Rasputin's Daughter Read Online Free PDF

they were crumbs. Papa was laid right there, where we should have been eating, and within seconds they were winding him in a wet sheet, which stemmed the flow of blood and kept his entrails from falling out. All of us, however, were convinced that Papa’s end had come. Indeed, by the time a wire had been sent to the closest doctor, who was in Tyumen, and by the time that doctor had come racing into town not by steamer but by troika, a trip that took no less than eight hours on Trakt No. 4-a horrible, bumpy road that linked us with the outer world-it was well after midnight and Papa was clinging to the last threads of life. With no other option, an emergency operation was performed right there on our dinner table under the glow of stearin candles, with my father, who refused to breathe the ether, clutching a gold cross. Fortunately for him, and for all of us as well, he fainted after the first incision.
    Papa should not have survived. In fact, the doctor doubted he could. But thanks in great part to his internal strength and great physical vitality-not to mention my constant prayers-he did not pass from this world. A few days later, when he had recovered enough, we took him by telega-a cart without springs-ever so slowly to Tyumen, where Professor von Breden, who’d been sent by the Empress, reopened the wound and made a few things right. After that it took weeks and weeks of convalescing-during which time war broke out, much to Papa’s sorrow-but in time my father was back on his feet. Never, however, did he regain his magnificent strength. In fact, from then on my father lost the look of the holy, that drawn hollow-cheeked appearance of one who observes the fasts. So plagued was he from constant pain that he took to drink as never before, which not only dulled his discomfort but undoubtedly his powers. Soon my father’s appearance became bloated, even corpulent. I never spoke to anyone of Sasha, and months later I no longer cried at the thought of him and his obvious betrayal. How could he have led that crazy woman, who, it turned out, was suffering from syphilis, right to my father?
    When Dunya and I finally accompanied Papa back to the capital, we found a greatly changed world. War against the Kaiser had broken out, and spy fever was raging everywhere. Our glorious city, aflame with patriotism, was no longer known by the German-sounding name of Sankt Peterburg but as Petrograd. Even the thousands of Germans settled along our Volga River were being driven from their farms. All this greatly disturbed my father, for he abhorred bloodshed of any kind, and when he made known his opposition to the war, he not only fell out of the Tsar’s favor, he was labeled a traitor by many. In this way, weakened by his wound and demoralized by the defeats our brave soldiers suffered month after month, Papa fell into the greatest depression of his life.

CHAPTER 3
    Even two years later, the memories of Sasha and the murder attempt, fueled by my lingering guilt, now kindled my fears as much as Papa’s vision of death. Though my father was under constant police surveillance for his own protection, I knew very well that those who hated him were as clever as they were well connected. Indeed, Gospodin Ministir-Mr. Minister-Protopopov, who headed the Interior Department, had repeatedly warned my father of dangers lurking everywhere.
    “Listen to me carefully, Father Grigori,” Gospodin Ministir Protopopov had said. “People are openly plotting your death. Be on your guard every moment! These are very difficult times!”
    As I now rushed out the door, I called to the two secret agents posted on our staircase. Coming to our aid, they each took Papa by an arm, and all of us quickly descended. Once downstairs, we stepped from the small lobby, across the courtyard, through the archway, and onto the frigid street, where a dark blue limousine was already waiting for us. It was a Delaunay-Belleville and certainly from the imperial garage, though it