the golden spire of the Admiralty pointing into the gray-black sky. And yet there wasn’t a single soul to be seen scurrying along the slippery sidewalks. The snowy street itself was completely empty of sleighs and troikas, and there was only one motorcar, a plain black one I had never noticed, parked across the street from our building. Smoke bellowed from its tailpipe, but I couldn’t see who, let alone how many, were sitting inside.
When the limousine came to a stop in front of our building, the chauffeur jumped out and scurried around the side. As if I were a princess, he opened my door with great grace-so silent, so powerful, so majestic-and offered me his hand. Accepting his firm grasp, I wondered if I could ever become accustomed to such royal treatment. There were 870 noble families that dominated Russia, and we Rasputins were definitely not among them. But it was not inconceivable that we would be elevated, perhaps soon. Throughout history, the rulers of Russia-including Catherine the Great, who had a habit of turning her numerous lovers into princes and counts-always granted vast estates and titles to their favorites, and Papa was definitely Aleksandra Fyodorovna’s. So as his elder daughter, would I one day soon become, say, Countess Matryona Grigorevna? Or, taking the name of our own village, would I become Baronessa Pokrovskaya?