Dunya studied the young woman, who was actually quite attractive, her skin pale and pure, her face sweet with a small mouth and nice blue eyes. And our housekeeper, who never could disobey my father, knew she had no choice.
“God has heard your plea…and so will Father Grigori,” Dunya said, swinging open the door. “Please, come in.”
“Slava bogu,” said Olga Petrovna. “I’m so afraid that my husband will die if they move him, and-”
“Please, child, save your words for Father Grigori’s ears. I myself can do nothing.”
This stranger seemed genuine. Hospitals had been set up in palace ballrooms all across town, and her husband could very well be lying in one of them. But as she stepped across our threshold and into our home, I flushed with fear. Did she have a gun hidden in her clothing, perhaps a little pistol cradled in her muff?
From down the hall, I ordered, “Dunya, take her cape and her muff at once!”
Surprised by my imperious command, Dunya turned and glared at me. Nevertheless, she complied, taking the woman’s worn garments in hand. But there was nothing strange, no hidden dagger or gun. Relieved that at least this woman carried no weapons, I turned and hurried back down the hall, skirting the salon and hurrying around to Papa’s study. I still didn’t understand how she had gotten into the building, let alone all the way up. Why hadn’t the security agents stopped her? Had she somehow bribed her way, either with a fistful of rubles or an open dress?
Afraid that there was only one explanation, I dashed into Papa’s little study, raced past his desk, and went up to the window. Gazing down into the courtyard, I saw nothing and no one. Were the security agents simply hiding in the shadows, or had they left us-Rasputin, his two daughters, and their housekeeper-to our own pathetic defenses?
Good Lord…
In Papa’s perfect world, there existed little more than love and freedom, absolute faith, spiritual study, and a world devoid of material belongings. These were the things he sought for his own life, the frame of mind he chose to inhabit, and the very utopia he so dearly sought for his followers. So how had everything become so twisted; what had he done to make so many connive against him? Worse, even though Papa knew how dangerous things had become, he was just like most Russians, accepting fate as nothing less than God’s will. But not I. Like most everyone these days, I feared the future but I refused to see myself as a lamb predestined for slaughter. Always, always, would I struggle to shape my own path, no matter the heavenly will. And, yes, in this way I differed radically from my naive father, whose world was one of blacks and whites with no shades of gray in between.
Leaning against the chilly panes of glass, I peered out, checking every nook and corner in the courtyard. As far as I could tell there was no one. Should I ring the palace at once? Should I call the Empress herself and report our vulnerability? Yes, absolutely. I couldn’t risk the alternative. What if this seemingly innocent visitor was instead a beautiful bee with a deadly sting? True, she wasn’t carrying any noticeable weapons, but what if she had a vial of poison tucked up her sleeve? Or what if someone else sneaked into our home on this, one of the darkest days of the year?
Turning away from the window of Papa’s study, I gathered up my skirt, determined to telephone the palace. I had never interceded in my father’s world before, but now I had no choice. While my father was infinitely wiser than I, I was beginning to realize I was more worldly.
No sooner had I started for the door, however, when I heard my father’s large voice coming down the hall. “Come with me and tell me all your troubles, my sweet young kitten.”
“Yes, Father Grigori. And thank you, Father Grigori. Thank you for seeing and hearing me.”
“It is not I who will hear you but the Lord God.”
“Yes, of course, Father Grigori,” replied Olga Petrovna meekly.
I did it not because I meant to spy on him. I did it not because I wanted to witness how he handled these things. I did it only because I was beginning to understand that my father had no idea how evil this world really was. Papa was always so eager to help people, always so eager to give away money or use his connections, that he rarely thought of the consequences. If he couldn’t protect himself, I would. So, ducking into the small shallow closet on one side of Papa’s study, I pulled the door nearly shut behind me. Hidden in cool darkness, I peered out a crack only a finger wide, realizing that for the first time I was about to witness how my father treated those in need.
From my hiding spot, I watched as my father escorted our unexpected guest into his private room and shut the door securely behind him. As always, the first thing Papa did was turn to the icon in the “beautiful” corner, bow slightly, and cross himself with three fingers-forehead, stomach, right shoulder, left. Then, his clothing and hair more a mess than ever, he half stumbled to the chair by his small wooden desk. Dropping himself into the narrow chair, he reached out and took Olga Petrovna by her small hand and pulled her close to him.
“Come closer, my beautiful one,” he said, peering up at the young beauty standing before him. “What is it you need from me on this cold afternoon?”
“I need your help, Father Grigori. Your intervention. My husband was severely wounded and he needs the best medical care. Unfortunately, they plan to move him from the city, and it scares me. I’m afraid his care will suffer, and I won’t be able to visit him more than once or twice a month during his recovery, and without my presence I don’t think he’ll recover so quickly. And, Father Grigori, I…I-”
Radi boga, I thought, what a groveler. How I hated the way she tiptoed, just like everyone else, around our ugly-sounding last name. People, particularly here in the city, went oddly out of their way to avoid using it, particularly in my father’s presence, for fear of offending the powerful peasant with access to the throne. Didn’t they know that the name Rasputin was not derived from the word rasputnik-a debauched, dissolute, immoral person-but from rasputiye-an intersection of roads? No matter what these learned city people said about the way Russian names were derived, that was where my family name came from. And not only ours, but half the village’s, for little Pokrovskoye was located at the intersection of two major roads, one leading to Tyumen, the other off into the never-ending Siberian wilds.
As the woman rambled through her story, Papa barely paid her any attention. Instead he ran his hand through his hair, tugged at his thatched beard, and started scratching, first his chest and then his lanky thigh. I was wondering if he was even paying any attention to her when he cut her off, waving his hand brusquely through the air.
“Take off your clothes!” he commanded.
“What?”
“Off with them!”
“But…but I have money. I have…”
Papa mumbled something incomprehensible, and then shouted out, “God will not hear your prayers until you humble yourself! Do you hear me? You must humble yourself before the eyes of God! Do as I say, child: Take off your clothes!”
I nearly leaped out of the closet right then and there, but my shame captured me, paralyzing me right where I huddled. No. Please, not this way. Clenching my fist to my mouth lest I cry aloud, I bit my knuckles. Papa was all strictness and propriety with us, his children. He knew where we were and what we were doing every hour of the day. So what was going on here? What in the name of the devil was he doing? This couldn’t be the way he treated all his visitors behind the closed door of his study, could it? Dear God, as my imagined truth collided with the real one now unfolding before me, it was more than I could bear. Peering from the darkness into the light, I stood as still as a rock frozen to the ground.
“Yes, Father Grigori, as you wish.” She pulled her hand free from my father and started unbuttoning the back of her dress. “You see…you see, all I need is a slip of paper, some kind of word from you. People say that you give out such things, a little note with your signature. I would be happy to pay generously for it, one of those pieces of paper.”
“Ach, money! People are always throwing money at me, but what good does it do? Nothing, I tell you! Money is worth nothing!”
“Yes, but”-as she began to strip, the pretty woman struggled to fight back tears-“I’ll do anything…anything for my husband, if only you’ll intervene. What…what is it you’d like from me?”
“Ach, what do I need but love? That’s all. I can have anything, I tell you, anything at all! And yet what do any of us have need of but sweet love?”
