Rasputin's Daughter by Robert Alexander

shaking. One day the war would be over, but then what for me? Marriage-to whom? Children-how many? And what of Sasha? Would I ever see him again? Would I ever understand his secrets?
    Suddenly I felt the arms of a woman, soft and gentle, encircling me.
    “Why, child, what’s the matter?” asked Dunya. “You’re crying.”
    I spun around and clung to Dunya, burying my face in her deep, soft chest. If only I could have told her about Sasha.
    “I’m afraid,” I sobbed. “I’m afraid for us all.”
    “Shh, child,” she said, kissing my forehead. “These are such difficult times, such dark days.”
    “But-” What, I wondered, did she know of broken hearts?
    “Don’t worry. Everything will get back to normal once the war is over. Right now, everything’s just a little crazy and there are so many problems-there’s not enough food, and this winter has been so horribly cold! Once God has granted us victory over the Germans, all will be well, you’ll see. Trust me, you have many wonderful days and years ahead.”
    “Me?”
    “Yes, you. Why, just the other day your father confided that he’d had a vision of you-he said you would live a long and healthy life, and you would give him grandchildren, and you would accomplish many interesting things. Isn’t that wonderful?”
    “Really?” I replied, wondering if that meant I would marry for love and one day publish a book of poetry.
    “Yes. He even said you would travel and live abroad.”
    “Live abroad? In another country?” I said with a bitter laugh as I wiped my eyes. “That’s impossible. I don’t ever want to leave Russia.”
    Dunya took me and held me and hugged me as warmly as the large oven that heated the core of our village home. But then out of nowhere our doorbell rang, making us jump apart.
    “Gospodi!” gasped Dunya. “I told the security agents your father would receive no one today-and not to let anyone even into the building. Evidently, it must be something important.”
    There might be agents posted in and around the building for our security, but no one ever passed through our door without Dunya’s permission, and today was to be no exception. Wiping her hands on a towel, she smoothed back some loose hair and headed straight to the front hall.
    Who could it be? Who had got by the agents stationed in the lobby, let alone those posted on the stairs? As soon as I thought that, it struck me: Were the agents even here? What if they had abandoned their posts, just as they had done last night? Bozhe moi, I hadn’t told Dunya that we’d been left unguarded. If the agents were gone again, who could that be outside our door, one of father’s ordinary petitioners, some important personage-or assassins sent by my father’s grand ducal enemies?
    Wasting no time, I charged after Dunya, out of the kitchen, through the dining room, and down the hall. I feared a squadron of muscular men in black leather jackets, who, brandishing guns and brass knuckle-dusters, would tear through the rooms, gun down Papa, and beat him into a bloody pulp.
    “Dunya, wait!” I shouted. “Don’t open the-”
    But it was too late. Dunya was already pulling open the heavy door. Standing there was neither a small herd of men nor a grand duke or prince, or even a prime minister, but a lone woman, perhaps in her late twenties. As I studied her plain black cape flowing from her shoulders and noted her hands buried deep in the folds of a tired muff, my panic subsided only slightly. After all, if a small woman whose nose had been eaten away by syphilis could nearly kill my father with one lunge of a knife, what damage could an attractive healthy-looking woman like this one do?
    “What is it you wish?” asked Dunya of our visitor.
    “Please, I’m seeking Father Grigori,” said the seemingly gentle woman, her eyes misty with tears. “My name is Olga Petrovna Sablinskaya, and I am in terrible need of help.”
    “I’m sorry, my child, but you should not have been admitted