Rasputin's Daughter Part 9

"Absolutely not," she said, quite sternly. "Please, the dangers are very real. Everyone knows the country is about to boil over. There's talk of nothing else, and I have no reason to doubt it. In more than one salon, I've heard that the grand dukes have formed a cabal intent not only on killing your father, but...but on kidnapping the Empress and banis.h.i.+ng her to a monastery in Siberia."

"Bozhe moi," I said, quickly crossing myself. I said, quickly crossing myself.

"There's worse." She hesitated, clearly afraid of the treasonous words that were about to pa.s.s her lips. "They talk of deposing the Emperor himself and crowning the little Heir Tsarevich, with one of the grand dukes as regent."

I couldn't imagine such treachery and deception in any family, let alone our royal one, and I quickly crossed myself yet again and again and again. Was this how low Russia had fallen, that to preserve its power the House of Romanov felt it necessary to obliterate a mere peasant?

"Please, child, I beg you, pa.s.s these words to your father and see that he pa.s.ses them to the very highest personages," continued Elena Borisovna, obviously referring to the Tsar and Tsaritsa. "And remember: Once an angry tiger is released from its cage and tastes fresh blood, it's almost impossible to recapture it. Instead, the beast prefers a knife to its heart."

She took my hand in hers and kissed it, then spread her scarf over her head and headed out the door. Just before she disappeared, she turned back with a sorrowful smile.

"G.o.d bless you and yours, child, for I doubt we shall meet again."

I stood there barely able to move. The Empress locked away in some distant monastery? The Emperor dethroned and perhaps-dare I even think it-executed? It was too hard to imagine such heinous events in such modern days. After all, this was not a drama of Shakespeare and we were not living in ancient Muscovia, where tsars killed their own sons and disdained wives were thrown to the wolves.

However, if all this came to pa.s.s, if the frail Heir Tsarevich were placed on the throne, who would rule as regent, one of the Tsar's uncles, those towering, aged men now in their sixties and seventies? No, in these days of turmoil and war, the common people wouldn't accept that. An ancient Romanov, one of the brothers of Aleksander III, would mean a complete return to autocracy and authoritarianism. If that were to happen, there was no doubt in my mind that a regent like that, one of the "dread uncles," as they were commonly known, would ignite revolution.

Another possibility might be the Tsar's younger brother, Grand Duke Mikhail. And yet while he might be acceptable to the people, he wouldn't be to the Romanov clan, because he had married morganatically-breaking strict family laws, he'd not taken a bride from another royal house. Worse still, he'd not even wed a woman of t.i.tle but rather a mere commoner, the divorced wife of a cavalry captain.

So who would be an acceptable regent? It would have to be someone young, someone who could offer hope to the Russian people and symbolized a promising, progressive future. But who was that? Who could the powerful Romanov uncles control and dominate, even manipulate?

Of course: none other than the young and das.h.i.+ng Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich, who suffered from such horrible "grammatical errors."

Which one of us, I thought standing in that freezing room, was a greater fool, my father or me? Just last month, a treacherous speech had been made at the Duma, and my father had not only brushed it away like an annoying hornet, he had persuaded me to do so as well.

"There's no need for me to hear it!" Papa had insisted.

"But, Papa, listen!"

"The only thing to the right of Purishkevich is the wall!"

Copies of this speech made by the notorious monarchist Vladimir Purishkevich were already all over town, and it came as no surprise that one had been slipped beneath our door. My voice trembling as much as my hands, I stood in my father's study, reading aloud.

"'The disorganization of the rear is without doubt being manipulated by the enemy, and it is being accomplished by a strong, relentless hand. I take here the freedom to say that this evil springs from the Dark Forces, from those who push into high places people who are not worthy or capable of filling them. And these influences are headed by Grishka Rasputin!'"

"Lies!" shouted my father, pounding on the table. "Nothing but lies!"

I continued reading.

"'These last nights I could find no sleep, I tell you in honesty. I lay in bed with eyes wide open and saw a series of telegrams and notes which this illiterate peasant writes, first to one minister, next another, and finally, frequently, to Aleksander Protopopov, demanding that his actions be fulfilled.'"

"Evil dogs!" snapped my father. "Black evil dogs! No more reading, daughter of mine. That's it. Enough! I will hear no more!"

"But, Papa, listen!" I begged as my eyes flew to the last lines. "Listen to this: 'The Tsar's ministers have been turned into marionettes, marionettes whose strings have been taken confidently in hand by Rasputin, whose house and home have been infiltrated with German spies and by the Empress Aleksandra Fyodorovna-the evil genius of Russia and her Tsar-who remains a German on the throne, foreign to country and people!'"

"Enough, I tell you!" shouted my father, grabbing the speech from my hand and ripping it to pieces. "It's nothing but lies! No one will pay attention to this...this Purishkevich! How dare he speak of the Tsaritsa like that! In fact, it's treason. No doubt about it, he will be in jail by tomorrow! Now forget it!"

I took a deep breath. Was Papa right? Were these just the rantings of a fanatic? They had to be because the speech was just that: unequivocally treasonous.

"Everyone knows how terrible this Purishkevich is," continued my father. "Why...why, he's part of the Black Hundreds, and just look at what they did to the Jews! The pogroms!"

"I'm so worried, Papa-"

"Nonsense. Just hornets, mettlesome hornets! If you aren't used to it, even kasha is bitter. Now take a piece of paper and write this down. I want to send a telegram to the Tsar at the front."

My hands still shaking, I s.n.a.t.c.hed a piece of paper and pencil.

"19 NOVEMBER NOVEMBER 1916," dictated Papa. 1916," dictated Papa. "G.o.d gives you strength. yours is victory and yours is the s.h.i.+p. no one else has authority to board it "G.o.d gives you strength. yours is victory and yours is the s.h.i.+p. no one else has authority to board it. Do you have that down, Maria, just as I've told you?"

"Absolutely."

"Good. Now go and see that it is sent. And then forget it. Forget all about that stupid little man's stupid little speech."

Now, waiting for the old man with the milky eyes to escort me out of the Sergeeivski Palace, I started shuddering violently. At the time, Papa had persuaded me to dismiss the speech, but I no longer could do so. All too easily I could imagine the entire scene: the fury of Purishkevich's rhetoric, and the cries of Bravo!, A disgrace!, Bravo!, A disgrace!, and and How true! How true! that were said to have erupted from the other Duma members. that were said to have erupted from the other Duma members.

CHAPTER 12.

Fearful of spending any more time in the grand duke's palace, I finally opened the door and stepped into the dark corridor. But which way should I go, right or left? Better yet, I thought, as my eyes searched the low vaulted pa.s.sage, which was the quickest way out?

I turned right and immediately felt a fine silky veil over my face and entire head. I cried out and grabbed the strands of a spiderweb from my cheeks and hair. Feeling a creature crawl up my neck, I nervously swiped at something, and a spider, large and black, fell to the floor. Wasting no time, I ceremoniously stomped on it with my leather boot.

I wanted nothing more than to be out of here, out of these lost rooms of a ducal palace and back in our simple apartment. I wanted nothing more than to be not in my father's ma.s.sive arms but pounding on his large chest, screaming and demanding to know what in the name of the Lord he was doing. How had he wandered into this minefield? What was he doing to all of us, his entire family and everyone else in the nation? Didn't he see that the Motherland was one huge tinderbox and he, sitting upon it like a kroogli durak kroogli durak-a round idiot-was the perfect fuse, which he himself had already lit? Was Papa really so naive as not to know that everything could blow at any moment? There was only one way to save Holy Mother Russia and our Tsar: Papa had to be removed.

With this realization, I practically broke into tears, for I had arrived at the same conclusion as the powerful grand dukes. Yes, Papa had to be got rid of. The very n.o.ble relatives of the Tsar, who had disposed of countless serfs over the centuries, were probably discussing it this very moment at the Yacht Club, that hotbed of aristocratic dissent. The thought horrified me. Would they do it the way our masters always disposed of problem serfs-run him over with a troika? Or would they tie a rock to him and toss him in the river? Before they acted, I had to make Papa do what everyone wanted and no one had succeeded in doing: make him go back whence he had come, the unimaginably deep and the untouchably distant forests of Siberia.

But how?

The pleading of a youthful daughter would not be enough. Could I hire some banditi banditi to drag him away? Could I slip him to drag him away? Could I slip him narkotiki, narkotiki, bundle him off, and lock him up in a monastery until the political winds s.h.i.+fted? No, neither would work. There was no way I was strong enough to overpower Papa's sheer physical strength, let alone the will of the mightiest and the most powerful person in the entire country, the Empress herself. Sadly, I had to recognize the truth: There was no way Aleksandra Fyodorovna would let Papa out of her desperate and hysterical grasp. By all but imperial decree, she required that he be no farther from her than a short phone call. To remove Papa from Petrograd, I would have to battle not only him but also the strong will of the powerful Empress. bundle him off, and lock him up in a monastery until the political winds s.h.i.+fted? No, neither would work. There was no way I was strong enough to overpower Papa's sheer physical strength, let alone the will of the mightiest and the most powerful person in the entire country, the Empress herself. Sadly, I had to recognize the truth: There was no way Aleksandra Fyodorovna would let Papa out of her desperate and hysterical grasp. By all but imperial decree, she required that he be no farther from her than a short phone call. To remove Papa from Petrograd, I would have to battle not only him but also the strong will of the powerful Empress.

As I stopped and brushed away the last of the cobwebs, I knew that, no matter my determination, there was little I could actually do. I was just going to have to be clever. Perhaps I could get my mother to send an urgent telegram, saying Dmitri had been seriously injured and, because of his mental limitations, needed his father at once. Maybe I could convince my mother to write that she herself was just days away from death and begged for her husband's presence. No, I realized as I slumped against the stone wall. None of that would work, for, just as my father was unable to tell a lie, so was my dear innocent mother.

From somewhere I heard a set of footsteps. At first I thought it was the old man, finally come to lead me out of this tangled ma.s.s of pa.s.sages. But no, these were not the shuffling steps of a half-blind fellow feeling his way along. They were much too quick for that. In fact, they were even hurried. And when I listened carefully I could tell they were the footsteps of not just one person but two.

Knowing I dared not be found down here, let alone questioned, I scanned the corridor, spotting a dark archway just a few arzhini arzhini ahead. Picking up the folds of my cloak and skirt in both hands, I hurried to the opening, finding not a chamber but a steep set of stairs that curled down into darkness. Within seconds it was I who was feeling the walls for direction, and I moved downward with my right hand groping the ancient, crumbling brick walls. Beneath me, my feet sensed the smooth worn stone steps, one after the other. Wasting no time, I continued until I curled around a corner into a curtain of darkness. Below me I could see virtually nothing. Turning, I gazed upward at the last of the light leaking toward me. ahead. Picking up the folds of my cloak and skirt in both hands, I hurried to the opening, finding not a chamber but a steep set of stairs that curled down into darkness. Within seconds it was I who was feeling the walls for direction, and I moved downward with my right hand groping the ancient, crumbling brick walls. Beneath me, my feet sensed the smooth worn stone steps, one after the other. Wasting no time, I continued until I curled around a corner into a curtain of darkness. Below me I could see virtually nothing. Turning, I gazed upward at the last of the light leaking toward me.

The footsteps were drawing ever louder, ever heavier, ever faster. Finally they slowed, and I heard the squeal of a door as it was thrown open.

"She's not in here!" shouted a man, his voice deep and coa.r.s.e.

"We'll be thrown in the fire for this," groused another, his accent none too refined. "We've got to find her."

"You go that way, I'll go down here. Hurry!"

So it was indeed me they were after. But how did they know I was here? Had the old man betrayed me, or Elena Borisovna herself-or had someone else spied me?

Suddenly I heard footsteps echoing from every direction, one set from above, another somehow emerging from the darkness below, yet another ricocheting from...I couldn't tell where. The opposite direction? Down another set of stairs? Gospodi, Gospodi, just how many men were hunting me? Panicking, I sank back against the wall, pulling the shadows over me like an invisible cloak. How was I going to escape from this place? just how many men were hunting me? Panicking, I sank back against the wall, pulling the shadows over me like an invisible cloak. How was I going to escape from this place?

I heard it then, the rough, fatty breathing of a slothful soul. It was coming from up above. Yes, one of the men was right there at the top of the staircase. I closed my eyes and willed myself not to move, not even to inhale. If he descended just ten steps, I would be found. Indeed, were he a wild dog, I would already have been sniffed out and torn to pieces.

The next instant something screamed into my left ear like a high-pitched aeroplane. Then it dove into my cheek, bit me, and took hold: a mosquito. Lord, here we were on Peter's swamp, the waters of which leaked into the cellars of every building. Never mind that it was December and the air outside was well below frost, mosquitoes bred and lived year round in the subterranean territories of nearly every structure in the city. I nearly slapped it but didn't dare. A mere rustle of my clothing would give me away, for the man, whoever he was and whoever had sent him, was still right up there, lingering, listening, shuffling, snorting. Though I had no physical image of him, it was almost as if I could sense the wheels in his thick head turning, wondering what kind of fool would have gone down these lost stairs.

Then the next moment he dashed off, big feet, heavy body, hard breath. As soon as I heard his steps charging away, I slapped the mosquito and felt a splatter of blood on my cheek.

My pursuer was gone from the top of the steps but still up there charging around with another man. I could still clearly hear their running, and they were quite correct in their a.s.sumption: I had not escaped, I was still somewhere in the rotting bowels of the palace. Sooner or later, when they couldn't find me in any of the pa.s.sages up there, they would return to this staircase-and this time they would come down. Turning and looking into the depths of nothing, I knew it was my only option.

I thought my eyes would adjust. And to a degree, they did. But there was simply no light with which to see. Though I could practically sense my eyes widening, there was nothing for them to drink in. And so I moved more slowly than ever, one foot after the other, feeling my way down the sloping well-worn steps, my hand dragging along the decaying brick wall like a claw. A few moments later I stepped off the last stair and sank immediately into the cradle of the mosquitoes: a vershok vershok of water. Of course I couldn't see it, I only felt it, as cool murky water flooded through my leather soles and reached almost to my ankles. of water. Of course I couldn't see it, I only felt it, as cool murky water flooded through my leather soles and reached almost to my ankles.

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, Gospodi, I was not alone down here. 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, G.o.d 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 slos.h.i.+ng 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 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. 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 pa.s.sed 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 s.n.a.t.c.hing a fish from a rus.h.i.+ng 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 s.p.a.ce 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. G.o.d only knew how they would manhandle me, but I was sure they would, for I could see not only l.u.s.ty 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, pus.h.i.+ng 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s, 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 sc.r.a.ps 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 n.o.bility 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 name 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 versts of my own. And instead of seeing me as someone from the upper ruling cla.s.s, 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 G.o.d, for he had seen the dangers upstairs and led me down to them, these poor filthy of my own. And instead of seeing me as someone from the upper ruling cla.s.s, 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 G.o.d, for he had seen the dangers upstairs and led me down to them, these poor filthy muzhiki, muzhiki, my islands of safety. 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."