2 January 1917
Russia had left for only an hour, for a haircut, and when he came back, it felt as though hell had been unleashed on the palace. His demands of the servants— Chto sluchilosʹ? Eto Aleksey Nikolayevich?1—yielded little results. Finally, someone told him something of use. "Eto tsaritsy2."
The thought of something being wrong with the tsarina worried Russia almost as much as the thought of something being wrong with the tsarevitch, and he wasted no time in appearing outside her chambers. "Tsaritsa , eto Ivan Rossiyavitch . Mogu li ya voyti?3
A hoarse call of "come in" met Russia's ears, and he stepped inside, quietly closing the door behind him. "Tsarina, what troubles you?"
The tsarina's eyes were rimmed in red, and she clutched a damp handkerchief. For a moment, words seemed to elude her; Russia quietly sat next to her, and she wrapped him in a tight embrace, her shoulders shaking with silent cries. "Oh, Ivan Rossiyavitch…!"
"Tsarina, please—v chem delo4?"
"Our friend, Father Grigori," she said, puling back enough to look at Russia. "He's—a terrible thing has happened, Ivan Rossiyavitch!"
Russia's brow furrowed slightly at the mention of the family's friend. "What has happened?"
"Father Grigori is dead," she moaned. "Murdered, Ivan Rossiyavitch!"
Russia gave a small start. "Vy uvereny? Are you certain?" he asked, pulling back to look the tsarina in the eye.
"They found him," she answered, trying to keep her voice level (and having minimal success), "in… in the Neva." More tears spilled onto her cheeks.
"My apologies for the loss of Father Grigori," Russia said softly, rubbing comforting circles on her back.
"Who will heal Baby now?" she asked, sounding almost lost. "Who would murder a man of God, Ivan Rossiyavitch?"
"I couldn't say, Tsarina," he said softly. Man of God… Hmm. Did Tsarina know what was said about Grigori Rasputin, or did she chose to ignore it in favor of her son's health? True, the tsarevitch seemed to do better after being paid visits by him, but Tsarina hadn't seen what Russia had. She hadn't been in a small tavern, watching over the edge of a glass of vodka, as her friend Rasputin imbibed heavily and tempted young women who knew no better, nor had she exchanged the heated words he and the "holy man" had in private, away from hers and the Tsar's ears.
These of course were thoughts he kept to himself, not even daring to confide them to the pages of his diary. "How may I help my tsarina?"
"I would like… I would like to be alone for a moment," she answered, taking a deep breath and swiping at her eyes with the handkerchief. "Thank you for coming to see me, Ivan Rossiyavitch."
Russia stood and bowed. "Of course, Tsarina. Do svidaniya."
1 What happened? Is it Alexei Nicholavitch?
2 It's the tsarina.
3 Tsarina, it's Ivan Rossiyavitch. May I come in?
4 What's the matter?