Tell Me, Father

One Shot

Have they ever told you, in those old sayings, that a son should be his father’s pride — the one who carries his blood, his name, his legacy? Well. That is not my case. My name is Dmitry.

Dmitry Grigoryevich Rasputin. People tend to know me as the “forgotten son” of Grigory Rasputin. Why? There are no clear reasons — only that I preferred life on the farm, and that he favored his daughters. The truth is we never got along, never truly understood each other. He was eccentric, a charlatan, a mystic. You probably know him far better than I do. I was always considered his opposite — introverted, quiet, reserved, practical. I may have preferred the farm over traveling to Saint Petersburg, because honestly, that was never our world. It is not a world for people who were born knowing the earth before they knew words. But my father… well, power blinded him. And being honest, I was not surprised the day they told me he had been murdered. Not because it didn’t hurt — only that I think he was a stupid man. But I am getting too far ahead. Allow me to tell you more about myself.

I was born sometime in 1897 — not in 1869. My parents married around 1887, so that would be… illogical. And no, I am not my father’s firstborn. That was a brother before me who passed away at six months of age. I am some kind of middle child.

Of nine children, only María, Varvara and I remained — or rather, those of us who survived.

From what I can remember, childhood revolved around the little a child could do. I do recall that during that time my father did speak to me — though we never got anywhere. He held me rarely, and I don’t tend to remember much beyond that, since I have few memories that aren’t… him…. praying? I’m not sure anymore. By the time my father traveled to the capital (1905–1916), I was between eight and nineteen years old. And year after year we came to understand that perhaps I was his greatest disappointment. He never said it. Not openly. Perhaps. But to me it was noticeable. Maybe too noticeable.

My sisters, on the other hand…

Well, they were a different story. Father prioritized his daughters — my sisters. At one point he even took them both to the capital… to give them a better life, an education. As if he wanted to build a new life.

One where I was not included.

And do you know the worst part?... That years ago I stopped mattering.

My relationship with Varvara — well, I won’t say I hated her, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t try to help her. She was calm, reserved, and a little shy. She did love Papa, and when he died she was deeply hurt. She truly loved him. She cried a great deal — perhaps she just wanted to hear from him once, even in a letter. Perhaps.

She was a good girl with her whole life ahead of her — or so it seemed until 1925. Twenty-five years old. Young, sweet, and beautiful. And life was atrocious and cruel.

Yes. Life was cruel to Varvara.

It was merciless to María… From what I heard it was terrible. Our surname was a burden, a kind of hell. She was the “survivor.” And being honest with you — she was Father’s favorite. Of that there was never any doubt.

Not because she was a woman, or the middle child, or anything like that. Simply and more easily — she understood him better. He could talk to her for hours. She was the most affectionate, the most attached to him. She benefited from leaving the poverty behind and living better in high society. It’s not that I disliked María — we simply lived differently. They left. I stayed. Varvara and she were closer to each other. I don’t blame them. But it’s not as if I was happy being left alone with my mother while they lived “the grand life” in a foreign city. I could call her spoiled, Papa’s girl, his faithful little lamb. I could hate her. But I never could — because I was never one to hold grudges, even though I remember her mocking me once or twice.

When Father died she was the one who refused to accept it. Rage had consumed her. I heard things at the time but never paid them much attention. She married a man named Soloviev — honestly, I never liked him. Later I learned other things: that he swindled María, that he abandoned her in a foreign country with her daughters, that she worked in a circus, that she sued Yusupov. Of all of us, she bore the heaviest weight in trying to keep our father’s legacy alive.

I never understood her obsession with making the world see Father as the man people knew. I suppose it was her denial. To others Grigory Rasputin was… Grigory Rasputin. To María he was her Papa. Sometimes I wonder if we had the same perception of the same man who “raised” us. I suppose it was an attachment I never had toward him — or not the way she believed one should.

As for the imperial family — the great Romanovs — I don’t have much to say about them. It was never really my concern, beyond the fact that Father mentioned them every time he came home. The Tsar, the Tsarina, the sick boy — I had no idea, only that he was ill — Olga Romanov and her sisters, things like that. From the little I heard, I honestly came to think that Olga Nikolayevna was the best candidate for a leader. According to Father she was responsible, capable, serious, mature beyond her years — or so he said. All I know is that she was three years older than me, or so my peasant brain calculated. Olga Nikolayevna was born on November 15th, 1895, and I in 1897 — wait, no. She is two years older than me. But even so, everything I heard described her as a born leader for as long as memory serves.

Olga Nikolayevna was the eldest of her three sisters and a sick brother. She carried her own weight — not just the crown or the title. Seeing her as if she were simply a person…

I hope she doesn’t exile me from wherever she is now…

I suppose Olga Nikolayevna also had her ghosts — being the eldest, the weight of responsibility, and I imagine the rage and resignation of knowing that even though she was the most fit to govern the empire, she would never be given the chance. I find it stupid and senseless that only men could rule. My mother ran the household and raised her children alone, with little to no help from my father. She was practical about everything. If my mother could — why couldn’t Grand Princess Olga Nikolayevna? I don’t know. It is a stupid thing for someone like me to even think about.

Following that subject — when I learned of the end of the imperial family, I felt something very close to pain, guilt, and… regret?

They were people, yes. Perhaps the Tsar and Tsarina were terrible rulers… Let’s admit it — they were, quite. But still, the mistakes of parents are not the fault of the children. She had no fault in any of it. Neither did her sisters, nor the boy. They were… children. They still had to live. Each of them had dreams, hopes, and wishes — and it was adults at war who decided that none of that would happen. It sickens me to think about it. And knowing that she would no longer be there — it was a strange grief for me. But I kept going.

After the revolution my family scattered trying to flee. María left with Soloviev and her daughters. Varvara went to Moscow. Mother and I stayed in Siberia. We lived as best we could. Im married. I had a daughter — a sweet, beautiful little girl. My wife and I, along with my mother, lived as we could. We heard almost nothing from María. And Varvara — well, when I found out she had died, I did cry for her. I cried quite a lot. She was my little sister at the end of the day.

My story ended when the Bolsheviks came. They took me from my mother, from my wife… from my daughter. I never found out what happened to them. I only remember labor camps. Some said I died of dysentery. Others that I was executed simply for carrying my father’s surname — for being the only son he had, the only one who could keep that name alive. I won’t say how I died. Only that it was painful. Slow or fast, it was painful either way. Even though I never sought out my father, the weight of his name fell on me too.

If I could see my father once — just once — I would not speak to him to reclaim my whole life. I would only say something like:

“Tell me, Father.”

Tell me, Father… Did you get what you wanted? Tell me, Father… Was it worth it? Tell me, Father… Why did you leave us alone? Why did you leave me alone? Tell me, Father… Do you sleep well knowing that you didn’t just ruin your own life — but dragged the imperial family, your wife, your children, your grandchildren into being eliminated one by one?

Perhaps you genuinely wanted to help. But I will never know — because with what I knew of you, I cannot defend you very much.

I don’t love you. But I don’t hate you either. I don’t forgive you. But I am not bitter.

I could forgive you someday. But that day no longer exists.

All that remains is what we are, what we were, and what we lived.Good or bad.That doesn’t matter anymore.

I don’t ask for an embrace because I don’t deserve one.I don’t ask for understanding because I never understood you myself.I carry your surname but not your soul.We are not the same. And yet we are.

All I have left is to ask myself, from wherever I am now —

Tell me, Father…