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.