“My baby … my baby …” She felt it was her punishment for leaving them alone every night. All she could think of now was what it would have been like if she had come home and … it was almost beyond thinking. She sat huddled on the street, clutching her children, watching the building burn, as they cried and watched everything they owned go with it.
“All that matters is that you're alive,” she said it again and again, remembering the night her mother had died in the burning of Fontanka Palace.
The firemen stayed until dawn, on another blistering hot day in July, and they said it would be days before anyone could go in. They would have to find somewhere else to stay, and before even attempting to go back to look in the ashes for whatever remained of their belongings. She thought of the photographs of Clayton that would be lost … the small mementos she had kept … the photographs of her parents, her grandparents, the Tsar … she thought of the imperial egg she had kept in case she ever needed to sell it, but she couldn't worry about any of it now. All that mattered was that Nicholas and Sasha were safe. And then suddenly, with a sharp pang of grief, she remembered Sava. The dog she had brought from St. Petersburg so long ago had died in the fire.
“I couldn't get her to come out, Mama … she was hiding under the couch when the men came in,” Nicky sobbed. “I wanted to take her, Mama … but they wouldn't let me …”
“Shh … darling, don't cry …” Her long red hair had come loose from its knot as she fought the firemen to go in after her children, and it hung over her torn white dress with the blue flowers. There were streaks of ashes on her face, and Nicholas's nightshirt reeked of smoke. It was everywhere, but he had never smelled so sweet, or meant so much to her as he did then. “I love you so much … she was very old, Nicky … shh … baby, don't cry …” Sava had been almost fifteen, and she'd come so far with them, but the only thing Zoya could think of now was the children.
A neighbor took them in, and Zoya and both children slept on the floor of their living room, on blankets. No matter how often they bathed or she washed their hair, they still smelled of smoke, but each time she looked outside and saw the charred relic across the street, she knew how lucky they had been. The sight of it made her shudder.
She called the theater the next day, and told them she wouldn't be coming to work, and that night, she walked to the theater to pick up her last paycheck. She didn't care if they starved, she would never leave them alone again … ever.
The paycheck would be just enough to buy them some clothes and a little food, but they had nowhere to stay, nowhere to go, and with a look of total exhaustion, she went looking for Jimmy to say good-bye to him.
“You leavin’ us?” He looked sad to see her go, but he understood when she told him what had happened.
“I can't do this anymore. If anything had happened …” And it could happen again. It was sinful to leave them alone. She'd have to find something else, but he only nodded. He wasn't surprised, and he thought it was just as well.
“You don't belong here anyway, Mama. You never did.” He smiled. All of her breeding showed just in the way she moved, although she had never said anything to him about her past, but it always made his heart ache to see her doing high kicks with the others. “Get yo'seff something else. A good job with your own kind of folks. This ain't for you.” But she had been there for a year and a half and it had paid the rent. “Don't you got no family or friends you can turn to?” She shook her head, thinking again how lucky she was to still have her children. “You got any place to go back to? Like Russia or something?” She smiled at how little he knew of the devastation they had left behind them.
‘I'll work it out,” she said, not really knowing what she was going to do.
“Where you stayin’ now?”
“With a neighbor.” He would have invited her to stay in Harlem, with him, but he knew that it wasn't right for her. Her kind of folks went to the Cotton Club to dance and raise hell, they didn't move into Harlem with an old piano player from a dance hall.
“Well, let me know how you're doin’ sometime. Y'hear?” She leaned over and kissed his cheek and he beamed as she went to pick up her check, and he shook her hand warmly when she left, relieved at what she had done. It wasn't until late that night that she discovered it in her bag. Five crisp twenty-dollar bills he had slipped into her handbag when she went to get her check. He had won it in a hot card game only that afternoon, and he was just glad to have it to give to her. She knew it could only have been from him. She thought of hurrying back to the theater to give it back, but only she knew how desperately she needed it. Instead, she wrote him a grateful note, and promised to pay it back as soon as she could. But she knew she had to think fast. She had to get a job, and to find them someplace to live.
By the end of the week, their building had cooled sufficiently to allow the residents to go back in. There was precious little that anyone could save, and two apartments had been entirely destroyed, but as Zoya crawled slowly up the rickety stairs, she held her breath and wondered what she would find there. She opened the door gingerly, and tested the floor with a shovel as she moved around. The smell of smoke was still heavy in the air, and the entire living room had been destroyed. The children's toys were all gone, most of their clothes, and her own, but she knew that they would probably always smell of smoke. She packed their dishes in a box, charred black from the smoke, and she discovered with amazement that the suitcase of photographs was still there, untouched, it was something anyway. And holding her breath, she began digging in what had once been a chest, and suddenly there it was … the enamel was cracked, but it was otherwise intact. The imperial egg had survived, she looked at it in silent wonder, and began to cry … it was a relic of a lost life, several lifetimes ago. There was nothing else to save, she packed the remains of the children's things in a single box, her black Chanel dress, two suits, and a pink linen dress, and her only other pair of shoes. It took her only ten minutes to get it all downstairs, and then as she turned to look around for a last time, she saw Sava beneath the couch, lying there … quiet and still, as though she were asleep. Zoya stood silently, looking at her, and then softly, she closed the door, and hurried back down the stairs to take their boxes to the children waiting across the street for her.
CHAPTER
33
After thanking the neighbors profusely for their kindness, Zoya rented a small hotel room with some of the money Jimmy had given her. Less than half of it was left by the time she'd bought the children new clothes, and herself a decent dress that did not smell of smoke. And they had to eat in a restaurant every night. They talked about what they were going to do, as Nicholas looked expectantly at her, but as she read the newspaper one night, scanning it for jobs, she suddenly had an idea. It wasn't something she would have done if she had the choice, but she no longer had. She had to use the little available to her, even if it embarrassed her. The next day she put on her new dress, carefully combed her hair, and wished she had some of her jewelry left, but all she had was her wedding ring, and a certain regal air, as she stood quietly, looking at herself in the mirror.
“Where are you going, Mama?” Nicky asked as he watched her dress.
I'm going out to get a job.” She wasn't embarrassed this time, as both children stared at her.
“Can you do anything?”’ Sasha asked innocently, as Zoya laughed.
“Not much.” But she knew clothes, she had worn the best for the past ten years, and even as a child, she and Marie had studied everything their mothers and other relatives had worn. She knew how to put herself together with style, and perhaps she could teach others to also. There were plenty of women who could afford that sort of thing. She took the bus uptown, after committing Sasha to her brother's care, and with a nervous heart, leaving them alone, she got off close to the address in the ad. It was on Fifty-first Street, just off Fifth Avenue. And when she reached the door, she saw that it was as stylish as she had hoped it would be. A liveried doorman stood by to
assist ladies from their cars, and once inside she saw fashionable women and a few men gazing at the shop's expensive wares. There were dresses and hats, handbags and coats, and an incredibly beautiful line of handmade shoes. The salesgirls were well dressed, and many had an aristocratic air. It was what she should have done from the first, she reproached herself, trying to block the fire from her mind, and praying that the children were all right. It was the first time she had left them alone since that night, and she would never again be sure that they were safe if they were out of her sight, but she knew that this was something she had to do. She had no choice now.
“May I help you, madame?” a gray-haired woman in a black dress asked quietly, as Zoya looked around. “Is there something you wished to see?” Her accent was clearly French, and Zoya turned to her with a dignified smile. She was trembling inside but she prayed it didn't show as she answered in her own flawless French, which she had spoken since her childhood.
“May I see the manager, please?”
“Aha … how nice to hear someone speak French.” The older woman smiled. She looked like a very well-dressed schoolmistress in a very elegant school for young ladies. “I am she. Is there something you wish?”
“Yes,” Zoya spoke quietly, so no one else would hear her. “I am Countess Ossupov, and I am looking for a job.” There was a long beat as the two women's eyes met, and then after an interminable wait, the Frenchwoman nodded.
“I see.” She was wondering to herself if the girl was a fraud, but her air of quiet dignity suggested that she was what she claimed, and the Frenchwoman waved discreetly to a closed door just beyond her. “Would you care to come to my office, madame?” The title was unimportant to her, but she knew it might not be to the clients she served, Barbara Hutton, Eleanor Carson, Doris Duke, and their friends. She had an elite clientele, and titles meant a great deal to most of them. Many of them were marrying princes and counts, just so they could have titles too.
Zoya followed her into a beautifully appointed black and white sitting room. It was where she showed their most expensive gowns, and her only competition was Chanel, who had recently brought her wares to the States, but there was room for both of them in New York. The Frenchwoman's name was Axelle Dupuis, she had come from Paris years before, and had set up the elegant salon known only as “Axelle.” But it had already been the rage in New York for several years. Zoya had even bought a gown there herself once but she had of course not used her Russian name, and mercifully Madame Dupuis seemed not to remember her.
“Have you any experience at this?” She looked Zoya over carefully. The dress she wore was cheap, and her shoes were worn, but the graceful hands, the way she moved, the way she wore her hair, all spoke of someone who had seen better times. She was articulate, and she spoke French, not that it mattered so much here. And she seemed to exude an innate sense of style, even in the inexpensive dress. Axeile was intrigued. “Have you worked in fashion before?”
“No,” Zoya was honest with her as she shook her head. “I haven't. I moved to Paris from St. Petersburg after the revolution,” she could say the words now, worse things had happened since, and she had Nicky and Sasha to think of. For them, she would crawl on her hands and knees for this job, and she could read nothing in the woman's face as she quietly poured herself and Zoya a cup of tea. The silver service she used was extremely beautiful, the china, French. She had ladylike airs, and she watched Zoya carefully as she took a sip of the tea. Things like that mattered to her, her clients were the most elegant, the most elite, the most demanding women in the world, she couldn't afford to have them served by people with bad manners, crude ways, and as she looked Zoya over with sharp gray eyes, she was pleased.
“When you went to Paris, did you work in fashion there?” Axeile was curious about this girl. There was something unmistakably aristocratic about her every move, as Zoya squarely met her eyes.
“I danced with the Ballet Russe. It was the only thing I knew how to do, and we were very poor.” She had decided to be honest with her, to a point anyway.
“And then?”
Zoya smiled sadly, as she sat very straight in her chair. “I married an American and came here in 1919.” Twelve years before, it was hard to believe now. Twelve years … “My husband died two years ago, he was older than I,” she didn't tell the Frenchwoman about everything they'd lost. It was unimportant now, and she wanted to save Clayton's dignity, even in death. “I have two children to support, and we just lost everything we had in a fire … not that there was much …” Her voice drifted off, thinking of the tiny apartment where Sava had died. She looked back into Axelle's eyes. “I need a job. I'm too old to dance anymore,” she forced the images of the dance hall from her mind, and went on, “and I know something about clothes. Before the war …” She hesitated but forced herself to go on, if she was going to trade on her title, she would have to say something about that. “In St. Petersburg, the women were elegant and beautiful….” She smiled, as Axelle watched.
“Are you related to the Romanovs?” So many minor Russians had made that claim, but something about this girl told her it might be possible. She was prepared to believe anything, as Zoya's green eyes met her own, and she spoke in her gentle voice, primly holding the cup of tea like a lady.
“I am a cousin of the late Tsar, madame.” She said nothing more, and for a long moment Axelle thought. She was worth a try. She might be just what her clients wanted, and how they loved countesses! The idea of a countess serving them would excite them beyond words, Axeile knew.
“I could give you a try, madame … Countess, I suppose I should say. You must use your title here.”
“Of course.” Zoya tried to look calm, but she wanted to shout with glee, like a child … she was going to have a job! At Axelle's! It was perfect. The children would both be in school in the fall, and she would be home by six o'clock every night. It was respectable … it was perfect … she couldn't repress a smile of relief as Axeile smiled at her. “Thank you, madame. Thank you so very much.”
“Let's see how you do.” She stood up to indicate that the audience had come to an end, and Zoya quickly followed suit, carefully setting the teacup down on the tray, as Axeile watched, extemely pleased.
“When would you like to start?”
“How would next week be?”
“Perfect. Nine o'clock. Sharp. And, Countess,” she said the word with practiced ease as she looked at Zoya's dress, “perhaps you'd like to select a dress to wear before you go … something black or navy blue …” She thought of her beloved black Chanel which hadn't recovered from the fire. It still reeked of smoke, no matter what she did to it.
“Thank you very much, madame.”
“Not at all.” She inclined her head grandly, and swept back through the door into the main room of the shop, where a woman in a huge white hat was exclaiming over the shoes. It reminded Zoya that she would have to buy new shoes, with the little money they had left, and she suddenly realized that she had forgotten to inquire about the salary, but it didn't matter now. She had a job, at any price. It was a lot better than selling apples on the street.
She announced the news to the children as soon as she got back, and they went for a walk in the park, and then went back to their hotel to escape the heat. Nicholas was as excited as she, and Sasha inquired with her big blue eyes if they had little girls’ dresses there too.
“No, my love, they don't. But I'll buy you a new dress as soon as I can.” She had bought them the bare minimum after the fire, just as she had for herself, but now a new day had dawned. She had a respectable job, hopefully she'd earn a decent wage. She would never have to dance again. Life was looking up. And then suddenly, with a smile, she wondered if she would see any of her old friends at Axelle's. Just as they had snubbed her, when she'd first come from France, and then fallen in love with her. They had forgotten her completely when Clayton died, and shunned her entirely when they lost everything. How fickle people were, not that she cared. She had
her children, that was all she cared about. The rest had come and gone, and come again, and gone again. It didn't matter to her anymore. Just so they survived … life suddenly seemed infinitely precious to her again.
CHAPTER
34
Her days at the shop were tiring and long, the women she served demanded a great deal. They were impetuous and spoiled, some of them were unable to make up their minds, but she was always patient with them, and she found that she had a good eye for what suited them. She was able to take a gown, pull it there, tuck it here, and suddenly the woman seemed to bloom as she looked at herself in the mirror … she was able to pick the perfect hat to go with just the right suit … a bunch of flowers … a little fur … the exceptionally lovely shoes. She created images that became poetry, and her employer was more than pleased with her. By Christmas, Zoya had made a real niche for herself at Ax-elle's, she had outsold everyone, and everyone asked for the Countess when they came in. It was Countess this, Countess that … and don't you think, Countess … and oh, Countess, please … Axelle watched her perform, always with discretion and a dignified air, her own clothes put together perfectly with quiet elegance, her white gloves immaculate when she came to work, her hair impeccably done, her faint accent adding to her mystery. And Axelle let it be known early on that she was a cousin of the Tsar. It was exactly what she needed for the shop, and when Serge Obolensky came in to see this “Countess” everyone was talking about, he looked at her, stunned, as tears filled her eyes.
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