Rasputin's Revenge (6 page)

“Is that right?” Minsky asked. “Is it right for the Queen of all Russians to be on a loveseat after midnight with a peasant?”

Minsky’s complaint sounded familiar—more jealousy over his own lack of influence. As tactfully as I could, I said as much to him.

He drew himself up to his full height—considerably more than mine—and seemed to come to some decision. “Monsieur Giraud. You just illustrated one of the most insidious things about that man. He seems to have a knack for deflecting criticism by calling into question the integrity of his accusers. In my case, though, I’m afraid your defense of him falls apart.”

“I didn’t mean to be defending …”

“No, that’s all right. It’s common enough. But I am not without some influence myself. I have been the Czar’s friend since before his coronation. We served as officers together while he was in the Army, and we still ride together nearly every day. I have his ear. I am not jealous of Rasputin’s influence, though I very much fear it, and there is a great difference.”

Chagrined, I just nodded and sipped at my vodka. It was much preferable to the Madeira. Minsky seemed to hold no grudge though, and, his earlier point made, he started in again.

“I’ll tell you why I resent Rasputin’s influence—not because I dislike him, though I do, and not because he is undermining people’s respect for Nicholas and Alexandra, though he is—but because he does not understand policy or issues.”

“But surely he doesn’t make policy.”

“Ministers cannot remain in office without his blessing. He judges people by whether they are ‘good,’ not knowledgeable. And his definition of good is probably not yours or mine. He has convinced Alexandra that any criticism of the Czar or any of his policies is ‘bad.’

“So, though we are losing battles, the poor have no bread, and the army has no bullets, no official minister dares tell Nicholas these things. To do so would be disloyal!”

“I see the problem,” I said.

“Take this vodka,” Minsky said, continuing. “Before the War, production and sale of vodka was controlled by the government. It brought in thirty percent of the government’s income. Then one of Rasputin’s ministers decided that soldiers might get drunk on the night before an important battle, so he recommended to the Czar that vodka be outlawed for the duration of the War. Nicholas didn’t think much of the idea, but every other minister went along with the suggestion. The result? On the verge of the greatest war we have ever fought, we cut our budget by one-third! I ask you, Giraud, can a country survive this madness?”

“But we’re drinking vodka right now,” I said.

“That’s the hell of it! Of course we have vodka. Now every shopkeeper and potato farmer makes it illegally, and the government gets no income from it.”

“But surely,” I said, “if you know this, you can tell it to the Czar.”

Minsky took a huge pull at his flask. Then he shook his head sadly. “No, Giraud, I am a farmer fighting a flood tide. The small seeds I plant get washed away before they can flower.”

“Can nothing be done?” I asked.

He nodded toward Rasputin, now holding forth. “Against that? Listen to him.”

Even across the room, every word in the staccato rambling was clear. Rasputin sat, one knee on the floor, the other leg curled on the divan, and beseeched Alexandra to talk to the Czar.

“You must,
Matuska
, you must. The peasants. The starving. All they need is your prayers to the Czar. For bread, sugar, butter. Stop the trains.
The troops are all right for now. The people need bread. All St. Petersburg. Everyone.”

“What’s he saying?” I asked.

“The same harangue he was giving us before Alexandra came in. He wants to have her ask the Czar to stop all troop movements to the capital, and to use the trains instead to bring in bread, sugar and butter.” Minsky was starting to slur.

“Why? Is there a shortage of supplies?” That seemed impossible after the meal I’d just been served.

“That’s the problem. The food is rotting in warehouses. It doesn’t seem to find its way into town.” He took another pull at his flask. “Last week they discovered three hundred head of cattle starved in boxcars. Someone just forgot them on a siding. They had to be used for glue.”

There was a silence from across the room and we glanced there. Alexandra was just handing the monk a glass of Madeira. It looked as though she were waiting on him. With the merest nod of acknowledgment, Rasputin took the glass, emptied it in one gulp, and continued his monologue.

Minsky swore violently under his breath. Then he raised his voice. “Father Gregory!”

Rasputin looked at him mildly. “Yes?”

“Why don’t you just have one of your ministers give the order for the trains? No need to bother the Czar.”

All other sounds in the room abruptly stopped. Minsky took a few lurching steps toward the divan. “In fact, why don’t you just wave your hands and make food appear? Can’t you do that?”

The Empress spoke up. “That’s enough, Boris.”

Minsky exaggerated a bow. “Pardon, your Majesty, but it’s not enough.” He faced Rasputin again. “Can’t you do that? Can’t you talk to God and get food and bullets and, while you’re at it, have the Germans surrender?”

Two Imperial Guardsmen entered the room from the hallway and began moving toward Minsky. He didn’t even see them, turned as he was toward the Empress. “He’s a fake, your Highness. Can’t you see that? He’s no more a man of God than I am! Look at him. Please open your eyes.”

One of the other officers in the room spoke up roughly. “Minsky, you’re close to treason.”

The Commissar exploded. “Damn this talk of treason! I’m no traitor! It’s no treason to speak the truth. Your Majesty, please, you must listen. You must …”

Rasputin gave the Empress a look and something seemed to pass between them. Suddenly Alexandra snapped at Minsky. “You will be silent! Enough!”

The guards weren’t needed. Minsky looked at the couple on the couch, shook his head in defeat and, bowing as graciously as he could, made his way out to the hallway.

The incident provided me with any proof I might have needed for Rasputin’s hold over Alexandra. It was clear to everyone in the room. He told her when and how to act, and she did his bidding immediately, without question.

Suddenly very tired, I waited a few moments for some other guests to leave, then said my good-byes to the Empress. She was graciousness itself, the problem with Minsky apparently forgotten. Rasputin, still next to her, asked if he could accompany me tomorrow when I meet Alexis, or Alyosha, the Heir Apparent. Alexandra thought that would be a wonderful idea.

In the hallway, I noticed Minsky slumped in what looked to be a drunken stupor, attended by the beautiful woman I had earlier seen by the fireplace. She was sponging his forehead, trying to bring him around. I don’t suppose he could have been in better hands.

Tomorrow will be a long day. Now I must sleep.

3

[
PORTIONS OF THE FOLLOWING ENTRY IN GIRAUD’S DIARY, NOTED BY ELLIPSES, ARE ILLEGIBLE. IT IS PRESUMED HE WROTE IT IN HASTE ON THE TRAIN FROM TSARKOYE SELO TO ST. PETERSBURG
.]
(
OCTOBER
11, 1916.)

… some explanation for his presence, but he didn’t have time. He mentioned a dinner later in the week. Paleologue may be right about nothing being as it seems.

In any event, I was up by daybreak, which was nearly nine a.m. I was groggy from last night’s food and drink, but a breakfast of tea and some harsh …

… to the rail station. The chill had deepened and the sky hung low and gray, presaging snow. The nobles’ houses that lined the boulevard, that only yesterday had looked so impressive, now seemed to squat depressingly under the impending force of nature.

In front of one of them, a small crowd had gathered—several children with their governesses, five or six members of the Imperial Guard, perhaps
une douzaine
of townspeople. I passed closely enough to hear someone say the name Minsky, and that stopped me. Curious, I went to the stoop and inquired as to what had happened.

“The Commissar is dead,” someone told me.

“Minsky?”

“Da.”

“But how?”

No one seemed to know. We all stood shivering, waiting for the inspector who was within to come to the door and tell us some news. Other passers-by stopped and gathered until there was quite a crowd. I was supposed to be on a train to St. Petersburg to meet Rasputin and Alexis, but I decided to wait. There was no sign yet if it was a murder, but I found it hard to believe that the vital man I had spoken with last night had simply died in his sleep.

And if it was another murder, it would undoubtedly play some part in the timing for my own mission. I had to know.

But the crowd was beginning to get restless. Catcalls and jeers rose on the morning air as an additional six Imperial Guardsmen, mounted with sabers drawn, appeared from out of nowhere, it seemed, to encircle us. I must say they did nothing to provoke any disturbance, but their presence, and the resentment it caused among the townspeople, was an indication of the tenuous nature of the civil peace …

… specifically forbidden on the streets, even here among the nobles in Tsarkoye Selo. That this chance gathering at the scene of a death could provoke a political demonstration didn’t speak well for the stability of the Romanov reign.

Some signal must have been passed from the mounted guards to those sealing off the house, for someone went inside and in only a few moments an extremely old, crooked and bald gentleman appeared in the doorway. His blue pants were pleated, baggy and threadbare, and his open shirt needed to be ironed. Yet when he addressed the crowd, his voice, remarkably shrill and clear, was the very soul of authority.

“You are all asked to disperse. We have an unfortunate situation here involving the death of Commissar Minsky.” He turned and spoke to someone in the house, out of my vision. Unfortunately, his words were easily heard. “They don’t have to know that. We don’t know that.”

“Don’t have to know what?” someone yelled from the crowd and as though with one movement, it began to press forward.

“What’s Nicholas hiding now?” someone else cried.

“Please, remain calm! There is nothing to know. Commissar Minsky appears to have had too much to drink, much too much. He died in his sleep. Now …”

From behind the old man came a deep bellow that chilled me more than the autumn wind. Though it had been months since I’d heard that voice, it was as familiar to me as my own name. It said one word, in English. “Rubbish!”

And next to the inspector, dwarfing him and filling the doorway with his presence, loomed the immense bulk of Auguste Lupa. Since I’d last
seen him, he’d gained perhaps twenty kilograms, but he still looked powerful rather than fat. He looked out over the crowd for a second, then turned to face the other man. “Minsky was murdered,” he said quietly, though his voice easily carried to where I stood.

“This is not the proper time,” the inspector answered.

“It never is!” a man beside me …

“… that he didn’t walk to his bed.”

The two men didn’t even seem aware of the growing commotion at their feet …

… quiet down. Instead they disappeared back into the house. As the guards began to show signs of spurring their horses into the crowd, it began to break up of its own accord. I waited, lagging behind, while the rest of the people went their ways. Finally, I mounted the stoop and asked one of the guards if I might speak to Lupa. Somewhat to my surprise, he knew the name, and waved me in.

I could hear a discussion continuing as I walked through the hallways to the back of the house.

“Here,” Lupa said, “these black marks to the bed.”

“They could be anything,” the higher voice said.

“In fact, they could be nothing except what they are—the signs of being dragged by the armpits while his bootblack lined the floor.”

I got to the door.