hand beneath his. I tried to pull away but could not. On the other side, Dunya came clambering back to the table, her hand feeling all about for mine, finally finding my fingers and clinging to them.
“O God! O Lord!” shouted Papa. “Woe unto us that have waxed faith into pride! Magnificent is the brilliance of Thoust power! But woe unto the Devil! Woe unto Satan, who tries through his darkness to trap us all! Only for the light of God do we find Thine path!”
I found myself starting to shake, horribly so. Not just my hands, not just my shoulders, but every limb, every muscle. I bit my lip but could not control it, could not stem the deep sob that erupted from within me and exploded into the blackness of our dining room. Never until that moment had I feared my father. Never until this day had I seen in him anything but kindness and love. And yet all I knew right then was terror, so I bowed my head, squeezed my eyes tight, and buried my soul in humble prayer, pleading for forgiveness. By transgressing the word of my very own father I had sinned, had I not? But no more. No, I was ready to repent, and deep inside my being I begged, even chanted: Lord, O Lord, take pity upon my miserable soul and gather me unto Thy feet!
Out of nowhere Varya’s small voice bloomed like a tiny flower as she gasped, “Maria, look! Look!”
I was so afraid that at first I dared not. When I finally opened my eyes, I saw nothing but a reddish fog of darkness. I gazed across the table, searched the spot where my sister was sitting, but could barely see her. I turned to the right and could only discern the vague outline of Dunya, whose hand I was clasping so hard. When I slowly focused on my left, however, everything was different and-yes-even miraculous. Immediately I was aware of something, some kind of glowing light, which gently filled that end of the room and even my soul. And when I slowly raised my eyes, I saw it and started weeping quietly. A wave of awe and glory surged through my body, for there, right above Papa’s head, hovering just above his messy thatch of hair, glowed something that seemed quite like an arc of light.
CHAPTER 9
When we finally finished eating our fish, I volunteered to do the dishes.
Awash with remorse and twisted in confusion, I lingered at the sink over each glass, each plate. For good or ill, I had to recognize what I had always known, that Papa did have a kind of power. But did that mean I should support him, no matter what?
I had just finished washing and drying everything right down to the last spoon when the doorbell rang a second time that day. At first I couldn’t imagine who it could be. Then it struck me: Olga Petrovna had returned. Had that poor woman come back, perhaps on her hands and knees, pathetically determined to service my father in any way possible, just in exchange for one of his notes? Oh, God, I thought, bolting out of the kitchen. I had to protect her from the very thing she so desperately sought: my father’s so-called help.
Determined to reach the front door before Dunya, I raced from the kitchen, through the dining room, and into the salon. But there was no sign of our housekeeper, let alone my father or sister. Had Dunya retreated to her room upstairs and Papa gone back to bed? Was Varya reading in our room? I didn’t know, didn’t care. Simply relieved that no one else was around, I made a beeline for Papa’s study, knowing exactly what I needed and where to find it.
Like most of our countrymen, Papa could barely read, let alone write. For that reason he would write out his notes ahead of time, sign them in his bearish scrawl, and keep a stack of them ready to hand out to petitioners who pleased him. Wasting no time, I went directly to his desk and snatched one from the pile:
Dear Friend,
I beseech you to have pity on this poor, suffering creature and do as requested. My blessings upon you.
Father Grigori †
These few lines were, I knew, more than enough to open any door and almost enough to accomplish any task in all of Russia. This, I thought as I quickly started out of the room, would do her fine. This would be more than enough to keep Olga Petrovna’s husband in Petrograd.
Determined to get to the front door before Dunya, I raced down the hall and through the salon. When I reached the front hall and the foyer, however, I still saw no sign of our housekeeper or anyone else. Though I should have been worried, and though I should have called out to see who was actually ringing, neither occurred to me. Both ashamed of my father and worried about what he would demand of Olga Petrovna, I clutched the note in one hand and with the other threw open the door-to find not a small woman in a cape standing there, but a man in an enormous fur coat.
“Gospodin Ministir Protopopov!” I gasped, immediately recognizing him by his thick pointed nose.
For the past few months he’d been coming to our house often, no doubt because his career had been advanced only due to Papa’s influence. When he’d been plucked from the Duma-our parliament-and named Minister of Internal Affairs, none had been more shocked, more outraged, than the famed monarchist Vladimir Purishkevich, whose hatred of my father was known across the land. But Papa thought Protopopov a good man who would prove to be a good link between the throne and the Duma, and he had insisted on the appointment to the Empress. In turn, the Empress, believing in my father’s heavenly visions, had insisted on it to the Emperor.
“Good evening, young one,” said the minister, politely removing his puffy fur hat from his greasy head. “Is your father at home?”
Glancing down the hall into our salon, I still saw no one and heard nothing. I had no idea whether or not Papa was asleep or passed out from drink, but I wanted no one else in our home tonight. What should I say?
“Papa’s asleep and asked not to be disturbed.”
“Well, then, perhaps you can tell me. I received a report that a young terrorist was in the area last night. Apparently some of the agents chased him into your courtyard.”
“What?” I asked in disbelief.
“Yes, and the bastard was bleeding quite badly. One of the agents thought he disappeared into your building.”
Dear God, I thought. He couldn’t be talking about Sasha, could he? Suddenly my face was burning, and I clasped a hand over my mouth.
“This would have been quite late. You didn’t hear or see anything, did you?”
All I could manage was a terse shake of my head.
“Better yet, I trust you weren’t disturbed?”
My voice barely above a whisper, I said, “No.”
“Very well. However, please tell your father I stopped by.” Handing me an envelope, he said, “And please give him this letter. My agents intercepted it, and while we don’t know who wrote it, I have my suspicions. In any case, I believe the threat is real. Please ask him to read it very, very carefully, yes?”
“Of course, Gospodin Ministir.”
“And remind him not to be going out late at night. Things are much too dangerous for him to be traipsing about in the dark hours.”
“Of course.” Taking the envelope in hand, I realized that our security was ultimately the responsibility of this minister, and I asked, “Did you see any of the security agents downstairs? They were gone last night, and they might be gone again tonight.”
“Ah, well, I suppose I didn’t see any of them,” he replied, without any great surprise. “I’ll check on that right away. Good night, my child. I wish you a peaceful sleep.”
He bowed his head again, slipped his hat back on his slick head, and disappeared like a big bear rumbling down the steps, grunting as he went. I had no idea why Papa cared for this man, for I certainly didn’t, and neither did most of the country, from what little I’d read in the papers.
As I shut and locked the door, I started trembling. There’d been only one person bleeding in our house yesterday, of course, and that had been Sasha. But what did that mean? What had happened and what was he involved in? Terrorism? Revolutionary activities? It couldn’t be. I couldn’t have misread him so horribly, could I? And yet…he’d been hurt and on the run, obviously scared and definitely unwilling to explain what had happened.
It suddenly occurred to me why Protopopov wasn’t surprised there were no guards: He knew there weren’t. In
