by Staton Rabin
Father Grigory shook the snow from his sable coat, and tossed it over a chair. Then he sat down next to me, and did all the strange and mysterious things he always did when I was ill—which never failed to calm my fever and tame my bleeding.
“You are so good to us!” I said to him moments later, when his work was done and he had stood up to leave. “Why do they hate you so?”
“Do not speak, Little One. You must save your strength. Like kopecks for a rainy day.”
“But, why?”
He sat down on my bed again, and sighed.
“Until Grigory was twenty-eight, he live for pleasure. Grigory lived, as people say, ‘in the world.’ Then one night I sleep in room where there was icon of the Mother of God. And I wake up in middle of night and see icon is weeping. But I am not afraid. ‘Why do you cry?’ I ask. ‘Grigory,’ she says, ‘I am weeping for the sins of mankind. Go, wander, and cleanse the people of their sins.’ I give up everything, become strannik, wander thousands of versts. I have done what she ask.”
“And for this the people hate you?”
He shrugged.
“Some people do not like to be reminded of sins they wish to forget.”
“Cousin Felix says you drink vodka—and bathe with women!”
“The saints did also! What is strength without temptation? But, da, Alexei, Grigory is sinner.”
“Are my parents sinners?”
“They are good, they are holy. But, da—as all. They are sinners too.”
“Surely not Mama!”
He gently put his hand on my chest and pressed me back down against my fluffy pillows. He pulled the covers up under my chin.
“No more talk now, Alyosha—rest. You just listen, eh?” He took my small, pale hand in his rough peasant’s one. “What would tsarevich do if he could do anything?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but he put his fingers on my lips.
“Shush! No talk. Just tell me with mind.”
I pictured Nijinsky—dancing. And airplanes.
Father Grigory shut his eyes and seemed to be thinking very hard. Then he opened his eyes.
“Ah! Very good choice. So Alexei wants to fly, eh? Father Grigory will teach.”
“You know how to fly?”
“Shhhh. Better than fly.” He unfastened an emerald and silver pin from his shirt. The pin had my mother’s initials carved on it, and had been a secret gift from her. With a quick, jerky motion Father Grigory stabbed the pin into his thumb. I gasped, grabbing his hand.
“Father!”
A dark ruby glob glistened on the tip of his thumb like a bead on a Fabergé egg. He smiled, examining the bead curiously as if he’d never seen blood before.
“It is but a drop, Little One. But it contains whole universe! Open your mouth. Open it!”
I obeyed. He touched the drop of blood to my tongue, like giving Holy Communion.
“Taste the future, taste the past. Blood is river of time, joining you to Mama and Papa, yes. But also to Romanovs yet unborn! Using mind, Alexei can travel to future to see them.”
I stared at him, raising an eyebrow.
“You doubt word of Grigory? I have done this myself, with own family. Traveling down blood-river of time. I have seen my son’s great-great-grandson in America, who is not yet born till almost one hundred years. I have seen this—da!—with own eyes! You can ‘fly’ also this way, Alyoshenka. If you only believe.”
I shook my head. Father Grigory tilted my chin up so that my eyes met his.
“Using power of mind, Alexei can escape anytime. When boy bleeds, imagine blood-river carry him to another place, future time. Go where all is peaceful, no more pain. See future relatives. But always remember: Tsarevich must travel only with mind, not with body. Travel forward with body, Alexei will never return.”
He patted me on the cheek.
“Now. We give try, da? Close eyes and breathe deep.”
I shut my eyes.
“That’s right… slowly. See only with mind. Never fear blood—is life force that powers mind. Count to yourself. Count to desyat?”
“Odin, dva, tri—”
“To yourself!”
“Sorry.”
“Shhh! Begin again.”
I counted in my head.
“That’s right, Alyosha. Very good. Breathe in, breathe out. Tri, chetyre, pyat … Sleep. … Falling deeper as you count. Shest, sem … deeper and deeper … vosem, devyat…. Falling, falling—into the deepest, softest feather pillow. Desyat. Now, fully asleep. Good. You swim now in river of time. River is bright red, like blood rushing through vein. Swept along by current, you swim faster and faster. Feel it now—warm river of time against skin.”
I quivered.
“Repeat after me,” Father Grigory said. “Mother of God …”
“Mother of God.”
“Say,‘Blood of the tsar.’”
“Say Blood of the tsar.”
“Just repeat phrase!”
“Blood of the tsar.”
“I have no fear.”
“I have no fear.”
“Now take me far!”
“Take me far.”
“Now. What does tsarevich see, where time river take him?”
“I see … I see a dark naked man with muscles. Holding the whole world up on his shoulders.”
“Hmmm … what else?”
“Now I see … a big blue lake. With a little black island floating in the middle. And a row of bare trees growing on one shore of the lake”
“Da?”
“The trees—they’re moving! The whole row together, sweeping across the lake. Wait! It’s not a lake. It’s a big eye! Like a giant’s eye. It’s blinking! The row of trees—they’re eyelashes!”
Just then a woman spoke.
“Another one of your games?”
It was my mother’s voice. Father Grigory clapped his hands—once, twice, three times. I awoke very suddenly and opened my eyes. Mama had come into the room.
“Yes, Tsarina,” Father Grigory said, tugging at his beard. “Alexei and I were playing ‘let’s pretend.’ Shall you join us?” He stared at her a long time, and my mother’s cheeks turned pink.
“I don’t like the way he looks at me. As if he’s seen me without my corset on!”
“Olga! Father Grigory would never do such a thing,”
“It’s true, Tatiana. Last night, when I was putting on my nightdress. The door was open, just a crack. I swear by the Holy Mother—I caught him peeking at me from the hallway. Like—like some kind of—”
“Shhh! That’s sacrilege! Alexei’s in his room. He might hear you!”
“You think the boy doesn ’t know? Don’t be a fool. Alexei’s ill he’s not stupid. He knows everything.”
“She’s right, you know. I’ve caught Father Grigory looking at me, too. When I was coming out of the bathtub, and had only a towel on. Truth be told, I kind of enjoyed it?
“Me too.”
“Anastasia! Mashka! I’m going to tell Mama on you!”
The girls’ governess, Madame Tiutcheva, complained to Mama about Father Grigory. She said he was staring at them in their nighties. And even though Mama was angry at her for doubting our man of God, from that moment on he was no longer allowed near my sisters’ rooms.
One day when my diadka Nagorny wasn’t looking, I looked through his knapsack, and found cruel newspaper articles about Father Grigory. They said that Rasputin made Mama and Papa dance to his tune, like puppets on a string. That he drank. And Anastasia told me she’d heard soldiers laughing at ugly cartoons, showing Father Grigory with women. Mama said it was all vicious gossip. The saints, they kissed everyone too, she said. Mama was deaf to any complaints about him.
Once, while I was throwing a ball to my dog Joy outside Papa’s working study, Metropolitan Anthony went in to see Papa about Father Grigory. I heard Father Anthony say that Rasputin must go.
“The Church has no right to interfere in my family’s private business,” Pap
a replied.
“No, sire,” Father Anthony said. “This is not merely a family affair, but the affair of all Russia. The tsarevich is not only your son but our future sovereign, and belongs to all Russia.”
Not long after that, the Metropolitan suddenly dropped dead. I never found out why or how.
Then Father Iliodor told Papa that he had heard Father Grigory boast of taking advantage of a nun. Father Iliodor and Bishop Hermogen beat Our Friend with a wooden cross, and made him promise not to do it again.
Even the prime minister complained to Papa about Rasputin. The line of people waiting to tell tales about Our Friend grew longer. But I knew they were only jealous of Father Grigory’s friendship with us. I did not believe their terrible lies.
Still, the voices against Our Friend got so loud that even Papa agreed we had to do something. If only to keep the people happy. So from time to time, he sent Father Grigory away. Mama was afraid of what would happen to us without him. But Papa was her tsar, and she had to obey him like anyone else. So for a few months Father Grigory traveled in the Holy Land. And sometimes Papa sent Father Grigory home to Siberia—to his wife Praskovia and his sons and daughters.
Luckily for me, my health stayed good while Our Friend was away. But whenever I was bored or lonely, I remembered the mysterious place waiting for me at the end of the river of time—the strange and wonderful land that he had taught me how to visit with my mind. I’d shut my eyes, count from odin to desyat, then imagine myself swimming—nyet, almost flying!—down a fast-moving red river of blood. But I also remembered Our Friend’s warning, which frightened me. So I would always stop myself before my imagination carried me too far.
Still, I could not stop wondering about the strange pictures he had painted in my mind. What did they mean? The man holding up the world. Could that be Papa—or Grandpa Sasha holding up the roof of the train in Borki? And what about the big blue eye, the eye of a giant? A strange dream. Or was it a dream?
CHAPTER SIX
WE SPENT THE SPRING and summer of 1914 as we did every year: staying at golden Peterhof palace, then sailing the emerald sea around the Finnish skerries in our yacht, Standart. Dropping anchor here and there to have picnics ashore. Mama had the rheumatism and was happy to stay on the boat and do her sewing. Gilliard spent more time reading scandalous French novels than scolding me. The girls spent their lazy days flirting with the young officers of the guard. Dancing with them to the Standart’s balalaika orchestra, then going to the ship’s chapel to pray for forgiveness at having too much pleasure. How convenient!
Papa played at burying me in the soft yellow sand. The corners of my father’s eyes crinkled like Carpathian walnut shells when he smiled. For once he did not seem to be holding up the whole world on his shoulders.
But as we Russians say, beware the quiet dog or still water. Just four days into our peaceful summer voyage, Papa got a telegram. It said that Archduke Ferdinand and his wife had been murdered in Bosnia.
“Ferdinand? Who is he, Gilliard?”
“This is bad news for Russia, Alexei, very bad. Franz Ferdinand was to inherit the throne of Austria. Politics were at a delicate stage already. And now this murder—the last thing we needed! All the countries of Europe will blame one another for his death. I fear that Russia—and much of the world—may get pulled into it.”
The next day, we got news from Siberia that was even worse. Papa hid the telegram from Mama, so he could break the news to her gently. But Mama fainted anyway.
“The knife missed his vital organs. The Lord was with him,” Papa told her after Dr. Botkin’s smelling salts woke her up. “And with the Lord’s help, he will recover.”
“Dear God! My poor Grigory!” Mama wailed. “We must all pray for him!”
Father Grigory had been stabbed in the stomach by a woman. When she plunged in the knife, she shouted, “I have killed the Antichrist!”
Our Friend recovered. Mama said it was a miracle, and proof that Father Grigory was a saint. But I think he must have healed himself, as he had so often healed me.
We returned to Peterhof, where Papa met with Monsieur Poincaré, the president of the French Republic. For a while we didn’t know which way the wind was blowing. But at last Gilliard’s prediction about what would happen after the archduke was killed came true.
“The Duma was in every way worthy of the occasion,” Papa reported to Mama after returning from his meeting in St. Petersburg. “It expressed the will of the nation, for the whole of Russia smarts under the insults heaped upon it by Germany. I have the greatest confidence in the future now. I have done everything in my power to avert this war, and I am ready to make any concessions consistent with our dignity and our national honor.”
But one night, two weeks before my tenth birthday, Papa came to us while we were eating. We all dropped our forks at his words.
“We are at war with Germany.”
Mama wept, and seeing our strong mother weep, my sisters did too. Germany was her land, her people. What would this mean for the country of Mama’s birth? The Kaiser was our own Cousin Willy—who Papa said should be locked up in a madhouse. Mama and Father Grigory had been against the war, but Mama understood that Papa had had no choice. My father sat down at the table with us and sighed heavily. The world was on his shoulders again.
When Papa made the public announcement of war, thousands fell to their knees outside the Winter Palace. The people sang his praises with the imperial hymn. Papa and Mama waved to the crowd from the balcony.
“You cannot imagine how glad I am that all the uncertainty is over” Papa said to Gilliard as they walked with me at Peterhof soon after, “for I have never been through so terrible a time as the days preceding the outbreak of war. I am sure that there will now be a national uprising in Russia like the great War of 1812.”
By “uprising” Papa meant that he was sure the people would support us. And for a while he was right.
All of Russia praised the tsar. They joined hands together around Papa and the war. But toward Mama the people were not generous. Mama, Olga, and Tatiana took a course in nursing from the Red Cross. Mama set up a hospital, right at Tsarskoye Selo. She and the girls sewed up soldiers’ wounds, prayed with them. And still the people said that Tsarina Alexandra—born Princess Alix of Hesse-Darmstadt—was the enemy. Even a German spy!
Didn’t they know that Mama had really been raised by Queen Victoria—after her British mother Princess Alice had died? Mama thought herself more English than German. All her letters to Papa were in English, and she spoke to us in nothing else. Germany was her country of birth, this is so. But Mama was as true a Russian as any of us when it came to her love for us and Papa—and whose side she was on in this war.
Our people hated anything German. So they started calling sauerkraut “liberty cabbage.” And they even renamed Peter the Great’s beautiful capital city “Petrograd,” because they thought St. Petersburg sounded too “German”!
But soon Russia knew that Mama and Father Grigory had been right about the war. It came at a heavy cost. Within the first few months, we had already lost about a quarter of a million soldiers. Imagine! That’s as if everyone in a large Russian city suddenly dropped dead all at once.
In 1904, the year I was born, we had been at war with Japan. Gilliard says we lost nearly our whole fleet at the Battle of Tsushima the next year. After that there were shortages of weapons and food. That war had ended badly for us. There were workers’ strikes, and the Russian people revolted. Uncle Serge was murdered by revolutionaries. Grandma Minnie called it “the year of nightmares.” Papa was forced to sign the October Manifesto and make our legislature, the Duma. I say “forced” because of what Olga told me. “Dread Uncle” Nikolasha took out a gun, put it to his own head, and said he’d shoot himself if Papa did not sign the constitution. Does that not sound to you like he was forced?
Papa dissolved the Duma but let it come back again. Things were quiet for a while. Mr. Stolypin, our prime minister, made re
forms that let more peasants own land. And our soldiers had a great victory in Galicia. But then history seemed to repeat itself.
“The people are discontented, Alexei. Just like during our war with Japan. Our soldiers do not have enough weapons or clothing. Farmers are leaving their fields to fight in the war. Their families, wives and children left behind, are starving. And they are blaming your mama and papa for it!”
“Gilliard, you know that is not so. I could have Papa arrest you for saying so!”
“Yes, I know you could. I will say it in a whisper. But I will say it, just the same, because the future tsar of all the Russias needs to know the truth about his people. And no one else will tell you.”
In the fall of 1915, during the second year of the war, Mama let me visit Papa at Stavka‡ in Mogilev. She cried enough tears to fill the Baltic when she and my sisters said good-bye to me at the train station.
“Don’t wipe out the whole German army by yourself,” Anastasia teased. “You must leave something for Papa and our soldiers to do.”
“Here’s some piroshki,” my sister Olga said, handing a warm bag to me. “I made them myself. I heard the food is terrible at headquarters.”
“Mashka has gotten fat on them!” Anastasia said, and Mashka gave her a sharp push that nearly knocked her off the train platform.
“Don’t worry” Tatiana said. “We’ll take good care of Joy.” I handed my little spaniel over to her waiting arms. My dog looked at me with sad eyes, as if he knew I would not be back for a while.
“Baby, you look so grown up in your uniform!” Mama said, giving me one last hug like she’d never let go. “Take care not to fall or bump yourself. And remember what I said. Take good care of Papa.”
“Yes, I will. Mama, please don’t call me ‘baby’ anymore,” I whispered.
She did not want me to go. But she knew Papa was lonely in Mogilev without us. Gilliard went with me, to keep up our lessons. He promised to write Mama every day to tell her how I was.
I slept on an iron camp bed in Papa’s room at Stavka. There was hardly enough room to turn around, and no army of servants to attend me. The food tasted like pig slop. We lived like peasants. But I was never so happy.
