But how?
The pleading of a youthful daughter would not be enough. Could I hire some banditi to drag him away? Could I slip him narkotiki, bundle him off, and lock him up in a monastery until the political winds shifted? 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 mass of passages. 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 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 coarse.
“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, 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 assumption: 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 passages 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 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, 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.