I picked one foot entirely out of the water, set it back down again, and heard something rather like an echo. Of course. This was one large room down here. When the palace had been built several hundred years earlier, this very chamber had probably been dry and used as a vast storeroom. Whatever it was that had made its feudal lord so rich-grain, rare stone, lumber-had probably been pulled up the River Fontanka by barge and dragged in here. But time had caused the floors and walls to leak, and now it was flooded with a layer of water and left empty. Or was it? As I stood in the cool black water beneath this Romanov palace, I heard something: a slight wet flutter of movement. Gospodi, I was not alone down here.
I took a soggy half step back to the staircase. My choices were horrible. If I scurried back up the stone steps, I would undoubtedly be apprehended. If I remained down here, God only knew the result.
As desperately as if I were drinking water in a desert, my eyes gulped in a mere glimmer of light. Moving slightly to the side, I peered around a heavy column, and there, far in the distance, was what seemed like another set of steps. I started quickly wading through the shallow waters. Another staircase would lead to another part of the palace, and another part of the palace would certainly lead to another way out.
Within a few steps the water deepened, now rising up over my ankles, now lapping at the bottom of my dress. And as I waded along, I heard it again, a flutter of noise, something scurrying through the water. As if it were a beacon, I kept focused on the faint light up ahead. But then I saw them. Rats. Off to the side I saw an entire gathering of fat rodents, some the size of squirrels, half wading, half swimming, their long tails slithering behind them like snakes on the water’s surface. Pressing onward, I told myself that I had seen any number of such creatures back home, and forced myself to take faint comfort in knowing that they were as afraid of me as I was of them.
What terrified me more, however, was a large sloshing noise off to my left. I came to a thick treelike stone column and stopped. I heard it again, the heavy sound of something moving through the water. That was no rodent; by the noise I knew it to be much larger. Was it a wild dog, perhaps a rabid one? What could be alive and lost and living down in this dark chamber? Then I turned the other way, saw its sheer size…and screamed into my hand.
This was no animal, most definitely not. It was a man, hunched over and scurrying, his arms low and outstretched, legs tromping, hair flying. This clearly wasn’t one of the grand duke’s guards hunting me down, this was some demented soul living down here. I wanted to cry out for the men upstairs to come down and rescue me. Instead I bolted forward, the dark waters flying as I charged past another column, then another. The second staircase was only fifteen or twenty arzhini ahead, and bit by bit the light increased. If only I were quick enough, I might make it. A horrible thought struck me: My family didn’t know where I was. If I was overtaken, if that crazed person tackled me and did me mortal harm, I would simply disappear. No one would even know where to begin looking for me.
Suddenly, just as I passed another of the stone columns, something leaped out. It was another man, strong and able, who grabbed me in both arms as easily as a huge bear snatching a fish from a rushing river. Before I could open my mouth to scream, his filthy calloused paw slapped over my mouth. I kicked, bit at him, and threw myself from side to side, but I was caught, hopelessly and completely, that much I immediately understood.
The next moment I felt the cool sharp blade of a knife at my throat. “Be quiet or I’ll kill you!”
I twisted to the side, but when I felt his arms and hands tighten in readiness, I forced myself to fall as still as a hare. It took every bit of my concentration to do as he instructed, and a second later the blade was lifted from my throat. The foul hand, however, was not removed from my mouth, and soon I could barely breathe.
There was a quick scratching noise and a nearby burst of light. My terrified eyes darted to it, and there I saw the first man, equally as filthy, lighting the stump of a candle with a simple match. In but a moment, the entire underground space blossomed with murky yellow light. And then I saw a third and a fourth fellow, all of them covered with unbelievable grime, all stepping out of the darkness, swarming through the water toward me like confident crocodiles circling a kill. By their haggard bearded faces and from their torn khaki clothing I recognized who they were: not mere soldiers but deserters. And not wounded men who had hobbled from the front but healthy ones who had run for their lives from the trenches, only to flee to the capital city and be forced to hide beneath its festering surface. There was no question that if such young, strong, seemingly healthy men as these were discovered, their punishment would be quick and definitive: They would be shot. So here they were, somehow existing in the last place anyone would ever look for a deserter, the dank cellar of the Tsaritsa’s own sister.
“Who are you, princess?” said one of them, square-jawed and eager, it seemed, to devour me. “Or maybe you’re a countess?”
I shook my head furiously. God only knew how they would manhandle me, but I was sure they would, for I could see not only lusty hunger in his eyes but furious, burning anger. They’d been forced to fight in a war not of their making or for their benefit, a war of and against kings.
“Are you one of them?” he said, pointing upward.
A tall lanky one stepped forward, his feet stirring through the water and a sly grin spreading on his face. “She’s not so bad. Looks like we’ve caught ourselves a nice little morsel!”
“A tasty one too!” said the fourth, who was completely bald.
I felt it then, a crude calloused hand pawing at my neck, pushing aside my cloak, tearing at my dress. But of course there was nothing hanging there, neither pearls nor diamonds. I struggled, then froze as the arms wrapped more tightly around me. The next moment I felt a hand squeezing my breast, then groping downward and plunging into the pocket of my cloak. Like a bear cub who’d discovered honey, he pulled out his treasure with glee.
“Money!” he proclaimed.
There was a whoop of hushed excitement as they examined the stack of rubles, a veritable fortune to them. Then, as one held me from behind, the other three were upon me, crudely exploring, poking through the folds of my garb and over my body, hands plunging over breasts, earlobes, and privates. I twisted and kicked, all to no avail, as they checked my clothing over and over, pulling out a bit more money and then, of course, grabbing something strange to them. The little stack of notes.
“What’s that?” the lanky one asked, leaning forward. “It’s something written…what’s it say?”
The bit of candle was lifted higher, and while one man held me from behind, the other three peered at the notes. I watched as they focused on the scraps of paper, as they examined the writing and tried to tell what it was. One of them scratched his head. Another moved his lips. These deserters were like ninety percent of our pathetic, worn army: simple uneducated, illiterate peasants, who wanted nothing more than to go home to their huts, their families, and their tiny plots of land.
The shortest of them all, a round fellow, studied the papers closely, and said, “I think they’re little letters.”
“But what do they say?” asked the bald man.
“It’s all from the same hand, that much I can tell. And…and look down here. I think they all have the same signature.”
“Sure, but…”
The round one began to sound: “Fa…Fath…Father…” So shocked was he that he stopped and stared right at me. “Father Grigori!”
A collective groan of amazement erupted from them all. The three in front simply stared, while the man who held me tightened his grasp from behind. Just who did these soldiers think I was? Some member of the nobility drawn into a plot? A messenger of the Tsaritsa? A German spy?
The square-jawed one gazed at me as if he meant to rip out my throat. “Who are you? And why do you have these notes?”
When the hand loosened only slightly from my mouth, I gasped, and said, “My n
ame is Matryona Grigorevna.” I took in a gulp of air. “I am the elder daughter of Grigori Effimovich Rasputin.”
“What?” gasped the square-jawed thug, crossing himself fervently. “You mean to tell us you’re Father Grigori’s child?”
I nodded.
“Where are you from?”
“The village Pokrovskoye.”
“Who was your grandfather?”
“Effim. Effim Yakovlevich.”
The tall one muttered, “That’s right. Effim Yakovlevich, that’s Rasputin’s father. That’s who my own father used to trade wheat with, the very one.”
What was this all about? My eyes ran from one filthy face to the next. Was I not about to be raped and murdered?
Suddenly the man behind me loosened his grip. Indeed, he quickly released me, and when he stepped aside I saw that he was lean and hard. To my complete astonishment, he bowed his head to me and crossed himself. The other three did so as well. In a blink of an instant they were all beating their foreheads and chests and bowing to me as if I were some kind of saint. One of them even reached out, took my cold trembling hand, and kissed it.
The round one pointed to the tall one. “Me and him are from Tobolsk. These other two are from Tyumen.”
I nearly collapsed. In a faint of relief, I nearly dropped right into the shallow waters. These were my people, my neighbors, my fellow Siberians. All of them were from towns within a few versts of my own. And instead of seeing me as someone from the upper ruling class, instead of branding me an enemy, they knew I was one of their own. Only more, for I was his. Right then and there I knew there was a God, for he had seen the dangers upstairs and led me down to them, these poor filthy muzhiki, my islands of safety.
“But what are you doing down here?” said the tall one. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s far too dangerous for a young woman such as you.”
“My father’s life is being threatened, and I came here seeking information,” I explained. “But someone’s after me now. Some men are looking for me upstairs. I don’t know who and I don’t know why they want me, but I’ve got to get out of here-out of the palace. And I don’t know how.”
Long fearful of the master’s whip, my countrymen had learned centuries ago not to speak their minds, at least not outside their own huts. Instead they had perfected the art of communication by discreet glance-a downward gaze, a raised eyebrow, a narrowed eye. An entire silent conversation could be carried on in this manner, as it was just then, right before me.
The lean hard man who’d first captured me said, “Pasha and me will stay here and make sure no one follows.”
The short round one nodded. “Right, and Volodya and I will get you out.”
They all started scrambling to their jobs, but then the lanky one said, “We got to give back the money.”
“No,” I said quickly. “Keep the rubles. Go buy yourselves some food and clothes. And use the notes-they’ll open doors everywhere. Use them for permission to board a train and get back home to your families.”
As if they were His Majesty’s Own Hussars and I a princess of the royal blood, they all kissed my hand, one by one. And then Volodya, the lanky soldier, took the lone candle, and the round one, whom he called Ivan, took me by the arm, and together they led me from the large wet storeroom through a rotted oak door and down a tunnel that led beneath the street to the River Fontanka. We scrambled along this dank underground passage that had once been used to carry goods directly to and from the river, and within a matter of three or four minutes a miracle did occur. Volodya and Ivan heaved open an ancient door, the one they used to get in and out of the palace, and which I now stepped through. Emerging like a squinting mole onto the edge of the icy River Fontanka, I found myself standing on a thick wooden platform tucked directly beneath the dark stones of the Anichkov Bridge.
Volodya bowed to me, and said, “It’s nothing less than a miracle that one of us, a real muzhik, finally has the ear of God’s Own Anointed.”
“Absolutely,” said Ivan, with a shy smile. “It finally seems that God has heard our prayers, for as long as Father Grigori dines with the tsars, then maybe, just maybe, there is hope.”
With tears in my eyes, I turned and hurried off, my wet feet quickly turning numb and my damp skirt icing over.
You have no idea what fear shot through us when Maria Rasputina was spotted sneaking into the Sergeeivski Palace. Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich was home at the time, just upstairs, and he flew into an absolute panic. He sent some of his guards to find her, but they searched everywhere without success. Somehow, Rasputin’s daughter had got in and out completely undetected. Can you imagine?
Almost immediately the grand duke called us all to his palace. I was sure that our plot had been found out and the Tsar or the Tsaritsa would imprison us all before we could act. I remember we gathered in the corner drawing room, the one overlooking the Fontanka and Nevsky. All afternoon we just sat there, drinking shot after shot of vodka and waiting for arrest. But nothing happened. Nothing.
Finally Dmitri Pavlovich, who had definitely drunk too much, got up and started shouting, “That little whore is on to something, I tell you. She knows what we’re up to, so now we have to kill her too! We have to kill that monster and his daughter as well!”
It was decided then and there that we had to move the whole thing up by five days. We chose the palace on the Moika Kanal because, of course, of the chamber in the basement. The walls were so thick that we were sure no one would hear the screams.
CHAPTER 13
When I finally returned home, my body trembling, my shoes frozen solid, Dunya, like all women of Siberia, was appropriately horrified.
“Have you lost your mind, child?” she screamed, for like any villager she’d seen death start with a sniffle that roared into death. “Look at you, you’re soaked and your teeth are chattering like a monkey’s! What did you do, jump in the river? Or did someone push you? Is that what happened, did someone attack you simply because of your name? Ai, what horrible days these are when a daughter of Rasputin cannot safely walk the streets!”
“Papa,” I mumbled, not fully aware of how much I was shivering. “I have to speak with Papa!”
“Well, not now you’re not! Not until you get out of those wet clothes and into a hot bath! What are you trying to do, catch death by the tail? Bozhe moi, we’ve got to drive the cold out of you right away. Remember what happened to your uncle, the uncle you never knew because he got wet and died?”
“But where’s-”
“Your father’s gone out,” she said, unbuttoning my cloak as quickly as an army medic treating a mortally wounded soldier.
“Is he visiting someone?” I asked desperately. “He hasn’t gone out…alone, has he?”
“Yes, he just slipped out by himself. Right out the door like a determined tomcat. You know him and his ways.”
“I have to find him,” I moaned.
I needed my father. I needed to scream at him, cling to him, and sob on his shoulder. How could he be out there wandering the dangerous streets when I needed him more than ever? When he needed me the most? Bozhe moi, what if I was too late? What if he didn’t come back? What if it happened now, this afternoon? What if those plotting grand dukes and conniving grand duchesses snatched him away and stabbed him in the heart or hung him from a lamppost?
“I’m going back out!” I said, crazy with fear and pushing away from Dunya. “I have to find him! I have to find him right now!”
“You’ll do no such thing, child!” our housekeeper shouted back, catching me like a thief by the collar.
“But I have to warn him!”
“Just look at you, you’ve caught death’s chill! Look at how you’re shaking! And your lips…they’re absolutely blue!”
It was only then, as Dunya stripped me and I began to thaw, that I started to comprehend the fear in her words. As my frozen shoes were ripped from my feet, my toes began to throb with pain. Next, my cloak and dress were pulled off and thrown asid
e, and I began to shake and shiver all the more. Warmth burned away cold, and my head began to throb, and I felt suddenly, oddly, weak, even sick to my stomach. Where had I been? How had I gotten home?
Suddenly I realized I was standing there in nothing but my underlinens. All around me were little piles of soggy clothing, and Dunya was pressing something burning hot into my hands. It was a tall thin glass nestled in a metal standard. Steam was billowing into my face and burning my nostrils. I stared at the glass-where had it come from?-then up at her.
“Drink it down, my little one,” coaxed Dunya. “Drink it all the way down. It’s good black tea from the Caucasus. Lots of sugar, too, and a big slice of leemoan. It’s nice and healthy and will warm you from the inside out. Drink this down while I heat you some milk. That’s what you need next, hot milk to ward off a chill. Da, da, da, a cup of fresh hot milk loaded with rich dark honey. I’ve been hiding a jar of birch-forest honey from back home just for something like this. Now drink up, drink to the bottom!”
But I was not only swaying, I was trembling so much I could barely hold the glass.
“Here, dorogaya maya,” my dear, cooed Dunya, holding the glass to my lips, “let me help you.”
I took in a bit of hot tea, fresh from the samovar, and it burned like liquid hell all the way down. “Oi!”
“Good, that’s good, Maria. Just drink it down. Oh, if only we were home, I’d throw you in a hot banya this very second!” she said. “I’d throw you in and then march right after you and thrash you with a bundle of fresh birch branches-that would draw the cold right out of you, for sure! So what am I going to do here in the city? Hmm… Perhaps I’ll get out my cups. Yes, that would work. We’ve got to get the chill out of you right away.”
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