lined canal, the river had once marked the very edge of the city but was now an elegant waterway lined with five- and six-story apartment buildings, none taller than the dome of the Winter Palace ’s cathedral, as was the imperial decree throughout the entire city. Where our street, Goroxhavaya, crossed the dark waters, many wealthier merchants lived in expansive flats, while up and around Nevsky Prospekt, many palaces, including the Anichkov Palace, the home of the Dowager Empress herself, could be found.
Reaching the river, I turned right again, heading directly into a freezing wind that came whooshing down the frozen river and bit at me like a wolf. Clutching my cloak as tightly as I could, I trekked on.
Some ten minutes later I was within a block or two of Nevsky when I felt someone tugging at the back of my cloak. Spinning around, I saw a filthy young boy dressed in ragged homespun, probably a war orphan who made his living stealing from people’s pockets and bags.
“Get away from me!” I shouted.
The boy, no more than ten, didn’t flinch. Instead, as the freezing wind whipped around us, he lunged toward me. I jumped back and was ready to scream when I saw that he was pressing a piece of paper at me.
“What is it? What do you want?”
He touched his throat and then his mouth and shook his head, and I realized the child couldn’t speak. He was obviously not only dirt poor but mute. And staring into this child’s narrow blue eyes and noticing his bright cheeks, I thought of the rubles I had taken. Of course I could give him some. Before I could, however, he grabbed my hand and shoved the bit of paper into it. I assumed, of course, it was simply a note begging for help-written by someone else, for surely this destitute urchin was illiterate-but when I unfolded it I saw a few lines of verse scrawled in fine handwriting.
Love tyrannizes all the ages
But youthful, virgin hearts drive
A blessing from its blasts and rages,
Like fields in spring when storms arrive.
Recognizing a few lines from Pushkin’s prose poem Evgeni Onegin, my heart suddenly started pounding.
“Where is he?” I demanded.
The boy grinned a sloppy smile-half his teeth were missing-and waved me to follow. It didn’t even occur to me to hesitate, and I quickly followed him across the wide road. As we headed down a narrow side street, the child grabbed my hand and clutched it in his, squeezing my fingers tightly.
Within a half block he steered me through an arched passage and into the cobbled courtyard of a four-or five-story building. There he stopped immediately. Holding up just one of his fingers to me, I understood.
“Sure, I’ll wait right here,” I said.
The boy nodded, dashed back to the edge of the passage, and peered around, obviously checking the street to see if we had been followed. Satisfied that we were alone, he scurried back with a grin, snatched my hand again in his, and led me to a far corner of the courtyard. Descending three steps, we entered a decrepit chai’naya- teahouse-with a low ceiling, hardly any light, and a handful of heavy wooden tables. Behind a counter stood two plump starushki, their heads bound in kerchiefs, one tending a large nickel samovar, the other making blini on a black iron skillet.
“Greetings, Boriska,” said one of the old women to the boy. “Can we get you a glass of tea today?”
His grin as big as ever, he shook his head and continued pulling me along. At least, I thought, the child has somewhere warm to go.
Following Boriska, I passed through a beaded curtain and into a room with just two tables. Boriska pointed to me and then to a stool.
“Of course,” I said, sitting down.
Nodding with pleasure that he’d done his job, the child then raised a hand in farewell.
“Wait,” I said, grabbing him by the hand. “Where are your parents?”
He smiled sadly and shrugged.
“Where do you live? Do you have anywhere to go at night?”
He scratched his neck and shrugged again, squinting his eyes in obvious embarrassment.
“I’m going to give you two things, Boriska,” I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the roll of money. “Here’s two hundred rubles-that’s a lot of money.”
His eyes widened and his head bobbed up and down. Whoever had given my father this stack of bills, this child could certainly use it as much or more than anyone else.
“And here’s something even more valuable,” I said, handing him one of my father’s little notes. “Can you read?”
He shook his head.
“It’s from a man known as Father Grigori Rasputin-he’s my father.”
The child’s eyes widened and he stepped back, biting his bottom lip.
“Don’t worry, the note just asks that your request be granted. For example, if you want to stay at a children’s home, all you have to do is present this paper and they will take you in. Do you understand, Boriska?”
He nodded, pushed the money and the note into his pocket, and leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. In a flash, he turned and darted off, charging through the beaded curtain.
I was sitting in a small room with yellowed pine paneling and a low ceiling that sagged in places. Running my hand over the rough tabletop, I noted that it was clunky and heavy, made out of crude pieces of wood. I doubted if anyone but locals ever came here, either to warm up with a cup of tea during work or to sober up before going home. My eyes turned to the beaded curtain. Would he really come through there, pushing aside the clattering wooden beads?
Instead, Sasha came quietly from behind, saying softly, “That was terribly kind of you.”
Rising quickly to my feet, I spun around to see him emerging from a small doorway. “What was?”
“Helping that boy.”
“I didn’t know you were watching.” Glancing at Sasha’s left arm, I saw that it was wrapped in a fresh white bandage. “How’s your-”
Before I could finish he wrapped his good right arm around me, pulled me into his embrace, and kissed me firmly on the lips. In the first instant, every bit of confusion seemed to flee my body. In the second instant, I knew this was wrong.
“Sasha, no,” I said, pulling away. “I can’t.”
“But-”
“We need to talk.” I stepped back, but only slightly. “Did you get a doctor to look at your arm?”
“Yes. The wound’s been cleaned, disinfected, and stitched up. I’ll be fine.”
“Good.”
He raised his right hand, pressing the back of his fingers against my cheek. It was as if we were old lovers who’d said it all and had no need to say more. But of course nothing could have been further from the truth.
Like a soldier bidding farewell, he said, “I can only stay a moment, Maria-I have to leave town in a day or two-but…but-”
“Sasha, someone came to our door last night, a very important person: a minister, actually. And he told me there’d been a disturbance the night before, something about a fugitive.”
He cast his dark brown eyes downward but didn’t say anything.
“That was you, wasn’t it, Sasha. They were chasing you, right?”
He nodded. “I was at a meeting…it was secret, you see. But somebody informed on us and we were raided. Half the people were beaten and arrested. I got away, but not before someone lunged at me with a knife. I jumped out a window and started running.” He turned away from me and shook his head. “I know I shouldn’t have come to your house; it put you in danger as well. But I’d been running and bleeding and…and I didn’t know where else to go, I really don’t know anyone here in the capital. The day before, I’d already walked by your house five or six times, just hoping to see you… I’m sorry.”
“Sasha, what’s going on? What are you involved in?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“That’s not good enough.”
He turned, looked me straight in the eyes, started to say one thing, and then said another. “Of course not.”
