Someone dropped from the group, falling into the middle on his knees and whipping himself with a wet rag. Sasha’s head fell back, and he bellowed out something in Indian or in the language of Jerusalem.

“Rente rente funtritut!” he cried at the top of his voice. “Nodir lisentran entrofit!”

I had no idea what he was saying, but I understood what he meant, what he was searching for, for he was seeking nothing more than that which all the narod wanted: freedom and love and spirituality, the sense that no man was above another, and the absolute knowledge that every man of every level had the capacity to cast away his sins and become at the very least Christlike. I wanted all that too. As I spun and cried out, as I shook and trembled, my sweat began to fly from my brow and my flaxen gown became soaked with perspiration. Someone in the middle twirled and whirled so fast that he flew to the side, falling on his knees, screaming.

“Oh, the Lord! He is close!”

“Oh, Brother! Oh, Brother!”

“Alleluia!” shouted the local Christ, completely drenched with sweat and twirling faster than ever. “I feel it! He is coming!”

I broke loose and started spinning and turning, my gown twirling wide, my hair flying. I felt every dark thought, every doubt, every sin, seeping from my being, emptying through my pores. Sweat gushed from me, washing everything impure from my body and soul. Suddenly a gigantic whoosh-a kind of spiritual beer-poured into me and lifted me up. I raised my hands and felt something divine rain down from the heavens and swim through and around me, a power greater than any I had ever felt. What was it? What godly force was overtaking us all?

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sasha spinning and smiling, his face turned to the heavens. Yes, he was here, we were together, all would be well.

“Oh, Spirit Lord!” sobbed someone.

“Alleluia!”

“Rejoice, for He has come!”

And then Sasha was grabbing me with his one good hand and pulling me along. My body had stopped spinning, but my head could not.

“Oi!” I shouted, tumbling into him.

“Come, my love,” he gasped, pulling me along.

I closed my eyes, feeling like a cloud blowing through the sky-yes, a cloud, blowing right into him.

“Brothers! Sisters!” cried the local Christ. “I sense it! The Holy Spirit has come! God has poured Himself into me!”

A woman screamed. A man collapsed on the floor.

Half running, Sasha led me into the side room. We went there, into that little space, and while the rest of the congregation spun and sang and cried out, we began kissing. He pressed me against the hard brick wall, and his soft lips flew across my mouth, my ear, my neck. My body flushed with a desire I had never known or even expected, and I wanted him as I never wanted anything else. Every bit of inhibition had been spun away, and I felt nothing but love and desire, heat and want. He dove downward, burrowing his face between my breasts, rubbing, pressing, kissing, and I clasped him and pulled him as hard as I could against me. This was our future, our destiny, and together we were crossing over a bridge of passion to everything wonderful. I shoved him back, and without a moment’s hesitation I grabbed the length of my flaxen gown and pulled it up and over my head, exposing my naked self as I never had to any man. Pulling at his collar with his good hand, Sasha tore open the entire front of his gown. I clawed at the thatch of hair on his chest, groped his firm stomach, and, for the first time, caressed a man’s firm, determined desire.

And as the rest of the congregation collapsed harmlessly on the floor of the main room, Sasha and I fell into each other in joy and love and celebration.

I woke alone the next morning.

As much as I wished it otherwise, as much as I still sensed his firm body in my dreams, Sasha was not lying by my side. Rather, I was at home and in bed by myself. Opening my eyes to the bright light, I saw neither walls nor ceiling, only this: his naked body pressing into mine. Pulling up my nightdress, I gingerly ran my fingers over my naked belly. His seed was there, within me. A soft smile spread across my lips.

When he’d dropped me at the rear door late last night, Sasha had embraced me, saying, “Take care, sweet one. I’ll see you soon.”

“When? Tomorrow night?”

“Yes, I’ll try.”

“Promise?”

“Absolutely,” he said, kissing me on the forehead.

Now climbing out of bed, I felt no shame for having given myself to Sasha. Just yesterday I would have been terrified that Papa might find out, but today I didn’t care, not a bit. Nevertheless, there was no need for him to find out, was there?

It hadn’t occurred to me just how late I’d slept, and I couldn’t tell from the low dark clouds in the December sky, but when I looked at a clock I saw that it was nearly one in the afternoon. Given the healing at the palace and then my late-night adventures, it wasn’t really a surprise. What did astonish me, however, was to learn that Papa had already risen and had been seeing petitioners, one after the other, since nine that morning.

Stepping out of my room was like stepping into a bazaar. No wonder, I thought. It was Saturday, and Saturdays were always Papa’s busiest. Today, December sixteenth, would be no different. Women of every age and fashion were buzzing through our apartment, some of them old and dressed in black, others young with abundant curves, some made up with Parisian rouge, and others pale and homely. Our dining room table was strewn with today’s gifts-candies and flowers, fruits and nuts-while the samovar was steaming before a near-continual line of supplicants in search of winter’s antidote, tea. The telephone seemed to ring nonstop.

Making my way into the washroom for my morning toilet, I noticed right away a sense of nervousness, of desperation.

“In the Duma there’s talk of nothing but revolutsiya,” said one woman quietly, standing in the hall, eating a biscuit and sipping tea.

Her friend pressed close to her and muttered, “Just terrible… Did you hear what Maklakov, the Duma deputy, has been saying around town? He’s saying it won’t be a political revolutsiya but one of rage and revenge of the ignorant masses! He keeps shouting, ‘Beware the peasant with the ax!’”

“Bozhe moi!” gasped the first, crossing herself, biscuit in hand.

Frightened, I hurried past the two women. Once I’d washed and brushed my hair, I peered into the salon, searching for my father. And there he was, standing before a very proper lady with a feather boa and another woman in a worn cardigan, the first holding his right hand, the second kissing his left. Why, I couldn’t help but wonder, were these women-not just these two, but all of them here today-so willing, so eager, to give up control and submit to my father? Were they that needy, that scared, that desperate? On the other hand, Papa, his eyes settling on nothing and no one, seemed not to notice any of the attention. In fact, he looked frightful, his hair more disheveled than ever, his blouse wrinkled, and the sash around his waist loose and sagging. Spotting me, Papa pulled away from the two women and started across the salon. Never had I seen such dark rings beneath his eyes.

“Hello, my little bee,” Papa said softly, kissing me on the forehead. “Did you rest well?”

Averting my eyes, I nodded. Did he have any idea that I’d spied him in bed with Dunya? Better yet, did he even suspect that I’d sneaked out last night? Amazingly, the answer to both was, I knew, no.

“Papa, I’m worried.”

He shrugged and looked past me. “Faith has been lost.”

“But people are saying the worst things. People right here in our apartment are talking, and…and…”

“You think I don’t know it will soon come to an end? There are enemies everywhere-yes, even here within our home.”