The Witches of St. Petersburg

²⁸ May 1908, Pokrovskoye, Tyumen, Siberia

It was early May, by the time Militza departed for Siberia. He had sent a telegram which stated that the bleeding would stop at eight in the evening, which it had – and that the fever would go after three days, which it did. The boy was better now, but for how long?

Stana had begged her sister not to go. She repeated over and over that it was an admission of guilt if she stepped on to the train. Quite apart from how dangerous such a journey might be for a woman in her position, there were spies and revolutionaries everywhere; even the Tsar, she reminded her, with all his soldiers and guards, now travelled in a blacked-out train. And besides, as soon as Rasputin saw her he’d realize she’d been the one to denounce him as a member of the Khlysty. Peter was equally anxious. There was something about the way Rasputin had looked at his wife on the night they’d confronted him that made his blood run cold. The man should be left to rot in the Siberian permafrost.

‘Darling, don’t go,’ he urged over breakfast. Dressed in breeches, a loose-fitting white shirt and highly polished riding boots, he stood up from the table.

‘Where?’ asked Marina, looking across the table with her large dark eyes, stirring cherry jam into her hot black tea. ‘Where’s Mama going?’

‘I am going on a trip,’ smiled Militza, giving her husband a brittle look.

‘A trip?’ Roman was straight-backed at the table, his dark hair parted and smoothed flat on his head, his large square chin displayed the odd whisker.

‘Where to?’ queried little Nadejda, who at the age of ten always preferred everyone to stay just where they were.

‘The south,’ smiled Militza.

‘To see Rasputin,’ added Peter, pacing up and down. ‘Is that really wise?’

‘Are you going to forbid me?’ Militza put down her teacup, her eyes narrowed.

‘After nearly twenty years of marriage I know that would only encourage you,’ replied Peter, leaning on the table. ‘I know you will do as you wish. But the man is deceitful and disloyal and you do not have my blessing.’

Militza went anyway. Somehow, she concluded, if she managed to persuade him to return, she would feel less guilty about denouncing him – and just think how terribly grateful the Tsarina would be.

So she pulled her cape up tightly around her face and spoke to no one. For four days she watched the vast Russian steppes roll out before her, grey and flat, just shedding the cold coat of winter but yet to burst into spring. She spent her time dozing, reading and dining alone in the restaurant car. She needed to travel as incognito as possible. It was imperative that no one noticed her.

After four days, she arrived in the bustling market town, Tyumen, whose businesses and commerce were booming due to the Trans-Siberian railway. She booked herself into the unremarkable Sofia Hotel, where her presence raised an eyebrow. What was a woman doing here on her own, without even a lady’s maid for company? She ordered hot soup in her cold room and remained there until early the following morning.

She’d often thought about where Rasputin might have come from. Where the Four Winds travelled, where Spirit searched, where the unshriven soul had alighted: where they might all have found him. He was always talking of Pokrovskoye, particularly after a few glass of Madeira, when he’d get poetic and sentimental. He’d describe the beauty of the steppes, the enormity of the endless sky, the freedom of the wide seas of swaying grass; it was where man and God met, melded and lived in perfect harmony, or so he said.

However, descending slowly out of her carriage after nearly two hours of being shaken and bumped on the rough post road from Tyumen, Militza could not believe how desolate the village felt. How could anyone live here? It wasn’t the poverty of the place. She’d seen that before, back home in Montenegro and in Russia. She’d picked her way through the slums in St Petersburg a few times, a handkerchief clutched to her nose and mouth, when she and Brana had been searching for miracles for the Tsarina and she was not silly enough to think all the world lived in fine houses with gilt ceilings. Even so, she had not been prepared for the endless mud, the squawking, scratching chickens, the grunting filthy little pigs and the lack of people. It was silent, save for the sound of the livestock, deserted – a one-road town, where the road led precisely nowhere. Unless you were a convict, of course. For Pokrovskoye was on the convict trail, where unfortunate souls would be dragged along, their irons clinking, further and deeper east to their fate. On either side of the narrow road was a collection of wooden houses. They were mostly the same size, single storied shacks, with wooden roofs and wooden shutters, but at the far end of the village there was one substantially larger house of two storeys, with a balcony, empty flower boxes, large wooden gates and a tin roof. Militza smiled to herself. She knew immediately where all her money had gone.

Pulling at the hood of her cape, she sidestepped a large puddle and walked on towards this house. She had no need to ask where Rasputin lived, which was fortunate as there was no one to ask. And yet she sensed eyes, many eyes, boring into her back.

She paused at the wooden gates to gather herself, calling to her guide to help her, muttering under her breath, asking for assistance and protection. Standing there, she could hear music, clapping and the sound of shrill laughing voices. There was clearly some sort of party going on. When she’d planned this, she had imagined him at prayer when she knocked; it would certainly be quiet, with nobody else around. Should she leave? She turned to look back at the carriage waiting for her. She could just get back in it and return to Tyumen… No, that would be ridiculous, she told herself. She pushed on the gate, which swung open easily. The courtyard was thick with mud, cluttered and unkempt. There were piles of wood, broken cartwheels, and empty sacks strewn all over the place; a plough and a yoke were propped up against each other in the corner of the yard and next to them was a small blue cart pitched at an angle, half full of fetid rainwater and rotten leaves. As she walked towards the wooden door, long-legged chickens squawked and scattered in her wake. She had one foot on the porch step when the front door burst open and out came a screaming woman dressed in a long white nightdress; her dark hair hung loose around her shoulders and her eyes were shining ecstatically as she tugged at something with her hands.

‘You’re a god!’ she yelled as she spun around, her hair flying and flicking everywhere. ‘A god!’

In the doorway, standing directly behind her was Rasputin, his red baggy trousers around his knees; in his hand he held a whip, which he cracked sharply across the woman’s backside. She called out.

‘More!’ she yelled, her back arching in pleasure as she fell to her knees. ‘More! You god!’

Rasputin cracked the whip one more time across the woman’s back as she shuffled on her knees towards his groin. Militza could not believe what she was witnessing. The woman, who had been tugging at Rasputin’s member while he whipped her, now placed his shaft in her mouth. And while Rasputin stood in the doorway, his eyes half closed, she gorged on his cock like a half-starved peasant who had not seen flesh for months.

‘Olga?’ said Militza. ‘Wife of Vladimir Lokhtin! What are you doing here?’

Rasputin opened his eyes suddenly at the sound of her voice.

‘Mamma!’ he said, pushing Olga’s head out of the way as he pulled his trousers up. ‘You catch me a little busy.’

‘You are my GOD and I am your LAMB!’ yelled Olga, clinging on to his leg, as he buckled up his trousers and tried to walk away.

‘Olga! My child,’ he said looking down at the middle-aged woman still crouched on the floor. ‘You are saved!’ He placed his hand on the top of her head in a form of a blessing. ‘Now go inside with the others and get back into the bath.’

‘Bath?’ Militza questioned.

‘Akilina, Khionia and Olga were bathing,’ he declared. ‘I have been helping, Mamma,’ he smiled.

As he talked, Olga gathered up her nightgown and crawled away from him. Militza slowly shook her head as she remembered first meeting Olga, the beautiful, if dull, wife of an engineer named Vladimir Lokhtin, a few years before. Rasputin followed Militza’s gaze.

‘I have been curing her of hysteria,’ he said.

‘It seems you have been very successful,’ replied Militza.

‘Would you care for some tea?’ he asked, opening the door.

How Militza maintained her composure that morning, she couldn’t quite recall. But the memory of the lunatic woman hanging on to his member and the leery pleasure etched on his face as he thrust himself into her open mouth was something that would haunt her dreams. Why she didn’t turn and leave immediately, she didn’t know. Why she wasn’t horrified or totally revolted, she could not explain. Or more importantly, why she didn’t put a stop to him and his behaviour by screaming loudly and calling for witnesses, denouncing him as a member of the Khylsty, again, was something she would ask herself over and over. But perhaps she was intrigued? Fascinated? What on earth could induce a woman of that class to let herself go like that?

Militza spent the rest of the morning sitting next to a steaming hot samovar drinking strong, jam-sweetened tea.

Inside, his house was considerably grander than the outside suggested. She looked around, taking in all the luxuries that she had paid for. There were comfortable chairs, a thick carpet on the floor, icons on the walls, as well as mirrors, a chandelier and other finery. There was a large floor-standing clock and, of course, the Offenbach piano. It was absolutely not the usual home of a man of God.

The three bathers dressed and took their seats by the fire, where they proceeded to conduct themselves as veritable visions of piety and decorum. They enquired after Militza’s journey, asked how inclement the weather was, how things were in St Petersburg and all the while, the party was waited on by Rasputin’s wife, the diminutive and sturdy Praskovya, who scurried back and forth with small bowls of conserved fruits, or pickled cucumbers and tomatoes. Rasputin barely acknowledged her presence, let alone thanked her, while he dug into the bowls with his large hands, helping himself to everything, eating ravenously, pausing only to turn for a moment towards Olga.

‘Humble yourself,’ he said, offering up his filthy fingers, which she proceeded slowly and sensuously to suck clean.

Militza was transfixed. Revolted. Repulsed. Horrified. And yet she was suddenly engulfed by a terrible wave of jealousy. How much would she too like to lick his fingers. Or feel the strength of his shaft. Hear his bellowing orgasm in her ear? How much did she want to straddle that filthy chair once more?

‘So, Brother Grisha,’ she asked, banishing such thoughts from her head, ‘when will you be returning to St Petersburg?’

‘When Mamma apologizes,’ he replied.

‘Me?’

‘Last time we spoke you were not very kind,’ he said. ‘You raised your voice.’

‘For which I apologize,’ said Militza, watching Olga slide her tongue up and down the side of his index finger.

‘Also when the charges have been dropped,’ he said and shrugged.

‘I would not worry about those.’ She smiled briefly. ‘And anyway, it is only an investigation; no charges have been brought and the Ecclesiastical Court in Tobolsk have not accused you of anything.’

‘They could just as easily denounce me as a Skopets!’ he laughed. ‘It would have as little meaning! But I am fortunate enough to have too much use for my cock to want to cut it off in the name of the Lord!’ He laughed with such gusto that his chair shook. ‘Don’t you think?’ He stared at her. ‘Who would want to castrate themselves for God?’

‘Ridiculous accusations,’ she agreed enthusiastically. ‘I think you should show how unafraid you are of them; how foolish they actually are and come back to the city.’

‘What use have I of the city, when I have all I need around me here?’ He removed his hand from Olga’s lips. ‘God has seen fit to reward me well.’

‘You are his humble servant,’ said Militza. ‘But I wonder if the rewards aren’t greater in St Petersburg.’

‘Why do I have need of more rewards?’ He appeared a little entertained at such a suggestion.

‘No one needs rewards,’ replied Militza. ‘But they can make life a little more pleasurable, can’t they? Fine wine? Madeira? The beauty of the ballet and gypsy song?’

‘You reap what you sow.’

‘And you have sown, Brother Grigory,’ she said sweetly and smiled.

Over the course of the day Grisha’s house began to fill with people. A long line of acolytes gathered, forming an orderly queue in the courtyard outside. Some were mad, some were ill, some just wanted reassurance that something they feared would never happen – the death of a cow, the failure of a crop, a well turning sour. There were mewling children and sniffing adults and a labourer whose arm had been scythed off at the last harvest. Where they’d come from, how they knew he was there, or what time they should arrive, Militza was never told. But they queued up, shuffling in, dressed in their peasant garb. The combination of the heat of the room, the boiling hot samovar, the fire and their unwashed clothes made for an intense, heady smell, a cocktail of sweat, vodka and pickled garlic. The poor light and the continuous low mumble of prayer, combined with incense and the intoxicating bodily perfumes, made Militza feel quite sick and faint.

She stumbled out onto the porch. In comparison to the fetid, febrile atmosphere inside the house, the sharp Siberian afternoon air was something of a shock. It burnt the back of her throat as she inhaled. Holding on to a wooden railing for support, she breathed deeply. The oxygen made her feel better – anything to be out of the heat and the smell. She should be getting back to Tyumen. It was an arduous journey and much more dangerous in the dark. Who knew who’d be out there in the pitch-black wilderness? How many escaped convicts on the road? The rules were changing and respect for the aristocracy was ebbing. She was a woman on her own and she did not want to be out after dark. Anyway, she’d got what she’d come for. He had no idea she was behind the allegations. But what she really wanted was to be able to announce his return to St Petersburg to the Tsarina. She’d surely done enough to tempt him back, reminding him of the riches he enjoyed there. After all, there was nothing Rasputin liked more than temptation.

‘Leaving so soon?’

‘Grisha?’ She was a little startled when he appeared at the other end of the porch. ‘I thought you were inside.’

‘I have been asking myself all day, why have you come?’ He stared at her, his eyes narrow. ‘Why would my Mamma come all this way to see me, Grisha, out here?’ He gestured slowly around his courtyard with an outstretched hand. ‘Curiosity?’ He paused. ‘Self-interest? Contrition? Or guilt?’

‘Guilt?’ Militza smiled. ‘Why would I possibly feel guilty?’

‘I have been wondering who could have denounced Grisha to the police, who knows Grisha well enough to do that.’ He took a step forward, his head moving slowly from side to side like a cobra about to strike. ‘Do you know?’

‘Me?’

‘Your sister?’ He came closer.

‘Stana? Why would she do that?’ Militza laughed a little.

‘Nikolasha?’

‘You cured his dog, helped his marriage…’

‘Not the Tsarina!’ He smiled. ‘She likes Grisha.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Militza. ‘As does the Tsar.’

‘The Tsarina likes Grisha so much she makes clothes for him, embroiders his shirts.’ He smiled again. ‘So that leaves you.’

‘Grisha…’ She smiled and walked towards him. ‘I could never do that.’ She stood in front of him and stroked the side of his face with her hand. ‘We are one and the same, you and me. We are made of the same things, of the same Four Winds, the earth and the fire beneath it.’ Her heart was beating fast, but she maintained the light, playful note in her voice.

‘It can only be you,’ he said, grabbing her wrist.

‘Grisha!’ she exclaimed quickly. ‘I came here to be healed!’

‘Healed?’ He was a little taken aback.

‘Yes!’ she lied. ‘I have thought of nothing else. Nothing else at all, over the days and nights on the train across Siberia.’

‘A healing?’

‘I want to be healed like Olga. Heal me!’ she shouted. ‘Heal me!’

‘My dear, my Mamma, if you don’t sin, you don’t repent. If you don’t repent, you cannot be saved…’