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 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 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.