“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.
She heard him say he was leaving as though in a dream. It seemed impossible to believe. He couldn't be. The moment she had never faced, the day she had thought would never come, was finally upon them.
“When?” she asked, her heart like a stone in her chest.
“In two days.” His eyes never left hers, there was still more to say. And he still wondered if he'd have the courage to say it.
“They don't give us much time for good-byes, do they?” Zoya said sadly. They were in her tiny, bleak living room, and it was a gray day, as Evgenia slept peacefully in their room, as she did most of the time now. Zoya was back at work again, but her grandmother didn't seem to notice.
“Will you be coming back to Paris again?” Zoya asked him as though he were a stranger, feeling separate from him now, preparing herself for what was to come. There had already been too many good-byes in her life, and she wasn't sure she would survive this one.
“I don't know.”
‘There's something you're not telling me.” Maybe he was married and had ten children in New York. Anything was possible now. Life had already betrayed her too often, not that Clayton ever had. But she was even angry at him now.
“Zoya … I know it won't make sense to you, but I've been thinking a great deal … about us.” She waited, blinded by pain. It was amazing that just when one thought there couldn't be any more pain, there was. It seemed to be endless. “I want to set you free, to lead your own life here. I thought about taking you to New York with me … I wanted to very badly. But I don't think the Countess could make the trip, and … Zoya,” he seemed to choke on the words, he had been thinking about it for days, “Zoya, I'm too old for you. I've told you that before. It's not fair. When you're thirty, I'll be almost sixty.”
“What difference does that make?” She had never shared his fears about their ages, and she looked at him angrily now, her hurt at his going making her resentful toward him, especially now. “What you're saying is that you don't love me.”
“I'm saying that I love you too much to burden you with an old man. I'm forty-six years old and you're nineteen. That's not fair to you. You deserve someone young and alive, and after everything settles down here, you'll find someone else to love. You've never had a chance. You were a child when you left Russia two years ago, you'd been protected there, and you came here, during the war, with barely more than the clothes on your back. One day, life will be normal again, and you'll meet someone more your age. Zoya,” he sounded suddenly firm and almost like Konstantin, “it would be wrong to take you to New York. It would be selfish on my part. I'm thinking of you now, not myself.” But she didn't understand that as she glared at him and tears sprang to her eyes.
“It was all a game for you, wasn't it?” She was being cruel but she wanted to be. She wanted to hurt him as much as he was hurting her. “That's all it was. A wartime romance. A little ballerina to play with while you were in Paris.”
He wanted to slap her but he restrained himself. “Listen to me. It was never like that. Don't be a fool, Zoya. I'm more than twice your age. You deserve better than that.”
“Ahh … I see,” the green eyes flashed, “like the happy life I have here. I've waited out half of this war for you, barely breathing for fear you'd be killed, and now you get on a ship and go back to New York. It's easy for you, isn't it?”
“No, it's not.” He turned so she wouldn't see the tears in his eyes. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe it was better if she was angry at him. She wouldn't pine for him when he was gone, as he would for her. “I love you very much.” He turned to face her quietly, as she strode purposefully to the door and yanked it open.
“Get out.” He looked stunned. “Why wait two more days? Why not just end it now?”
“I'd like to say good-bye to your grandmother.”
“She's asleep, and I doubt if she'd want to say goodbye to you. She never liked you anyway.” She just wanted him to leave, so she could cry her heart out in peace.
“Zoya, please …” He wanted to take her in his arms again, but he knew it wasn't fair. It was better to let her feel she had ended it, to leave her with some pride. Better if he was the one with a broken heart. He hated himself as he walked slowly down the stairs, the sound of the door slamming behind him ringing in his ears. Hated himself for getting involved with her. He had always known she would get hurt, he just hadn't realized that it would hurt him as much. But he was certain he was doing the right thing. There was no turning back. He was too old for her, and even if it hurt her now, she was better off free of him, to find a man her own age, and make a new life for herself. He had a heavy heart for the next two days, and the day before he left, he got a bank draft for five thousand dollars. He enclosed it in a letter to her grandmother, begging her to keep it, and to let him know if there was anything he could do for them later on. He assured her that he would always be their friend, and that he would love her granddaughter for the rest of his life.
“I have done this for her good, I can promise you that. And because I also suspect that it is what you want as well. She is younger than I. She will fall in love again. I am certain of it. And now, I bid you both adieu with a saddened, but loving heart.” He had signed it and had it delivered the morning he left by a corporal on General Pershing's staff.
He left on the morning that President and Mrs. Wilson arrived. There was a parade on the Champs-Élysées for them as he steamed slowly out of Le Havre thinking of Zoya.
CHAPTER
25
For weeks after Clayton left Zoya, she sat in Antoine's old room and cried, and thought she would die of a broken heart. Nothing seemed to matter to her anymore. She didn't care if she starved. She made soup for her grandmother, and was surprised they even had enough money left to buy that. Evgenia had sent Prince Markovsky to the bank for her once, shortly after Clayton left, and afterward she had pressed some bills into Zoya's hands.
“I've been saving this. Use it to buy whatever you need.” But there was nothing she needed or wanted anymore. He was gone. It felt like the end of her life. But the money her grandmother had apparently saved and gave to her to buy food allowed her to stay home from work. She told them she was ill, and didn't even care if they fired her. The Ballet Russe was back, and if she'd wanted to, she cou
ld have danced with them. But she didn't even want to do that, now. She didn't want anything now, no food, no friends, no job, and certainly no man. He was a fool to have told her she needed a younger man. She didn't need anyone. Except a doctor for Evgenia. She developed a terrible flu on Christmas night. She had insisted she wanted to go to church anyway. But she was too weak even to sit up, and Zoya insisted that she lie back quietly and when Prince Vladimir came she urged him to bring a doctor back with him at once, but it was hours before they came back to see her.
The doctor was a kindly old man, who had learned Russian as a child, and he spoke to Evgenia in her own tongue. Her flawless French seemed to have faded from her mind.
“She is very ill, mademoiselle,” he whispered to Zoya in the living room. “She may not live the night.”
“But that's ridiculous. She was fine this afternoon.” As fine as she ever was now. He had to be wrong. Had to be. Zoya knew she would not survive another loss. She just couldn't face it.
“I'll do everything I can. You must call me at once if she gets any worse. Monsieur can come to find me at my home.” He was recently back from the front himself, and he was practicing medicine out of his home. He glanced at Prince Vladimir, who nodded unhappily, and then looked at Zoya with sad eyes.
“I'll stay with you.” She nodded. She knew she had nothing to fear from him. He had been living with a woman for almost a year, and his daughter had been so furious, she had moved out and was living in a convent on the Left Bank.
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