CHAPTER 4

Tucked into the warm brown leather seats of the same Delaunay-Belleville limousine, I ate one butterscotch ball and then another and another. As I was whisked back into town at nearly the same speed with which we had been taken to the royal village, I consumed a total of six candies. It was approaching two in the morning, and I should have been lulled into a quick, comfortable sleep. Instead, my mind whirled faster and faster. If Papa was sure someone was plotting his death, why wasn’t he doing anything to prevent it?

As we turned onto Goroxhovaya, I looked behind us and saw the looming Tsarskoye Selo train station. Staring ahead, I saw the golden spire of the Admiralty pointing into the gray-black sky. And yet there wasn’t a single soul to be seen scurrying along the slippery sidewalks. The snowy street itself was completely empty of sleighs and troikas, and there was only one motorcar, a plain black one I had never noticed, parked across the street from our building. Smoke bellowed from its tailpipe, but I couldn’t see who, let alone how many, were sitting inside.

When the limousine came to a stop in front of our building, the chauffeur jumped out and scurried around the side. As if I were a princess, he opened my door with great grace—so silent, so powerful, so majestic—and offered me his hand. Accepting his firm grasp, I wondered if I could ever become accustomed to such royal treatment. There were 870 noble families that dominated Russia, and we Rasputins were definitely not among them. But it was not inconceivable that we would be elevated, perhaps soon. Throughout history, the rulers of Russia—including Catherine the Great, who had a habit of turning her numerous lovers into princes and counts—always granted vast estates and titles to their favorites, and Papa was definitely Aleksandra Fyodorovna’s. So as his elder daughter, would I one day soon become, say, Countess Matryona Grigorevna? Or, taking the name of our own village, would I become Baronessa Pokrovskaya?

Nyet, nyet, I thought, with a smirk on my face, as I scurried through the frigid air. Papa would never stand for such nonsense, and he would slap me on the head for such vain thoughts. Not only was he far too proud of our Siberian heritage—her freedoms, her sense of equality, not to mention her reliance on nature and her seasons—but I was sure his religious beliefs would preclude accepting a noble rank. On the other hand, a position in the Most Holy Synod would be for him a totally different matter. Then again, that surely wouldn’t happen, for the likes of Bishops Hermogen, Sergius, and Illiodor would never allow it. They were totally opposed to Papa, calling him dyavol—the devil incarnate.

The chauffeur escorted me through the archway, through the courtyard, and as far as the front door, which he opened for my benefit. When he began to follow me in, my countryside good sense returned, and I assured him it was not necessary to accompany me all the way up. He insisted, gently but firmly, saying he had orders to escort me to the apartment door. Quite sure of myself, I declined.

“Really, it’s not necessary.” Nodding to the motorcar parked on the street, I said, “As you can see yourself, we have security outside as well as inside. I’m sure there are at least two men in that motor, not to mention another two or three men posted on the staircase.”

“Very well, mademoiselle,” he replied, with a submissive nod of his head.

Escaping the cold, I quickly ducked inside. When I entered the dark lobby of our building, however, I found no one, neither doorman nor guard. Even the fire in the little iron stove had burned out. At first I thought nothing of it, assuming that the agents had slipped off, perhaps either to warm themselves with a glass of tea or to catch some sleep. Or could they all be warming themselves in the motorcar?

But then, in the faint light of a single sconce, I saw a dark puddle on the white marble floor. Stepping closer, I could see that the puddle was not simply dark but red, and that in fact it was not a puddle at all but a viscous pool of blood.

The words of Gospodin Ministir Protopopov came screaming through my mind: “Be on your guard every moment!”

Immediately, my terrified eyes scanned the lobby. I didn’t see anyone waiting to club me or drag me away, but for the first time there were no security guards either. Dreadfully aware of how alone I was, I hurried back to the front door to call out for the chauffeur; his offer of an escort all the way to our apartment now seemed imperative. No sooner did I open the door, however, than the Tsar’s beautiful, safe limousine sped off and disappeared around the corner.

Standing half outside, my breath billowing in short quick puffs, I glanced across the street at the dark motorcar. In one sure, steady movement, a man, big and stout, climbed out. I knew most of the security men by sight, but this one in a black leather jacket and black Persian lamb hat didn’t look familiar. And when I saw the pistol gripped so firmly in his right hand, I knew my only course of action.

Darting back inside, I pulled the outer door tight. I fumbled for a key, something, anything, but there was no way to lock it. Taking one last look out a side window, I saw that the strange man in the leather coat was trotting directly toward the building.

I turned. Suddenly I wanted Papa, who was always there for me, caring, soothing, blessing. I wanted to be in our apartment, safe asleep in the bed I shared with my sister. No, I wanted to be out there with Papa, locked within the gilded walls of the Aleksander Palace and surrounded by a thousand armed guards. I wanted to be anywhere but in this dark, dank lobby.

Clutching the muff with the candies and gathering up the length of my cloak, I turned and made for the staircase. Just as I reached the first step, however, the thin sole of my right shoe slapped into that wet and sticky spot. I skidded a tiny bit, nearly fell, and screamed. The beautiful fur muff, the only royal gift I’d ever received, nearly went flying from my hands. Instead, the candies spilled out, shooting through the air into that grotesque puddle. Horrified, I rushed on, running up the marble steps, one shoe stamping every other tread: red…red…red.

Don’t panic, I told myself as I climbed. It could be blood from something else. Sugar has been rationed. Butter too. There’s talk of meat next. People are getting food anywhere they can, any way they can. One of the neighbors could have made the mess. Someone could have bought a mass of fresh meat and dragged it home, perhaps a whole hindquarter. Hadn’t I seen a farmer with an entire sledge of drippy meat just yesterday on Litieny Prospekt? Or maybe Ivanov, the factory manager who lived above us, had slipped off to his dacha and shot a bear, just like he did last year, and then made a horrible mess as he dragged the carcass up to his flat.

Or had something happened to one of the agents posted for our protection?

As faint as the rustle of a leaf but as clear as the call of a crow, I heard the door open down below. And then the stranger’s steps, fast and heavy, hurrying across the marble floor and through the puddle.

Radi boga—for the sake of God—I thought, as I rounded the steps upward and upward, where were the security men? They were always here, always in the way, always snooping and spying, writing things down. Rasputin received Madame Lokhtina at 8 pm; she stayed until one in the morning…. Rasputin almost daily receives the Golovins…. Rasputin returned home carrying a bottle of Madeira…. Rasputin returned home at midnight with the prostitute Petrova, whom he hired on Haymarket Square…. At 4 pm Rasputin and his daughter Matryona departed in a horse cab hired by one of his devotees…. Rasputin spent the entire night carousing with the Gypsies and squandered two thousand rubles. My father, that sloppy, humble peasant from the wilds of Siberia, was probably the most well-observed and well-documented soul in all of Russia.

So where were the security agents now? Why had they abandoned us this very night, right when I needed them the most? There was no reason, none whatsoever, for them to have abandoned us now.

Unless…

More afraid than ever, I realized the only reason why the security agents weren’t here tonight would be if they had been ordered away or, worse yet, paid to leave us. It wasn’t just the grand dukes who wanted my father dead. The many orthodox monks detested Papa too, not simply because of his infamous sensuality and his support of the Jews but, most important, because his beliefs deviated from the approved and accepted liturgy. And the powerful generals wanted him silenced; they were disgusted by his antiwar statements and convinced he was a spy, obtaining information from the Empress and at the very least leaking it to the Germans. The only ones who loved Papa were those at the very top, the Emperor and the Empress, and those at the very bottom, the impoverished millions living in pathetic huts scattered all across the vast Russian Empire.

The footsteps behind me were gaining speed, getting closer, banging harder, louder, as the stranger charged after me faster and faster. Climbing as quickly as I could, I came across another splash of blood on the marble steps. Then I saw a bloody handprint smearing the wall.

Holding my cloak and my dress up over my knees, I ran faster, higher. Following the broad, rounding sweep of stairs, I had nearly reached our floor. I wanted to cry out for Dunya, faithful, loving Dunya who had served us for so long, who was nothing less than a second mother to me. She would come. She would rush to the door. She would save me. She wouldn’t have gone upstairs to her small room, not yet. No, she would never leave Varya alone in the apartment. Dunya would be there, dozing on the tiny cot in the kitchen, waiting for Papa and me to come home. I was going to bang on the door, and she was going to come to my rescue.

But when our door came into view, a wind of panic swept through me. Crumpled on the floor and leaning against the door itself was a young man. Instantly I spotted the source of all the blood: the wounded left arm, clutched so tightly to his side. When he looked up at me weakly with his dark brown eyes, nothing could have surprised me more.

“Maria…help me,” he pleaded.

Shocked, I gasped. “Sasha!”

It had been two years since we’d met on the steamer to my village, and yet I recognized him at once, just as I recognized the fear and desperation in his eyes. Yes, Sasha, as full of terror as a wounded deer, glanced up at me and then toward the stairs. Who was the stranger after, Sasha or me?

“Please, I…I—,” he began.

Sasha had been the first and only one to steal my heart, and for a single day he’d been the love of my life. Then he’d burned me with a kind of betrayal I’d never thought possible. But right then and there as I stared down on him, his strength and will sapped from loss of blood, I forgot all the damage he had done to my family. Without thinking, I knew the right thing to do.

I lunged over Sasha and at our apartment door, finding it, as I feared, locked. Not wasting a moment, I jumped up, snatching a hidden key from a ledge above the door. As quickly as I could, I jabbed the key in the lock, twisted, and heaved open our door. Sasha made a feeble attempt to get up but couldn’t, so I grabbed him by the shoulders and half dragged him inside. Glancing out at the staircase, I saw the shadow of the burly man coming up the last steps, and I hurled our door shut and slammed the lock, bolting it tight. Slava bogu—thanks be to God.

Sasha crawled across the floor and collapsed again, and I stood by the door, breathing hard. Outside I heard the stranger charge the last few steps, hurling himself right against our door, which shuddered from the dull forceful thud. Standing in our reception hall in near darkness, I clasped my hand over my mouth. Who was he? What did he want?

Then everything was quiet. I could hear nothing but my own panting breath, deep and quick. The next instant I saw the doorknob itself twist ever so slowly, to the right, to the left, as the man tried yet again to force his way inside.

Backing away, all I could think was, Where is Dunya? Dear God, could something have happened to her? To Varya?

Recoiling from the door, I turned and looked down at Sasha, whose left arm was drenched with blood. My country sensibilities told me there was no time for anger, no time for questions. Throwing my muff and cloak to the floor, I hurried to him.

“Where are you hurt, just your arm?” I asked, as I bent over him.

“Yes….”

“Come on. We’ve got to get you bandaged.”

He stared up at me, his eyes glassy and faint.

Taking him by his good arm, I said, “Can you stand up? I need to get you into the kitchen.”

“I was…was attacked—”

“Yes, I can see. I want to know everything…I want you to tell me everything. But first we have to take care of your arm.”

“I’m sorry….”

“All the way up, that’s it, that’s good.”

I had to lift him to his feet, and then, with his right arm over my shoulders and my left arm clutching him around his waist, we started slowly toward the kitchen. I just hoped he wouldn’t pass out before we got there.

Whatever role Sasha had played in the attack against my father, there was nothing to fear now; he was too weak, too faint. As I led him stumbling along, I was actually relieved. Somehow I would make sense not only of this—what had happened tonight and how he’d come to our home—but also of the past events.

As we stumbled along, I glanced into the salon, half hoping to see the drunken Princess Kossikovskaya and Countess Olga dozing away. Instead the room was dark, its many chairs pushed neatly up against the walls. When we passed through the dining room, I noted that the bronze chandelier was still lit, but the pastries and nuts, the dried fruits and candies, had all been put away, as had the large brass samovar. Dunya had obviously worked hard after we left, not only seeing that the ladies departed without a problem—perhaps she had called one of their footmen to escort them—but making our apartment ready for the following day, when another horde of my father’s seekers and devotees would line up outside our door and down the long stairs. So she should be still awake.

When I steered Sasha into our kitchen, however, I found it dark, the single electric bulb hanging from the ceiling extinguished. Dismayed, I led him across the room.

“Just hang on to the sink while I get a stool. Can you do that?” I asked, as I reached out with one hand and pulled the light chain.

Flinching as the light burst on, he nodded.

Leaving him at the sink, I dashed to the far corner, where I yanked aside a curtain. To my dismay, the cot tucked into the corner was empty. Grabbing a small wooden stool, I returned to Sasha and placed it right behind his knees. As he sat down, a deep, painful moan trickled from his lips.

“It’s okay,” I said.

But it wasn’t. None of this was right, particularly Dunya’s absence. She was supposed to be with us from early morning until late at night, cooking and cleaning, until, just like all the other maids in the building, she would retire to her small chamber under the rafters of the very top floor. She shouldn’t have left yet, not without either Papa or me at home. She should be in her little corner, resting and watching out for my sister. Dear Lord, was Varya all right? Could she be missing too?

“Sasha, I have to check on my sister. Are you all right for one minute? You won’t faint, will you?”

He shook his head, attempted a small laugh, and said, “And I won’t run from you either.”

“No, I don’t think you could.”

I raced from the kitchen and down the hall. Papa’s first child, a son, had died soon after birth. His second, Dmitri—our brother, Mitya—was sweet but mentally simple and lived and worked with Mama in Siberia. I was next and had moved to the capital seven years earlier. Last was Varya, several years younger, who had come to St. Petersburg just three years ago. She was my friend and confidante. Please, I prayed with pounding heart, let her be safe, let her be unharmed.

Dashing to our room, I threw open the door. And there she was, the dear lump, buried beneath the comforter and fast asleep, blessedly hogging most of the bed, as was her annoying habit. Despite the ruckus and my deep, heavy huffing and puffing, she did nothing more than moan and squirm. After a moment of standing there, staring at her peacefully sleeping, I shut the door.

So had nothing happened here tonight? No, I thought, as I made my way back to the kitchen, that wasn’t right. Sasha, after two years, had shown up wounded, and Dunya had gone missing. Worse, some thug had chased me up the stairs—was my would-be assailant still lurking outside the door? Gospodi, perhaps I should place a call to the Aleksander Palace. A message could be got to my father, who would be beset with worry. And the Tsaritsa would see that someone was sent at once for our protection. I must call immediately, I thought.

Then I heard Sasha moan. No, I thought, the very first thing to do was take care of him. Returning to the kitchen, I found him still sitting on the stool but slumped against the sink. Just how bad was he?

“Sasha, let’s get your coat off.”

He nodded ever so slightly but didn’t move, so I reached around and undid the heavy buttons of his wool coat. Touching him, I felt the hard strength in his back, his arms, and his chest. His dark brown hair, long and curly, was tousled, and that face I had once found so sweet and inviting seemed lined and hardened under a coarse beard. It struck me that in the two years since I had last seen him he had easily aged five. I couldn’t help but wonder if he had enlisted in the war effort, and, if so, if he’d served in the trenches at the front.

Once I had his coat undone, I slipped his right arm free without any problem. When I came to his left, however, he winced in pain.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Someone…someone stabbed me.”

“Bozhe moi!” My God! “Sasha, I’m going to have to call a doctor.”

“Nyet!”

“But—”

“You don’t understand! I can’t see a doctor, I can’t!” He tried to get up. “It’s too dangerous for me.”

“Stop! Just sit still. Let me get your coat off and clean you up, at least. Then we’ll know how bad it is.”

Reaching over his shoulder with his good hand, he clasped my right, and said, “I’m sorry, Maria. So very sorry.”

For coming here tonight? Was he sorry for that…or for using me and lying to me as we steamed up the River Tura on that beautiful summer day and then leading my father’s would-be assassin right to him?

All I could manage was a pathetic “What for?”

“There’s so much I need to explain. It’s just so…so complicated. I wanted to come to your house the day after your father was attacked…but I couldn’t. I didn’t dare.”

“Why?” I snapped. “Because you were afraid you would be arrested?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s obvious you were part of the conspiracy to kill him.”

“What? You don’t think I had anything to do with that, do you?”

“Of course I do. I told you when and where my father would be, and then you led that madwoman right to him. I asked around later, and someone even said you were both staying in the same boardinghouse. And—”

“No, Maria, you don’t understand!”

“No, I don’t.” I winced as if I myself had been stabbed. “But you can start by telling me why you came here tonight. How did you find me?”

“Everyone in Petrograd knows where the Rasputins live. It’s no secret.”

“Tell me honestly—do you mean us harm?”

“Dear God, no!” He hesitated, then added, “Maria, trust me, please trust me, when I say I’ve never stopped thinking about you.”

Nothing could have surprised me more. I refused, however, to show my own wound and the pain that burned even now. Instead, I turned away.

“We’ll talk later, Sasha,” I said sternly. “First we have to take care of your arm.”

I pulled his coat from his left shoulder, slid it down his arm, and pulled it brusquely past the wound and over his hand. It hurt him, I know—he winced terribly—but I didn’t care. What did he know about confusion and pain? What did he care about the suffering of others?

Although I was surprised by the amount of blood, the wound itself wasn’t so horrible, a deep gash through his shirt and up his forearm. With blood still readily flowing, however, it was no wonder Sasha was weak. What had happened and who had done this? Was he a deserter; had the military police chased him down? I was no stranger to gore, having helped Mama deliver countless foals and calves. Not only that, but in the fields surrounding our village, laborers and workhorses alike were always getting injured. It struck me, staring down at Sasha’s wound, that this wasn’t nearly as bad as some of the things I had witnessed.

“You’re lucky,” I said, as I turned on the faucet and began rinsing the wound. “It looks like the knife didn’t cut down to the bone.”

He said nothing, only winced. I carefully ran the water up and over his arm, rinsing away blood and grime and tiny bits of his shirt. His forearm, which was thick and strong and covered with a haze of dark hair, now lay weak and limp in my hands. I knew so little about him—and doubted everything he had ever said. Whether or not he was from Novgorod, whether or not he had attended university in Moscow—things he had told me that day on the riverboat—I didn’t know, and yet despite his strength it was obvious he had never worked the fields. I could tell his fingers were not those of a peasant, for they were not calloused but soft.

Once I had flushed his arm, I realized the main problem was not the gash but Sasha’s loss of blood. How long ago had this happened? How much blood had he already lost?

“Sasha, you’re going to have to see a doctor to get this sewn up.”

“Can’t you—”

“Absolutely not. The only thing I can do now is wrap it up in a bandage. If I get it tight enough, it should slow the blood. But the sooner you get to a doctor, the better. Besides, it needs to be thoroughly disinfected.”

He shrugged.

I reached to the side for a clean white tea towel, which I wrapped almost as tightly as a tourniquet around his forearm. Although the towel blossomed immediately with blood, I was sure it would help. I then took his good hand and placed it on the towel.

“Press down good and hard and don’t let go,” I commanded. “I’ll be right back.”

Hurrying from the kitchen, I passed through our dining room to the darkened salon. Papa’s most regular visitors were society ladies who came three or four times a week for tea and to hear Papa’s religious convictions. These well-bred women had been taught the evilness of idle hands, so as they drank their tea and listened to my father, they picked up knitting needles and worked away. And since the outbreak of war, of course, they’d made only one thing: bandages from string. Scattered around our salon were no less than six wicker baskets, in each of which sat a set of fine knitting needles, a ball of string, and bandages in varying lengths of completion, all just waiting for a lady’s busy hands. From one pile I snatched a bandage and its attached ball of string.

As I was turning back to the kitchen, however, I heard a faint noise, a voice or a moan coming from somewhere. There couldn’t be someone else in here, could there? I listened for one more second but heard nothing. Worried, I went to the front door and pulled on it, but it was still locked.

Returning to the kitchen, I worked quickly, cutting the bandage free from the ball of string and tying the loose end. The bandage itself was good and dense and long, and with Sasha’s help I wrapped it around his arm no less than three times. I then tore another towel in half and tied it around his arm to hold everything in place.

And then…again I thought I heard something. Standing quite still, I listened for more sounds, either from the street out front or from somewhere in our apartment. Why was I so sure it was the latter? Why was I suddenly so afraid?

I knew I should be making Sasha tea or soup. I knew I should be looking for some fish or, better yet, a jar of caviar, which was so rich and healthful. Instead, I ordered him from the stool.

“You need to lie down,” I told him.

Escorting him across the kitchen, I pulled aside the curtain and led him into the nook were Dunya’s cot was tucked. Gripping him tightly, I lowered him onto the edge of the bed and eased him onto his back. Finally, I slipped off his filthy, worn leather boots and lifted up his feet. As I tucked a small pillow behind the curls of his hair, he gazed up at me and offered the slightest of smiles. I couldn’t help but blush.

“Just keep your arm raised,” I said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Before I could escape, however, Sasha grabbed my hand and raised it to his lips. “Spasibo.” Thank you, he said, kissing me just as tenderly as he had done two years ago. “I’m sorry. I’m very sorry.”

I had believed him before. I had trusted him before. Did I dare do so again?

“Just don’t move,” I said, frightened of the softness in my voice.

“I don’t think I can.”

I stroked his brow. “I don’t either.”

I wanted to stay right there, on the edge of the cot, and hold his hand and talk as we had done on the boat. But I didn’t dare, not on this strange night. Stepping away, I shut the curtain and started out of the kitchen. No sooner had I passed into the hall than I heard it again, a faint noise emanating, I realized, from one of the bedrooms.