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 Petrograd, I could only imagine the money and invitations people would shower upon me, all in the hope of gaining access to my father, which would in turn put them that much closer to the throne. How easy that would be. And how horrid.

I looked up when I’d eaten every last bit of fish, only to realize that my sister was no longer sitting there. When I carried my dishes into the kitchen, Dunya was not to be found either, not at the stove, nor on her little cot tucked behind the curtain. Setting my dishes into the porcelain sink, I glanced at the clock ticking away on the wall. After eleven. Not so late, particularly for this household, but it seemed that sleep in this sleepless city had finally and blessedly come to our flat.

I was just rolling up the sleeves of my dress to start washing my dishes when I heard a slight, discreet movement at the rear door. I stopped still. Someone started knocking gently, a sound so soft it might even have been a mouse scratching at the wood. But, no, I heard the rustle of clothing on the back landing. At this hour I suspected it was probably Prince Felix, who was sure to start pounding until he gained entry—after all, when had a Yusupov ever been turned away by anyone anywhere?

Then it occurred to me that it might be someone else altogether. Praying for this, I ran to the door.

“Kto tam?” Who’s there?

The longest moment passed before a deep voice replied, “Me.”

A silly grin blossomed on my face. “And what do you want at so late an hour?”

“To come in.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m desperate to see you.”

“Promise?”

“With all my heart.”

I glanced quickly over my shoulder. Seeing no sign of my father or Dunya, I did it. I turned the lock. I opened the door. And Sasha came into our home and into my arms. Without a bit of hesitation, without a single word, we fell into each other’s arms. I tilted my head slightly to the side, closed my eyes, and felt what I’d wanted so very much, his lips upon mine. An exhilarating flush of warmth filled my head, my stomach. It seemed to last both forever and yet only a fleeting moment, that kiss, that embrace. All of me seemed to rush into him, and all of him certainly flooded into my entire body. He held me with an intensity I’d never experienced, his strong hands pressing into my back, pulling me against his hard chest. Then I felt his entire body tremble.

“Sasha,” I said, finally pulling back, “you’re freezing.”

“I was desperate to see you. I’ve been waiting out back for hours.”

“How did you get in?”

“Someone came out the back door and I caught it before it shut.” He kissed me lightly on my forehead, my eyebrows, my cheeks. “Is everything all right? Did you really go to the Palace?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And?”

“There was an emergency,” I said, wanting to tell him everything and knowing I would. “I’ll tell you later. It was amazing.”

Suddenly his lips were fluttering down my neck. And suddenly I was having trouble breathing. My eyes fell shut, my breath came short and shallow. Which is when I heard it, steps from within our apartment.

“Sasha,” I said, pushing away from him, “you really shouldn’t be here, not now, not so late.”

“But—”

“My father will kill me if he finds you here.”

And someone was up. I could hear it clearly now, the sound of someone walking about.

“Please, let me stay. I’d love to meet your father.”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

Suddenly I was afraid. Not just of what Papa would think if he walked in here and saw Sasha, but of everything else. I still hadn’t had the chance to tell my father about my surreptitious visit to the Sergeeivski Palace, how I’d been forced to flee through the watery cellar, or, most important of all, the warnings from Elena Borisovna.

Gently nudging Sasha out the door, I said, “Sasha, you can’t stay here now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, good night, my sweet,” he said, with one last little kiss.

And he was off, my delectable Sasha. I locked the door behind him and then listened to him make his way down the dark, steep rear stairs—his clothes rustling as he left—and then nothing.

I took a deep breath and turned away from the door.

I really did need to talk to Papa. What if he was gone by the time I woke up? What if something happened to him, even tonight? Or to the Tsar or the Tsaritsa? What if the grand dukes acted in one decisive swoop—perhaps as early as tomorrow—first, assassinating my father, second, locking the Empress in a monastery, and, finally, forcing the Tsar from the throne, maybe even killing him too? Bozhe moi, I was never going to be able to sleep until I talked to my father and made him understand just how serious the situation was. How could he not see it? I cursed myself for not speaking of it earlier, but in all the confusion and desperation at the palace the only thing that had mattered was saving the Heir. There hadn’t been a moment to tell Papa about the threats being made against him and the Emperor and Empress. And thinking of the high treason floating throughout the city, I was as stirred as if I’d drunk four glasses of tea. I had to talk to Papa before he went to sleep. He had to do something. At the very least, he should summon Minister Protopopov. Never mind us, but perhaps a special troop of soldiers should be dispatched this very hour to protect the royal family.

Putting Sasha out of my mind, I quickly made my way through our apartment, expecting to find Papa wandering about. When he wasn’t to be found, I went right up to his door, which was shut tight. Had he already gone to sleep? Leaning forward, I could hear his deep voice mumbling and moaning. No, he was lost in prayer, perhaps continuing his work for the Heir, as he often did from afar. I imagined him out of bed, prostrate before the icon in the corner, crossing himself and touching his head to the floor over and over again. I knew from experience that rousing him from his entreaties to the Lord was more difficult than waking him from his deepest sleep. But I was so worried about the dangers I had no choice, so I carefully turned the doorknob and pressed open the door. The room was dark, of course, with the only light coming from the tiny red oil lamp hanging in front of the icon he most valued, his simple, unadorned copy of the Kazanskaya. Papa’s voice was indeed deep and full of passion, but he wasn’t praying. Peering in, I realized with a horrible start that while Papa was indeed prostrate, it was not before a piece of wood with its holy depiction of the Virgin Mother and Child. Rather, he was lying face down on our very own Dunya. They had both dropped their clothes on the floor and crawled into Papa’s narrow metal bed, and beneath the blanket that barely covered their moving naked bodies, I could clearly see my father holding our housekeeper by her soft parts. So involved were they that they didn’t even notice my intrusion, and so shocked was I that I couldn’t even gasp, for I had stopped breathing.

Behind me I heard the distinct squeak of a floorboard, and I spun around in absolute terror. Varya, dressed in her nightgown, was making her way toward me. I nearly slammed my father’s door.

“Is Papa still up?” asked my sister. “I want to kiss him good night.”

In total panic, I held my fingers to my lips. “Shh! He’s asleep!”

Hurrying toward Varya, I grabbed her by the arm and spun her around. What had I just seen? My heart pounding, the only thing I knew for certain was that tonight was not the time for my younger sister to learn what I now knew, that our dear housekeeper, who was like our second mother, was in reality just that.

“We can’t disturb Papa,” I snapped.

“Hey, let go of me!” Varya whined. “That hurts!”

“Come on, Papa needs his rest…and so do we! You have to go to bed.”

“But—”

Like an angry schoolmarm, I dragged Varya back to our room, where I practically shoved her into bed.

“Now go to sleep, Varichka,” I said, heading out as quickly as I could lest she see the tears welling in my eyes. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. I’m just going to finish the dishes.”

“Oh, all right!” She was yawning as she crawled under the covers. “But I hate it when you push me around like that.”

Back in the kitchen, my tears fell one after another into the dishwater. Did this mean that Papa didn’t love our mother? Was he going to leave us? What about the sanctity of marriage he so often preached?

“To hell with him!” I cried aloud, slamming my fist into my thigh.

Biting my lower lip, I thought of the many stories told back home over the kitchen sink, of how my parents were married when Papa was twenty and she a few years older. I had come to understand that my mother, like all peasant wives, had been chosen not so much for her beauty, which was limited, and certainly not for her wealth, which was nonexistent, but for her strength and ability to manage farm life, which were exemplary.

Through the cracks in the family stories, however, I had also come to understand that while my mother always loved Papa, in time she had turned away from him. Now that I thought about it, I remembered how things had changed between them after Mama had had an emergency hysterectomy. Had the operation that saved her life in fact killed something else—namely, her need for amorous attention? Mama always claimed she tolerated my father’s long absences from home because she supported his religious life—but that was a total lie, wasn’t it? And what kind of lie was my supposedly holy father—who spoke so often of the blessings of love—living as well?

Right then I hated them all—Mama, Papa, and especially Dunya. Dunya, who was always so sweet to us but who was nothing more than a conniving wench who’d wormed her way into our home and into my father’s pants. A fresh wave of tears burst from my eyes. Everything felt dirty and horrible: this apartment, my entire family, and me. I wanted to run away, flee this place and this life.

And then I heard it again, more knocking at our rear door. Oh, God, I thought, flooded with a kind of bitter joy, Sasha was back. Shaking the dishwater from my hands, I took a towel and dried my eyes. I was just about to reach for the door and pull it wide open when it came, an all too familiar chant that in this case was more like a threat. In an instant I knew it wasn’t Sasha.

Half muttering, half growling like a cat, a woman’s voice called, “Chri-i-ist is ri-i-isen!”

I had no doubt it was Madame Lokhtina, the former beauty of great society and influence who had abandoned husband, daughter, and fortune, all to become Father’s greatest—and most annoying—devotee. She was the one I had discovered attacking Father, ripping away his pants, hanging on to his member, and demanding sin. What in the name of the devil did she want this late, and what was she even doing here in the capital? The last I’d heard she had been walled into a cell at the Verkhoturye Monastery, where soup and bread were slipped to her through a small hole.

Lest her muttering turn into a scream that would wake the dead, not to mention the entire building, I had no choice but to unlock the back door and crack it open. Staring into the darkness, I saw not even a remnant of her former delicate beauty but rather a haggard, filthy woman in a long torn coat of homespun. She leaned on a tall staff decorated with little ribbons, while on her head sat a most strange hat made of wolf fur, torn and muddied, that in a strange way resembled the headgear of a nun. Around her neck hung a multitude of little books with crosses that represented the twelve Gospels.

She leaned forward like a mole, squinting and half whispering, “Christ is risen! Christ is risen! CHRI-I-IST IS RI-I-ISEN!”

“Da, da,” I replied quietly, hoping to appease her. “Christ is risen.” Madame Lokhtina was known and dreaded for this, her habit of walking down any street and barging into any room, screaming these words. Father had commanded her to stop and later taken to beating her, all to no avail. Indeed, the more he struck her, the louder she screamed.

“Yes, go ahead!” she had pleaded whenever she was thrashed. “Strike me! Beat me!”

Our newspapers wrote that my father had driven her mad—why else would a woman of such good breeding now be living on alms, her feet wrapped in rags in the winter and bare in the summer? The truth, however, was that Papa had healed her of neurasthenia, from which she had been bedridden for five years. After her recovery she had forsaken the material world and become the truest of believers. There were even some, including several highly placed bishops, who wanted to bless her as the holiest of the living, a yurodstvo—holy fool—revered in my country for choosing to suffer in the name of Christ.

“Is the Lord of Hosts at home this eve?” she inquired, eyeing me most suspiciously.

Without even hesitating, I lied for the second time that night. “Unfortunately, nyet. Papa left not too long ago.”

“Do you know where he has gone?”

“Well, I’m—”

“Not supposed to say, eh?”

“I…I…”

The forlorn Lokhtina stared at me, and I was afraid she was going to burst into more of her hysterics, but she asked, ever so quietly, “Do you perhaps know, my child, if he has gone out for radeniye?” Rejoicing?

“Yes, absolutely,” I replied, without thinking.

As soon as I said it, I saw a distinct look of appeasement melt across her grimy face. That’s when I realized what I’d told her. I hadn’t implied that my father had gone to dance with the Gypsies, or that he’d gone off to drink at the Restaurant Villa Rode or at the Bear, or even that he’d been whisked away to some fancy party with Prince Yusupov. No, in their own secret code, I’d just informed Madame Lohktina that my father had gone to participate in the principal Khlyst ritual, when members washed away sin with sin via the act of svalnyi grekh—group sinning—an act that was widely rumored to be nothing more than frenzied grupa seksa.

“Ah, ochen xhorosho, ochen, ochen xhorosho.” Very good, very, very good, said the filthy woman before me. “The flying angel,” she continued, referring to the one who passed news and warnings from one ark to the next, “was afraid your father would refuse us again.”

I had never seen Madame Lokhtina so quickly pacified. I had never seen the faintest trace of a smile upon her face, either. And yet she had a pleased look as she turned and started back down the rear steps.

It suddenly occurred to me what I must do. The Khlyst community was a closed one, deeply secret, almost impenetrable. And yet right here and now it was not my door but theirs that had been opened. Did I really want to do this?

“Wait a minute!” I called after her.

Madame Lokhtina turned and stared strangely at me. “What is it, my child?”

“I have been learning the greatest secret of the group,” I ventured.

This powerhouse of religious hysteria stared at me, her eyes shrinking into suspicious slits, and said, “Which is?”

“How to nurture Christ within oneself.”

“And where did you hear such things?”

Even I couldn’t believe the words that came out of my mouth. “At the last radeniye. I am expected again tonight.”

And this woman, who was but a crumb of her former self, said, “Well, then, you had better get your coat and come straight away with me, because we’re both late. And tardiness is the one thing ‘our own’ cannot abide.”