find endless numbers of mushrooms. And when they were done there, when their baskets were overflowing, the snow fell, soft and white.
“Alyosha, would you like to go on a wild troika ride pulled by three of the most beautiful horses in the Empire?” asked Papa.
Aleksei, seeing it all as he lay there with his eyes pinched shut, grinned and nodded, and off they flew through the snow, my father at the reins, whooping and hollering, the bells jingling, and the cold, cold air rushing against their rosy cheeks.
“Here, you drive, Alyosha. I’m going to hand you the reins.”
“But…but I’ve never-”
“Of course you can do it! You have power, you have strength! Here they are, take the reins…but be careful! Stay on the road! Watch out for the trees! And just look at the snow, it’s up to your waist!”
Aleksei laughed aloud and drove them on through fantasy.
After that, Papa took him fishing and hunting, walking and hiking, and finally swimming in the cool waters of our favorite brook. And in all this the boy found peace and comfort and did not that afternoon, thanks to my father, step over the threshold of death.
When Aleksei fell from story into sleep, Papa slipped into prayer and stood there by the bed for hour after hour, mumbling and chanting to the heavens. His strength and endurance were incredible, something I could not even aspire to. At some point I started to sway. My head became light, and I slumped to the floor, pulled my cloak over me, and tumbled into dream, lulled by the deep tones of Papa’s voice. I was awakened only by the sounds of the Tsar and Tsaritsa coming back into the room. It was dark of course, our northern sun had already fallen, but it was obvious that a miracle had indeed taken place, for not only was Aleksei’s temperature back to normal but his hideously swollen and twisted leg was resting flat on the bed. To everyone’s great relief, the boy’s color had returned as well, and within the hour he ate two eggs and drank an entire cup of tea with milk.
With the crisis averted, Papa and I were back home by ten that evening.
We decided on poison.
You probably realize that by this time Vladimir Purishkevich, the great monarchist, was deeply involved. Also old Dr. Lazavert, whom I know you have already questioned at length. We were all terribly nervous-we were talking of the sin of murder, after all-but the nightmare of Rasputinism had to be stopped at all costs.
Purishkevich ran his own charitable hospital train, gathering the wounded at the front and bringing them home. Dr. Lazavert worked on this train, as I’m sure you’re well aware. It was there, in Purishkevich’s private car, that we gathered to make the final arrangements. We decided on the night of December 16 because Dmitri Pavlovich was busy every other night, and we didn’t want to change his schedule, lest we attract attention. And, as I’ve said, we decided on poison. In fact, I clearly remember Dr. Lazavert holding up a small glass vial of potassium cyanide dissolved in liquid.
“We will sprinkle it liberally into the pastries and his wine,” said the doctor.
The plan was simple. Promising a party, we would pick up Rasputin after midnight and take him to the palace on the Moika. We would lead him through the side door and down into the basement, into that cozy little dining room. As he waited for the supposed festivities to begin, he would feast on the sweets and wine. Death would come quickly.
I honestly confess I was not in favor of harming Rasputin’s daughter as well. Nor did I want to be any part of the plan against the royal family. By that, I mean just what should be done with Aleksandra Fyodorovna and the Emperor, whether or not she should be locked up and he…he…
Well, that was a matter for the senior grand dukes, you know, the Tsar’s uncles. That was family business. Getting rid of Rasputin was mine.
CHAPTER 17
Papa might have been exhausted, but I was famished.
When we entered our flat, my father dropped his coat on the hall floor and walked in a daze to his bedroom, mumbling that he was going to sleep for two whole days. I stood for a moment in the front hall, still trying to absorb my father’s actions and all that had transpired at the palace. After a few moments I hung up my coat and headed to the kitchen, where Dunya waited to do what she did best, comfort us with food.
“What would you like, milaya maya?” My dear.
“Fish,” I replied.
Amazed by my father’s special abilities, I sat down at the dinner table and ate every different type of fish we had in the house. One after the other, Dunya brought out cod soup, herring in sour cream, jellied fish heads, and finally a piece of sturgeon fried in fresh butter. The only utensil I used was a spoon, everything else I ate with my fingers, proud of the milky broth and juices that dribbled down my chin. Even though I didn’t really want any, I took a piece of black bread, careful to break it with my hands, just like the Apostles. And just like those who couldn’t afford utensils, let alone a napkin, I used the dark, sour crust to wipe my chin and blot my lips. When Dunya offered me a sweet warm compote of stewed apples and raisins, I paused in thought. What would Papa do? He hated sweets-“Scum!” he always called them-but was compote really the equivalent of a flaky cream-filled French pastry or magnificent Austrian torte? Not sure, I declined. After all that fish I didn’t want to do a thing to darken my soul.
Varya sat opposite, her elbows on the table, her blunt little chin in her hands, and just stared at me. After a few minutes, she brushed aside her bangs and scratched her nose.
She asked, “So what happened, Maria? Is the Heir dead?”
I shook my head.
“Then he’s all right? Papa fixed him?”
I nodded.
“Xhorosho. I thought he would.”
There was nothing to say, no way I could explain to her how amazing the healing had been, so I just ate in silence, my little sister watching me as I slurped up my food, fish by fish. I hadn’t witnessed a miracle at the palace, but I had witnessed something miraculous, of that I had no doubt. I had no idea just how Papa was able to beckon the glory of God down from the heavens and into that suffering boy, how he was able to accomplish what no other-no priest, monk, scientist, or doctor-had ever been able to do. But he had and he did. Somehow, the strength of my father’s character and belief had not simply enabled Aleksei to find serenity and peace but had inspired the boy’s own faith in the power of his body and in his God. No wonder the Tsar and Tsaritsa’s trust in my father was unshakable. How could it not be when Papa had saved their son over and over again? As amazing as it seemed, it was now perfectly clear to me that the Heir would have been dead long ago without my father’s aid.
Thinking of my own path in life and how I might be able to help others, I wondered if I shouldn’t become a bride of Christ. As I chewed on a soft yet slightly crunchy fish head, I considered abandoning this life and seeking the greater glory of God in a women’s monastery. I would give up my fancy citified name of Maria and return to the real me, Matryona, the country girl of the far provinces. Yes, I would kiss my father and little sister good-bye, perhaps make a trip home to say farewell to Mama and my brother, Dmitri, and then I would seek out a place to take my vows. I definitely didn’t want a place in the capital-Smolny, say-or anywhere nearby. Better something distant, the farther east the better. Yes, definitely something removed from the European influences sweeping our nation like polluted waters. A women’s monastery hidden on an island in the middle of a lost Siberian lake would do just fine. There were many monasteries sprinkled across the length of Siberia, all the way to the Kamchatka Peninsula and the Bering Sea, and the best place would be one accessible for only a few months a year, a place where the roads and the rivers were open only during the short summer months. Being cut off from the world would encourage prayer and introspection. Surely my parents wouldn’t be against my taking the vows. And since Sasha was gone-what if we never saw each other again?-life as a nun would be far better than marrying here in the capital and becoming one of the petit bourgeoisie, obsessed with the proper address, proper hat and dress, and requisite social standing. I really had no choice, now I thought about it. If I stayed and married here in
