wearing thick blue coats and square red hats, perched up front. But of course this was the middle of the night. When I searched up and down the street, there was nothing, no cabs, no sledges, certainly no motorcars. A squall of snow suddenly burst from the skies, and the flakes fell large and heavy on my head and shoulders, dusting me like confectioners’ sugar. Was it hopeless?
Then I heard it, that most famous of Russian sounds, the jingling of troika bells. And not just heavy brass bells but silver ones, their chime fine and sophisticated in the still night. Any family of significance had their own troika with silver bells precisely tuned so their vehicle could be heard coming, as this one was. Or was it going? I looked one way, another, searching for a sound that seemed to bounce out of every street and off every building. My heart began beating faster, for with each moment the bright sound grew. Suddenly, a magnificent sleigh pulled by three horses burst out of a side street, the middle horse high and proud, the side horses lean and fast. In a flurry it turned my way. The coachman was cloaked in a heavy fur, and when I saw the peacock feather sticking like a flag from his big black hat, I knew I was right, this was a private sleigh.
Waving my arms madly, I leaped into the street. At first the troika didn’t slow and barreled down on me, snow flying from the horses’ hooves, the bells ringing away. Finally the burly driver spotted me, this speck in the street, and pulled back on reins as thin as leather threads. I didn’t budge until the three horses, steam spouting from their nostrils, slowed to a prance and then a stop just steps from me.
“I need to hire you!” I said, running around the side.
The driver stared down at me like an amused bear ready to swat a pathetic bee. “This is a private sleigh, young lady.”
“I have an emergency-”
“Sorry, I’m no Vanka,” he said with a chuckle, referring to common horse-cab drivers, all of whom were so nicknamed. “Besides, I’ve just dropped off my master and am returning to the stable. My night is through.”
When I saw him ready to crack the reins, I shouted desperately, “Two hundred rubles for an hour of your time!”
He froze, looked down upon me, his grin wider yet, and said, “And where does such a young thing as you come upon such great money? That’s more than I make in months!”
“I’m Rasputin’s daughter,” I said, more proudly than ever. “Take me to the Yusupov Palace and back, and I swear there’s two hundred rubles in it for you. Agreed?”
He thought for only a moment, then calmly said, “No doubt you’ll find the sable blanket in the rear seat very warm.”
I clambered in the back and we took off with a jolt. Speeding along, we were halfway down the block when I heard a desperate plea calling through the snowy night.
“Maria, no!”
Pushing myself up, I peered out the back of the troika. Sasha was running after us like some sort of crazed man. I kissed my hand and held it up to him in loving farewell.
And then I shouted out, not to Sasha but over my shoulder to the driver, calling, “Faster!”
The night of Rasputin’s death, I remember, it was just two or three degrees above freezing and a damp snow was falling. I know for a fact that Maria thought it was up to her to save her father, that she thought she was his last hope. And perhaps she was. What she didn’t know was that we knew her every move, nearly her every thought, which meant that every step she took was in fact a misstep.
And another strong memory, yes, most definitely: I remember staring down at Rasputin’s body as it lay in the snow. He was wearing a fur coat and a beaver cap. And, too: His coat was flung half open and he wore a blue silk shirt embroidered with cornflowers, a thick crimson cord around his waist, and…and, oh, yes, black velveteen pants and high black boots, all of which was very grand for a peasant, very grand indeed. Someone told me later that the Empress herself had stitched those cornflowers on his shirt with her very own hand.
To tell you the truth, you’ve never seen such a trusting victim. Right up to the end Rasputin didn’t suspect a thing. I kept thinking he would. After all, he was famous for his second sight.
You know about that telegram, don’t you, the one from the Grand Duchess Elizavyeta, the Tsaritsa’s sister? She congratulated us! The very day after the murder, she wrote, “All my ardent and profound prayers surround all of you for the patriotic act.” Can you imagine, she, a nun, congratulating us for committing an act of murder? That was how widely hated, how dangerous, that bastard Rasputin was.
Actually, you know, the only thing I keep coming back to, the only thing that haunts me, was that poor girl, Maria. You can’t imagine the shock on her face. I see that in my sleep, her absolute horror. The blood, too. She was covered with blood.
CHAPTER 21
Everyone in the city knew the palaces of all the grand dukes and nobles, including, of course, that of the most princely family, the Yusupovs, who after the Tsar were said to be the richest in Russia. Their sprawling palace at 94 Moika held, according to gossip, a gilded theater, picture galleries that held treasures of the world, bowls of uncut jewels, and room after room, some five hundred in all.
When the troika rounded a bend in the canal and the majestic yellow facade of the palace came into view, I wondered where in the name of God my father could be in there, in which wing, on which floor. Or was he even in there at all? If by chance it was all a ruse, if Prince Felix meant my father mortal harm, could he have driven him elsewhere? Peering ahead, I spied lights burning in a corner room. I only hoped it was really a party, that Papa was in there, dancing and drinking his Madeira. But how would I get in to find out? No matter whose daughter I was, there was no way I would be admitted, not at this hour and not in my plain dress. Even if I made a scene at the front door I wouldn’t be allowed entry, nor would my father, if indeed he was there, be able to hear me.
Pointing to a side alley, I shouted up to the fur-covered driver, “Pull in there!”
In one giant arc the troika came swooping into the narrow street, slowing to a comfortable stop.
“Wait here,” I said to the driver as I climbed out of the rear. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
“Now wait a minute, young lady. I wasn’t born yesterday. How do I know you’ll return…and how do I know I’ll get my rubles?”
“We live at sixty-four Goroxhovaya, third floor. If I don’t come back, go there and ask our housekeeper, Dunya, for the money. On the name of Xhristos, I promise you’ll get paid.”
As he shook his head and rolled his eyes, he said, “Fifteen minutes, no more!”
“Fair enough.”
Pulling my cloak tightly around me, I hurried off. Within a few quick steps I emerged onto the street, turned to my left, and crossed to the granite sidewalk along the canal. Just ahead the Yusupov Palace, so massive and severe, nearly as formidable as a prison, rose up in the snowy night.
Oh, Papa, I thought, are you in there?
As if in reply I heard it clearly in my mind, a silent plea: Yes, Marochka, sweet daughter of mine. Come quickly, quickly!
Suddenly a sense of forgiveness flooded through me, and at that moment I knew not only how much my father needed me, but how deeply Papa and I were connected, how much of me was simply him, both literally and spiritually. The next moment, however, I felt a shock of mortal fear rip through me. Something terrible had already transpired against him. I knew it for certain, for I could feel his pain in my soul.
Shuddering, I hurried forward, following the edge of the frozen Moika. On this end of the palace sat a courtyard, which was separated from the street by a short stone wall and gate. And while I saw neither motorcar nor carriage parked inside, I did spy a small service door tucked in the side wall of the palace itself. Up ahead I could see but few lights on in the expansive building, most of them in the corner closest to me. That made sense. Palaces as huge as this were usually divided up, one wing for the parents, one for the younger generation. Yes, those lighted rooms were undoubtedly part of Prince Felix’s apartments; who else would be up so late? Even as I approached the structure I heard revelry of some sort-music, actually. Pausing, I heard a song blare through the double-paned window. Was the prince hosting a soiree of some sort? Were those the sounds of a small band? I couldn’t really tell. I could see shadows within, some movement, but nothing more specific, for heavy draperies
