CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
In November 1917, radical socialist Bolsheviks . . . seized power in Russia from a provisional government, establishing the world’s first communist state. The imperial family was sent to live under house arrest in Siberia. In the late night or early morning hours of July 16–17, 1918, the imperial family (Czar Nicholas II, his wife Czarina Alexandria, their five children Olga, Tatiana, Maria, Anastasia, and Alexei) and four attendants were executed in Yekaterinburg, a city on the eastern side of the Ural Mountains.
—History.com
Byelovvyezh Hunting Lodge
Spala, Poland
1912
He appeared before her as he always did—long, filthy black hair, beard tangled and crusted with dried bits of food, his black robes slovenly. Alexandra did not care he was called the Mad Monk, a debaucher, a drunkard. Even now, she smelled vodka on his breath, and his robes smelled of sweat and sex. It mattered not. He was holy, he had mystical powers no one else had. She believed to her soul this strange mystic was sent to her by God, and she trusted him implicitly.
Rasputin bowed low to her. It was an improper audience, he knew, but the czarina had bid him to come alone to the lodge, and in secret, away from the czar. She gave him her pale hand. He said in his soft, deep voice, “I understand the czarevitch is ill from the journey.”
Her hand tightened in his, and he saw the fear in her eyes, a familiar sight. But he saw now she was even more frantic than usual about her son. Her words burst out, “A friend, a trusted friend, has told me you have a new method to help Alexei. Is this true?”
Rasputin said slowly, “Yes, I have learned I can do more, perhaps heal him entirely.”
He’d saved Alexei before through his prayers, at least temporarily, and now he could heal him? Her heart leaped. “He is the future czar, my only son, among all the gaggle of girls. You know the physicians say there is no cure for his hemophilia, yet you say you can cure him? They say there is no hope, that soon he will die.” She clutched his black sleeve. “I cannot bear it. He must live—he is our country’s future.” She leaned close. “Tell me what you mean, what is this method you say will cure him? Is this really true? Why did you not tell me sooner?”
So many questions tumbling over each other. Instead of answering, Rasputin pulled a sheaf of papers from his coarse woolen bag.
Alexandra saw Alexei’s head snap up, his eyes on the papers.
Rasputin said, “Your Highness, the physicians know only what is of this world, what they see, what they can understand. But you see these pages? They hold the answers. They were found last year by a family in my village, in the old grandmother’s trunk after she died. The family’s father assumed they were gibberish, for he doesn’t read, and he found the drawings disturbing. He was talking about them at the inn in the village. I looked at them and I knew they were important, no, more than important, they were sent to me from our Holy Father.
“He gave them to me. I have studied the pages, and I have experimented with what I believe are ingredients from the plants drawn on the pages. And there are other things I didn’t first understand, but then slowly I came to realize the book was telling me how to cure the hemophilia.” He lowered his voice. “I tried it on another last month in a neighboring village. It worked. The child thrives. But Your Highness, word has gotten out. There are cries of evil and blasphemy, and threats of death against me. You must swear to stay silent.”
“I swear. Of course I will not put you in harm’s way, but what do the pages tell you to do?”
Rasputin looked over at the boy, precocious, studious, too old for his age. The fear of death around every corner had made him thoughtful beyond his few years. Rasputin saw Alexei’s eyes were still fastened on the pages he held in his hand. He said nothing, merely turned to show the czarina the pages. She couldn’t understand the symbols, the letters, of course, and the strange drawings in muted reds and greens resembled nothing she had ever seen.
He hadn’t been able to read the strange language or understand the symbols, the bizarre drawings, either, until one night when he was nearly insensible from drink. He’d thought of the czarevitch, and suddenly he saw meaning in the strange letters and had recognition for the drawings; he saw herbs he’d never seen before, and he recognized them. It was further proof the pages were from God.
The next day he’d collected the herbs and begun to experiment. And he came to understand that whenever he thought of the dying boy, the pages somehow made it possible for him to read and understand and learn. He said to the czarina, his voice even softer, lowered now to a near whisper, “My method, it is unorthodox, but it will work. Your son will not only grow strong, he will live a very long life.”
She whispered, “Is it witchcraft?”
He immediately reassured her. “No, no, it is not, my lady. It is science. Proven science.”
But she was shaking her head at him. “You misunderstand me. I care not what you call it. I do not care if it is witchcraft. Will it save my son? And saving him will save Russia? How does it work? What must you do?”
Rasputin leaned close and whispered to her. She jerked back, her face draining of color. “No, that is worse than witchcraft, that is blasphemous, barbarous. It is—evil.”
Only at rare times had he seen her go stubborn, not that he could blame her, not this time. He found it exciting, the passion in this beautiful woman. He set out again to soothe, to calm her. “Your Highness, I will admit the cure is esoteric, yes, but it cannot be evil, because I know God sent me the pages.” Still she sat frozen, staring at him.
He said, “There is a potion first, and it is not dangerous nor is it witchcraft. Then we will do what we must. As I said, I have witnessed its results. I will be discreet, naturally. No one will know but you and me.”
“And Alexei. He’s the one who will be taking this—treatment. He will not abide such a thing—he won’t.”
“Even to be healed, once and for all? To know that he must rule after his father, so Russia will grow in strength and power under his hand?”
The czarina paced, at last coming to a stop at the window. She looked out upon the courtyard. Only her coachman was there, feeding the horses. If she agreed to this, would she be cursed into eternity? Yes, she knew she would, it was horrifying. How could she allow such a thing, how?
The young boy said from the chaise set close to the fire, “Mother, I do not want to die, and you know I will. One careless prick, and I will bleed to death. Please, Mother, I do not know what this method is, but I wish to try it. Let him.”
She hadn’t heard Alexei speak with such passion for a very long time, her poor boy, weak, pale, his skin stretched so tightly over his bones. To look at him smote her. Some days she didn’t think she could bear it another minute, another hour. He wanted this? But he didn’t know. She went to him, kneeled beside the chaise, and took his small wasted hand. “Alexei? You don’t know what it is you ask.”
The boy said simply, “I want to be well. I am tired of being ill. I am willing to try anything.”
“But this method, it is wrong, it is accursed.”
Alexei sat up, his pale face filled with excitement, with determination, and in that moment she could see the future czar. “Mother, you will listen. I have decided. I do not want to die. I do not care if the method is cursed. Do what you must, Rasputin. And give me the pages. I should like to read them.”
Rasputin stilled. He said slowly, “Most cannot read them, they are a mystery. Do you think you can?”