Zoya (24 page)

Trains for Lyon and the south were filled with people panicking, fleeing Paris. But when Zoya suggested to her grandmother that they leave, the old woman became enraged.

“And just how many times do you think I will do this? No! No, Zoya! Let them kill me here! Let them dare! I have run all the way from Russia, and I will not run anymore!” It was the first time Zoya had seen her cry in helpless rage. It was almost exactly a year since they had left everything behind them and fled Russia. And this time there was no Feodor, there was nothing left to sell, there was nowhere to go. It was totally hopeless.

The French government itself was preparing to flee, if necessary. They had made plans to move to Bordeaux, but Foch himself had vowed to defend Paris till the end, in the streets, and on the rooftops. All of Zoya's performances and rehearsals were canceled in May. And by then, the Allies were losing on the Marne. With Pershing there, all Zoya could think of was Clayton. She was terrified he would be killed, and she had had no news of him since he left Paris.

The only news she had was a letter from Marie that Dr. Botkin had managed to send to her, and she was surprised to learn that they had been moved to Ekaterinburg in the Urals from Tobolsk the month before. And she could tell from what Marie said that things had gotten much harder. They were no longer allowed to lock their doors, and the soldiers even followed them to the bathroom. Zoya shuddered to herself as she read the words, aching for her childhood
friend, and especially Tatiana, who was so prim and shy. The thought of them in such grim circumstances was almost beyond bearing.

“… There is nothing but for us to endure it here. Mama makes us sing hymns whenever the soldiers chant their awful songs just downstairs. They are very harsh with us now. Papa says we must do nothing to make them angry. They allow us out for a little while in the afternoon, and the rest of the time we read, or do needlework …” Zoya's eyes spilled tears onto her cheeks at the next words,“… and you know how I hate sewing, darling Zoya. I've been writing poetry to pass the time. I shall show it all to you when we are finally together again. It seems hard to imagine that we are both nineteen now. I used to think nineteen was so old, but now it seems too young to die. Only to you, can I say things like that, beloved cousin and friend. I pray that you are happy and safe in Paris. I must go for our exercise now. We all send you our love, and please give ours to Aunt Evgenia.” She had signed it not with OTMA this time, their familiar code, but simply “your loving Mashka.” Zoya sat in her room for a long time and cried, reading the words over and over again, touching the letter to her cheek, as though touching her paper would bring her friend's touch back to her again. She suddenly feared terribly for them. Everything seemed to be getting worse everywhere, but at least the ballet in which she danced went back to work in June. She and Evgenia were both desperate for the income, and they had never found another boarder. People were leaving Paris, not coming to it anymore. Even some of the Russian émigrés had gone south,
but Evgenia still refused to leave. She had gone as far as she was going to.

By mid-July, the city was warm, but still hungry. Zoya was horrified to hear from Vladimir that he and Yelena had been catching pigeons in the park, to eat them. He pronounced them surprisingly tasty and offered to bring them one, but Zoya declined, feeling ill at the thought. And two days afterward, as she began to despair that the war would ever end, Clayton reappeared like a vision in a dream. Zoya almost fainted when she first saw him. It was on the eve of Bastille Day and together they watched the parades from the Arc de Triomphe to the Place de la Concorde, the uniforms looked incredibly beautiful in the bright sun, the Chasseurs Alpins in their berets and black tunics, the British Life Guards, the Italian Bersaglieri in rooster-tail hats, even an anti-Bolshevik unit of Cossacks in für hats, but all she really saw that day was Clayton. When they returned to the house on the rue de Varennes, as deeply in love as ever, there was a fierce pounding on the door at midnight. The M.P.’s were rounding everyone up, all leaves were canceled, the German offensive had begun in earnest. German troops were only fifty miles away and the Allies had to stop them.

“But you can't go now …” Zoya cried. Tears filled her eyes in spite of her attempts to be brave. “You just got here!” He had only arrived that morning, and after six months without him, she couldn't bear to see him go so soon. But there was no choice. He had half an hour to report to the headquarters of the military police on the rue St. Anne. He barely had time to take her home, before they escorted him back to General Pershing. But to Zoya, it seemed
cruel beyond words to have had so little time together before he went back to the front to risk his life again. And like a small child abandoned, she sat in her living room and cried late that night, as her grandmother brought her a cup of tea to console her.

But the tears she shed for Clayton were nothing to the tears she shed a few days later. On the twentieth of July, Vladimir appeared at the apartment with a solemn face, and a copy of
Izvestia
, the Russian newspaper. Zoya sensed instantly when she opened the door that something terrible had happened, and she felt almost ill as she escorted him inside and assisted her grandmother from the bedroom.

He began to cry as he held the newspaper out to her. He looked like a heartbroken child, his white hair almost the same color as his face, and repeating the same words again and again.“… They have killed him … oh my God … they've killed him …” He had come directly to them, they had a right to know, after all they were Romanov cousins.

“What do you mean?” Evgenia looked at him with horror, and rose halfway in her chair, as he showed her the notice in the paper. On the sixteenth of July, the Tsar Nicholas had been executed, it said. He had been shot. And it said that his family had been moved to safety. Moved to where? Zoya wanted to scream … where is my beloved Mashka? … where
are
they? … almost as though she knew, Sava began to keen softly, as the three Russians sat and cried for the man who had been their father, their Tsar … and was the two women's much loved cousin.

There were the sounds of sorrow in the room for a long time, and at last Vladimir stood and walked to the window, his head bowed, his heart heavy almost
beyond bearing. All over the world the Russians who had loved him would be crying, even the peasants in whose name the dreaded revolution had been mounted.

“What a terrible, terrible day,” he said softly. “God rest his soul,‭ he whispered, and turned to the women. Evgenia looked a hundred years old, and Zoya was deathly pale, the only color in her face the fierce green eyes, red-rimmed with tears, which still fell silently down her cheeks. All she could think of was that last morning in Tsarskoe Selo when he had kissed her good-bye and told her to be good … “I love you, Uncle Nicky,” her own words echoed in her head … and then he had told her he loved her too. And now he was dead. Gone forever. And the others? … she read the words in
Izvestia
again … ‘The family has been moved to safety.”

CHAPTER
24

July seemed to drag by like a nightmare. The fact that Nicholas had been killed seemed to weigh on them like an unbearable burden. Their gloom never seemed to lift anymore. All over Paris, Russians were grieving for him, as the war waged on around them.

Zoya was invited to a wedding celebration for one of the ballerinas she knew. Her name was Olga Khokhlova and she had married Pablo Picasso a few weeks before at St. Alexander Nevsky, but Zoya had no desire to go anywhere now. She wore the few black dresses she had, and was in deepest mourning for her cousin.

In August, Diaghilev cabled her once again, this time with an offer to join his troupe for a tour in London, but she still couldn't leave her grandmother, and she didn't want to see anyone. She could barely make herself go to work, which she did each day, just so they could put food on their table.

And in September, the Allies pressed ahead once more, and within a few weeks, the Germans were attempting to negotiate peace with them. But there
was still no news of Clayton. Zoya barely dared to think of him now. If something happened to him too, she knew she couldn't go on living. It was all too much to bear, too much to think about, impossible to understand. Uncle Nicky was dead. The words rang again and again in her head. She had written three letters to Marie since she heard the news, but as yet there had been no answer. She was no longer clear about where Dr. Botkin was, and if the family had been moved, as the newspaper had said, it was impossible to say how long it would take for the letters to reach her.

But finally, after an endless October of silence from those she loved, November came, and with it peace at last.

They sat in their living room when they heard the news, listening to the shouting in the streets, the screams, the jubilation, the church bells, the cannons. It had finally come to an end. The whole world had shuddered from the blow of it, but now, at last, it was finished. The great war was over.

She quietly poured her grandmother a cup of tea, and without a word, she stood watching the celebrations in the street from the window. There were Allied troops everywhere, Americans, English, Italians, French, but she didn't even know if Clayton was still alive, and she hardly dared to hope. She turned to look at Evgenia, so old now, so frail, the cough that had plagued her the previous winter had returned, and her knees were so bad she could no longer leave the apartment.

“Things will be better now, little Zoya,” she said softly, but she was racked by coughs as she said it. She knew what was on the girl's mind. She hadn't heard
from Clayton since he left Paris at midnight on Bastille Day. “He'll come home to you, little one. Trust a little bit. You must have faith.” She smiled at her gently, but there was no joy in Zoya's eyes anymore. She had lost too much. And she was worried about too many.

“How can you still say that? With so many people gone … how can you believe anyone will come home again?”

“The world goes on. People are born, and die, and others are born after them. It is only our own sadness that is so painful. Nicholas knows no pain now. He is at peace.”

“And the others?” She had now written five letters to Marie, and all of them were still unanswered.

“We can only pray for their safety.” Zoya nodded. She had heard it all before. She was angry now at the fates that had taken so much from them.

It was almost impossible to get through the streets during those first days after the armistice, and she only went out to bring back food for them. Once again, their supplies had dwindled to almost nothing. There were no performances of the ballet, and they had to get by on the tiny sum she had saved. It suddenly all seemed so exhausting.

“May I help you carry that, mademoiselle?” She felt someone tug at the baguette under her arm, and she turned with angry words on the tip of her tongue, ready to kill for the food she had, or to defend herself against an amorous soldier. Not everyone in Paris wanted to be kissed by an excited boy in uniform, she thought to herself as she swung around, her hands in fists, and gasped as she dropped the prized baguette and he pulled her to him.

“Oh … oh …” Tears sprang to her eyes instantly as she melted into his arms with relief. He was alive … oh, God … he was
alive
… it was as though they were the only two people left … the only survivors of a lost world, as she clung passionately to Clayton.

“Now that's better!” He looked down at her from his great height, his field uniform stained and wrinkled, his face rough from the beard stubble he hadn't been able to shave in days. He had just arrived in Paris and had come straight to find her. He had already seen Evgenia, and she had told him Zoya was out buying some food and he had rushed back down the stairs to meet her in the street.

“Are you all right?” She was laughing and crying all at once and he kissed her again and again, as relieved as she was that they had both survived.

It seemed miraculous now, in the face of everything, and he didn't tell her how close he had come more than once to being killed on the Marne. It didn't matter now. He was alive, and she was safe, and he silently thanked whatever guardian angels they had as they made their way through the crowds back to the apartment.

He was billeted in a small hotel on the Left Bank this time, along with dozens of other officers. Pershing was back in the Mills house himself, and it was difficult for them to be alone anywhere, but they stole what private moments they could, and one night they even dared to make love quietly in Antoine's old room, long after Evgenia had gone to sleep. She was so tired now, and she slept so much of the time. Zoya had been worried about her for
months, but even those fears seemed to dim in the light of being reunited with Clayton.

They talked about Nicholas late one night, and he admitted to her that he had always feared it might come to that. And she shared her fears with him about the others.

“The Russian newspaper said they had been moved to safety … but where? I've written to Mashka five times, and I still have no answer.”

“Botkin may not be able to get the letters out anymore. It may not mean anything, little one. You just have to have faith,” he said quietly, hiding his own fears from her.

“You sound like Grandmama,” she whispered to him in the dark room as they lay pressed close together.

“Sometimes I feel as old.” He had noticed how frail the old woman had become since July. She didn't look well, and he sensed that Zoya knew it too. She was almost eighty-four years old now, and the past two years had been hard for all of them. It was remarkable that she had survived at all. But they both forgot their concerns for her as their bodies meshed again as one, and they made love until he tiptoed stealthily down the stairs before morning.

They spent as much time as possible together in the next few weeks, but on December 10, almost exactly a month after the end of the war, he came to her with a heavy heart. They were sending him back to the States at the end of the week, but more important than that, he had made a painful decision about her.