Zoya - Danielle Steel

[Dalyia]

CHAPTER
5



As the troika began to move, Zoya turned to see the flames leaping above the trees, devouring what had once been her home and was now only the shell of her former life. But within moments, Feodor guided them expertly into the back streets as the two women huddled together, their bags at their feet, filled with the clothes they had taken with them, their jewels concealed in the linings, and little Sava trembling in the cold as Zoya held her. There were soldiers in the streets, but no one tried to stop them as they wended their way through the back streets toward the outskirts of the city. It was Thursday, March 15, and far away in Pskov, Nicholas was reading the telegrams sent to him by his generals, telling him that he must abdicate. His face was deathly pale, as he saw treason around him everywhere, but he was no paler than Zoya, as she watched St. Petersburg shrink behind them. It was more than two hours before they were on the back roads, on the way to Tsarskoe Selo, and it was a long time before they got there. They had no news as they moved along, and no clearer understanding of what had happened. All Zoya could think about was the vision of her mother, her robe in flames as she leapt to her death from the upstairs windows … and her brother as he must have been, as the flames enveloped him, lying dead in the room where she had so often visited him when she was a child … Nicolai … “stupid Nicolai” she had called him. She wondered if she would ever forgive herself … only yesterday … only yesterday when everything was all right and life was normal.
Her head was wrapped in an old shawl, and her ears ached from the cold, it made her think of Olga and Tatiana with their earaches from the measles. Such simple disasters had been their lot only days before … such small, stupid things like fevers, and earaches and measles. She could barely think as her grandmother held tightly to her hand, and they both silently wondered what they would find in Tsarskoe Selo. The village came into sight in the afternoon, and Feodor circled expertly around it. Wandering soldiers stopped him twice, and Feodor thought only for a moment about pressing the troika through. But he knew instinctively they might all be shot if he did, so he slowed carefully and said that he was carrying a sick old crone and her idiot granddaughter. Both women stared emptily at the men, as though they had nothing to hide, and the old Countess was grateful that Feodor had thought to take their oldest sled, with chipped paint but still useful runners. It was one they hadn't used in years, and although it had been handsome once, it no longer was. Only the extraordinarily fine horses he used suggested that they had great means, and the second group of soldiers laughingly relieved them of two of Konstantin's best black horses. They reached the gates of Tsarskoe Selo with only one horse prancing nervously as he pulled the old troika. The Cossack Guards were nowhere in sight, there were no guards anywhere, only a few uneasy-looking soldiers.
“Identify yourselves,” one man shouted at them roughly and Zoya was terrified, but as Feodor began his tale, Evgenia stood up in the back of the troika. She was simply dressed, and, like Zoya, with only an old wool shawl covering her hair, but she was imperious as she stared him down, and pushed Zoya behind her.
“Evgenia Peterovna Ossupov. I am an old woman and a cousin of the Tsar. Do you wish to shoot me?” They had killed her grandson and her son, if they wished to shoot her now, they were welcome to it. But she was prepared to kill them first if they laid a hand on Zoya. Zoya was unaware of it, but her grandmother had a small pearl-handled pistol concealed in her sleeve and she was willing and ready to use it.
“There is no Tsar,” he said fiercely, a red armband suddenly seeming more ominous than it had before, as the old woman's heart pounded and Zoya was seized with terror. What did he mean? Had they killed him? It was four o'clock in the afternoon … four o'clock and their entire world had come to an end … but Nicholas … had they killed him too? … like Konstantin and Nicolai …
“I must see my cousin Alexandra.” Evgenia was imperious to the very tips of her fingers, as she stood staring at the soldier. “And her children.” Or had they killed them too? Zoya's heart was racing as she sat frozen behind her grandmother's skirts, frightened to her very core, as Feodor stood tensed and silently watching. There was an endless pause as the soldier considered them and then suddenly stepped back, calling over his shoulder to his compatriots.
“Let them through. But remember, old woman,” he turned to her with harsh words, “there is no more Tsar. He abdicated an hour ago, in Pskov. This is a new Russia.” And with that he stepped aside, and hoping he had cut off his toes, Feodor whipped the troika past him. A new Russia … an end to an old life … all of the old and the new blending in terrifying confusion, as Evgenia sat white-faced beside her granddaughter. Zoya whispered to her as they passed the Feodorovsky Church, unable to believe what she had heard. Uncle Nicholas wouldn't do it….
“Grandmama, do you think it's true?”
“Perhaps. Alix will tell us what has happened.”
But the front doors to the Alexander Palace were strangely silent, there were no guards, no protection, no one anywhere, and as Feodor knocked loudly at the huge palace door, two nervous servants appeared and let them in. The halls seemed terrifyingly empty.
“Where is everyone?” the old Countess asked, and one of them pointed to the doorway Zoya knew so well, leading upstairs to the private apartments. There were tears on the woman's face as she wiped them away with her apron and finally answered.
“The Empress is upstairs with the children.”
“And the Tsar?” Evgenia's eyes shot green fire at the woman crying helplessly.
“You've not heard?”
Oh, God, no … Zoya prayed …
“They say he has abdicated in favor of his brother. The soldiers came to tell us an hour ago. Her Highness doesn't believe it.”
“But he's alive then?” Evgenia felt relief flood her body like new life.
“We believe so.”
“Thank God.” She swept her skirts around her, and glanced sharply at Zoya. “Tell Feodor to bring everything inside.” She didn't want the soldiers touching their clothes with the jewels sewn into the linings. And as Zoya returned to her a moment later with Feodor at her side, her grandmother ordered the maid to take them upstairs to the Tsarina.
“I know the way, Grandmama. I will take you.” And quietly she walked the halls she knew so well, the halls she had walked with her friend only days before.
The Alexander Palace was eerily quiet as she led her grandmother upstairs, and knocked gently on Marie's door, but there was no one there. She had been moved to one of her mother's sitting rooms, to be nursed with Anna Vyrubova and her sisters. Quietly, they moved along the hall, knocking on doors, until finally they heard voices. Zoya waited until someone bid them to come in, and slowly the door opened to reveal Alexandra, standing tall and thin, holding out a glass of tea to her two youngest daughters. Anastasia had tears on her cheeks as she turned to the door and Marie sat up in bed and began to cry when she saw Zoya.
Zoya was too overcome to speak as she rushed across the room and threw her arms about her friend, as Evgenia went to embrace her exhausted cousin.
“My God, Cousin Evgenia, how did you get here? Are you all right?” Even the old woman had difficulty speaking, as she embraced the tall, elegant woman who looked so desperately tired. Her pale gray eyes seemed to be filled with a lifetime of sadness. “We came to help you, Alix. And we could not stay in St. Petersburg any longer. They set fire to the house this morning as we left. We left very quickly.”
“I cannot believe it. …” Alexandra sank slowly into a chair. “And Konstantin?”
The old woman's face went pale and she could feel her heart pound beneath her heavy dress. She suddenly felt the weight of all she had lost and feared she would swoon at the younger woman's feet, but she would not allow herself that in the face of all Alix had to bear. “He is dead, Alix….” Her voice cracked but she did not cry. “And Nicolai too … on Sunday … Natalya was killed as the house burned this morning.” She did not tell her that her daughter-in-law had gone mad before leaping in flames from the window. “Is it true … about Nicky?” She was afraid to ask, but she had to. They had to know. It was so difficult to understand what had happened.
“About the abdication? It cannot be. They are saying it to frighten us … but I have heard nothing from Nicholas today.” She glanced at her two daughters embracing Zoya as the three girls cried. Zoya had just told them about Nicolai, and she sobbed openly as Marie held her. Even sick as she was, she offered solace to her friend, and none of them seemed to notice the two older women. “All our soldiers have deserted us … even …” The Empress seemed almost unable to say the words. “Even Derevenko has abandoned Baby.” He was one of the two soldiers who had been with the Tsarevich since he was born. He had left them at dawn that morning without a word, or a look back over his shoulder. The other, Nagorny, had sworn to stay at Alexis's side until they killed him, and he was with him now in the next room, with Dr. Fedorov. Dr. Botkin had gone to try and find more medicines for the girls with Gibbes, one of their two tutors. “It is impossible to understand … our sailors … I can't believe it. If only Nicholas were here. …”
“He will come, Alix. We must remain calm. How are the children?”
“They are all ill. … I couldn't tell them at first, but they know now … there was no way I could conceal it from them any longer.” She sighed and then added, “Count Benckendorff is here, he has vowed to protect us, and the Baroness Buxhoeveden arrived yesterday morning. Will you stay, Evgenia Peterovna?”
“If we may. We cannot go back to St. Petersburg now…” She did not add “if ever.” Surely the world would be set to rights again. Surely when Nicholas returned … surely the news of his abdication was a lie, spread by revolutionaries and traitors, to frighten and control them.
“You may have Mashka's room, if you like. And Zoya …”
“We shall sleep together. Now, what may I do to help you, Alix? Where are the others?” The Empress smiled gratefully as her husband's elderly cousin tossed off her cloak, and carefully turned back the cuffs of the simple dress she had worn.
“Go and rest. Zoya can keep the girls company while I see to the others.”
“I'll come with you.” And the old woman steadfastly followed her throughout the day, pouring tea, soothing fevered brows, and even helping Alix to change Alexis's sheets while Nagorny stood faithfully by. Like Alix, Evgenia found it difficult to believe that Derevenko had actually left him.
It was almost midnight that night, when Zoya and her grandmother slipped into their beds in Marie and Anastasia's room, and Zoya lay awake for hours, listening to her grandmother snore softly. It seemed impossible that less than three weeks ago she had visited Marie in this very room, and Marie had given her a bottle of her favorite perfume, long gone now, as everything lay shattered around them. She had realized also that none of the girls fully understood what had happened. She wasn't sure she understood it herself, even after seeing all she had in St. Petersburg. But they had been so ill, and they were so far removed from the disorder in the streets, the frantic riots, the murders, the looting. The vision of her home in flames never seemed to dim … nor the sight of her brother bleeding to death on the marble floor of the Fontanka Palace only four days before. It was morning before Zoya fell asleep, as a fresh blizzard raged outside and she wondered when the Tsar would come home and if life would ever return to normal.
But at five o'clock that afternoon, the possibility of that seemed even more unlikely. Grand Duke Paul, Nicholas's uncle, came to Tsarskoe Selo and gave Alexandra the news. Nicholas had abdicated the day before, passing the power on to his brother, Grand Duke Michael, who had been completely stunned and unprepared to take the throne. Only Alix and Dr. Fedorov truly understood why Nicholas had not abdicated in favor of his son, but rather his brother. The extent of Alexis's illness was a well-guarded secret. A Provisional Government was being formed as Alexandra heard the news in silence and desperately wished that she could talk to her husband.

[Dalyia]

Nicholas himself arrived at headquarters in Mogilev the following morning to say good-bye to his troops, and from there was finally able to call his wife. The call came as Alexandra was helping Dr. Botkin tend to Anastasia, and she flew from the room to talk to him, praying that he would tell her none of it was true, but at the sound of his voice she knew instantly that it was, beyond any hope. Their life and their dreams, along with his dynasty, were shattered. He promised to return as soon as possible, and as always, inquired lovingly about the children. And the following night, Sunday, General Kornilov came from St. Petersburg to see if she needed anything, medicines, or food, and her first thoughts were for the soldiers. She begged him to help supply the hospitals with medicine and food. After caring for them for so long, she could not forget them now even though they were no longer “her” soldiers. He assured her that he would, and something about his visit suggested to her that there was worse to come. She warned Nagorny that night not to leave Baby's side, and she sat with her daughters long into the night. It was after midnight when she finally went to her own room, and the old Countess knocked softly at her door and brought her a glass of tea. She saw that there were tears in the younger woman's eyes and gently patted her shoulder. “Is there anything I can do for you, Alix?” She shook her head, still proud, still austere, and thanked her with her eyes. “I only wish he would come home. Suddenly … I'm afraid for the children here.” Evgenia was too, but she didn't want to admit it to her young cousin.
“We are all standing by you.” But the “all” was such a precious few, a handful of old women and loyal friends who could be counted on one hand. They had been deserted by everyone, the blow was almost too much to bear. But she knew she could not break now. She had to remain strong for her husband. “You must get some sleep now, Alix.”
Alexandra looked around her famous mauve bedroom nervously and then glanced sadly at the old woman. “I have some things I want to do … I must …” She could hardly bare to say it. “I want to burn my diaries tonight … and my letters … who knows if in some way they will use them against him.”
“Surely they can't …” But as Evgenia thought of it, she found that she agreed with Alexandra. “Would you like me to stay with you?” She didn't want to intrude, but the Empress looked so devastated and so lonely.
“I would like to be alone, if you don't mind.”
“I understand.” And she quietly left Alexandra to her unhappy task. She sat by the fire until morning, reading letters and journals, and burning even her letters from her grandmother Queen Victoria. She burned everything, except her correspondence with beloved Nicholas, and for two days she felt the pain of it, until Wednesday when General Kornilov returned and asked to speak with her alone. She met him downstairs in one of the rooms Nicholas often used. She stood tall and proud, and attempted to conceal her shock and pain as she listened to what he said. She was being put under house arrest, along with her family and her servants and her children. She wanted not to believe his words, but it was inevitable now. The end had come, and they all had to face it. He explained carefully that anyone who wished to remain with them could, but if they chose to leave, they would not be allowed to return to Tsarskoe Selo. It was staggering news, and it took all of her strength not to swoon as she listened.
“And my husband, General?”
“We believe he will be here by morning.”
“And will you imprison him?” She felt physically ill as she asked, but she had to know now. She had to know all of it, what they could expect and what they were facing. And after the tales she had heard in the past few days, she supposed she should be grateful that they weren't all killed, but in the face of what was happening it was difficult to be grateful.
“Your husband will be under house arrest here at Tsarskoe Selo.”
“And then?” She looked deathly pale as she asked, but the response was not as terrifying as she had feared. All she could think of now was her husband and her children, their safety and their lives. She would gladly have sacrificed herself for them. She would have done anything, as General Kornilov watched her in silent admiration.
“The Provisional Government wishes to escort you and your husband and your family to Murmansk. You will be able to travel from there. We will send you by steamer to England, to King George.”
“I see. And when will that be?” Her face was as icy as granite.
“As soon as it can be arranged, madame.”
“Very well. I shall wait until my husband returns to tell the children.”
“And the others?”
“I shall tell everyone today that they are free to go, if they wish, but they cannot return. Is that right, General?”
“Exactly.”
“And you will not harm them as they leave, our family and loyal friends, few as they are now?”
“I give you my word, madame.” The word of a traitor, she wanted to spit at him, but she remained ladylike and calm as she watched him leave, and returned to tell the others. She told everyone that afternoon that they were free to go, and she urged them to do so if they wished to.
“We cannot expect you to stay here if you do not wish it. We shall be leaving for England in a few weeks, and it may be safer for you to leave us now …” perhaps even before Nicholas returned. She could not fully believe that they were being placed under house arrest for their own protection.
But the others refused to go, and the following day Nicholas finally returned, looking exhausted and pale on a freezing cold, dreary morning. He walked silently into the front hall and for a long moment he just stood there. The servants quickly brought word to Alix and she met him downstairs and faced him across the endless hall, her eyes filled with the words she could not say, her heart filled with compassion for the man she loved, and silently he came toward her and held her close to him. There was nothing left for either of them to say as they walked slowly upstairs to their children.

[Dalyia]

CHAPTER
6



The days following Nicholas's return were filled with fear and silent tension, and yet at the same time relief that he was safely home. He had lost everything, but at least they had not killed him. He sat quietly for hours with the Tsarevich, and Alexandra turned her attention to her daughters. It was Marie who was the sickest now, with pneumonia, which had resulted from the measles. She had a fearful cough that racked her body again and again, and a fever that would not seem to abate, as Zoya sat ever near her.
“Mashka … have a little drink … just for me …
“I can't … my throat hurts so much.” She could barely speak and her skin was hot and dry as Zoya touched her. She bathed her brow in lilac water, and spoke softly to her about their tennis games the previous summer at Livadia.
“Remember the silly picture your papa took of everyone hanging upside down. I brought it with me … Mashka, do you want to see it?”
“Later … my eyes hurt so much, Zoya … I feel awful.”
“Shh·. just try to sleep … I'll show you the picture when you wake up” She even brought little Sava in to cheer her, but Marie wasn't interested in anything. Zoya only hoped that she would be well enough to travel to Murmansk, and take the ship to England. They were leaving in three weeks, and Nicholas said everyone had to be well by then. He called it his final imperial order, which made everyone cry. He tried so hard to make everyone feel better about things, and keep the children happy. Both he and Alix looked more worn each day, but it was three days later that Zoya glimpsed him in the hall outside the mauve boudoir and his face was ghostly white. An hour later she knew why. His English cousin had refused to receive him, for reasons that were as yet unclear. But the imperial family would not be leaving for England. Originally he had asked Zoya and the old Countess to go with them, but now no one knew what would happen.
“What will happen, Grandmama?” Zoya asked her that night with terrified eyes. What if they were just going to keep them there at Tsarskoe Selo and then finally kill them.
“I don't know, little one. Nicholas will tell us when it is decided. They'll probably go to Livadia.”
“Do you think they'll kill us?”
“Don't be stupid.” But she feared the same thing. There were no easy answers now. Even the English had failed him. There was nowhere else for them to go, nowhere safe. The route to Livadia was perilous at best, she guessed. They were trapped now at Tsarskoe Selo. And Nicholas always seemed so calm, and he urged everyone not to worry, but how could they not?
It was the next morning when Zoya tiptoed silently from the room and looked down from the window to see Nicholas and her grandmother walking slowly in the snow-filled garden. There seemed to be no one else around, and as she stared at them, he with his straight, proud shoulders, and her grandmother so tiny, a figure in a stark black cloak against the snow, she thought that she saw her grandmother crying, and then gently he embraced her and they disappeared around the corner of the palace.
Zoya went to the room they shared and a little while later her grandmother returned, her heart heavy, her eyes sad, as she sank slowly into a chair and looked at her lovely granddaughter. Only weeks before she had seemed to be a child, and now suddenly she seemed so wise and sad. She was thinner and seemed more delicate to the eye, but her grandmother knew that the horrors of the past weeks would only help to make her stronger. She would need her strength now. They all would.
“Zoya …” She didn't know how to tell her, but she knew that Nicholas was right. And she had to think of Zoya's safety. She had a long life ahead of her, and her grandmother would gladly have given her own to protect it.
“Grandmother, is something wrong?” In the light of what had happened in the past two weeks, it seemed a ridiculous question, but she sensed further disaster was impending.
“I have just spoken to Nicholas, Zoya Konstantinovna … he wants us to leave now … while we still can….”
Her eyes instantly filled with tears and she leapt to her feet in terror. “Why? We said we would stay here with them, and they will all be leaving soon … won't they, Grandmama? … won't they? …” The old woman didn't answer, she weighed the balance between truth and lie and truth won, as it always did with her.
“I don't know. With the English refusing to take them in, Nicholas fears that things may not go well for them. He feels that they will be imprisoned here, perhaps for a long time, or even taken somewhere else. We might all be separated eventually … and he cannot offer us his protection, he has none to give. And I cannot keep you safe here from these savages. He's right, we must go … now … while we still can.” She looked sadly at the girl who had only moments before been a child, but she was in no way prepared for the full measure of Zoya's fury.
“I won't go with you! I won't! I won't leave them!”
“You must! You could end in Siberia alone, you little fool … without them! We must leave in the next day or two. Nicholas fears that things could get much harsher. The revolutionaries don't want him around, and if the English won't take them in, who will? It is a very serious situation!”
“Then I'll die with them! You cannot make me go!”
“I can do anything I wish, and you must do as I say, Zoya. It is Nicholas's wish too. And you must not disobey his orders!” She was almost too tired to fight the girl, but she knew she had to use her last ounce of strength to convince her.
“I won't leave Marie here, Grandmama, she's so ill … and she's all I have left….” Zoya began to sob, and like a little girl she laid her head down on her arms on the table. It was the same table where she had sat with Marie only a month before, as Marie had braided her hair and they giggled and chatted. Where had that world gone? What had happened to all of them? … and Nicolai … and her mother and father …
“You have me, little one….” Her grandmother gently stroked her hair as Marie had once done. “You must be strong. They expect it of you. You must, Zoya. We must do what we have to do now.”
“But where will we go?”
“I don't know yet. Nicholas says he will arrange it. Perhaps we can go to Finland. And to France or Switzerland from there.”
“But we don't know anyone there.” She looked horrified as she turned her tear-stained face to Evgenia.
“That is how it is sometimes, my dear. We must trust in God and go when Nicholas tells us.”
“Grandmama, I can't …” She wailed but her grandmother was firm. She was as strong as steel and twice as determined. And Zoya was no match for her, not yet in any case, and they both knew it.
“You can and you will, and you must not say anything to the children. They have their own worries just now. We must not burden them, it wouldn't be fair.”
“What will I say to Mashka?”
Tears filled the old woman's eyes as she looked at the girl she loved so very dearly, and when she spoke it was in a hoarse whisper filled with her own grief for those they had lost and the others they would lose now. “Only tell her how very much you love her.”

[Dalyia]

CHAPTER
7





Zoya tiptoed into the room where Marie slept, and stood for a long moment watching her. She hated to wake her up, but she couldn't leave without saying good-bye. She couldn't bear to leave her at all, but there was no turning back now. Her grandmother was waiting downstairs, and Nicholas had planned everything for them. They were to take the long Scandinavian route, through Finland and Sweden, and Denmark after that. He had given Evgenia the names of friends of his Danish aunt, and Feodor was coming with them to keep them safe. Everything had been decided. All that remained was a last farewell to her friend. She watched her stir feverishly beneath the sheets, and then Marie opened her eyes, and smiled at the familiar face, while Zoya tried valiantly not to cry.
“How do you feel?” she whispered in the silent room. Although Anastasia was sleeping in another room with her two sisters, all of them were slowly improving. Only Marie remained very ill, but Zoya tried not to think of it now. She could not think of anything, couldn't allow herself to look back or even ahead, there was nothing to look forward to now. There was only this … one tiny last moment with her dearest friend as gently she reached out to her and touched her cheek. “Mashka …” Marie tried to sit up in bed and looked oddly at her friend.
“Is something wrong?”
“No … I … I'm going back to St. Petersburg with my grandmother.” She had promised Alix that she wouldn't tell her the truth, it would be too much for her just then. But Marie looked worried anyway. She had always had a sixth sense about her friend, as she did now. She reached out and took Zoya's hand and held it tightly in her own much too warm one.
“Is it safe?”
“Of course,” Zoya lied, and tossed back her red hair. “Your father wouldn't let us go if it weren't safe.” … please God, don't let me cry now … please … she handed her the water glass and Marie pushed it away, meeting her friend's eyes.
“Something's happening, isn't it? You're going somewhere.”
“Just home for a few days … I'll be back soon.” She leaned forward then and took Marie in her arms and held her close as tears filled her eyes. “You must get better now. You've been sick for far too long.” They held each other close, and she was smiling brightly as she pulled away, knowing that they were waiting for her.
“Will you write to me?”
“Of course.” She couldn't bring herself to leave, she just stood there staring at her, wanting to drink it all in, to hold on to all of it, the feel of her friend's hand, the smoothness of the sheets, the look in her huge blue eyes. “I love you, Mashka.” Her words were whisper soft … “I love you so very much …”
“So do I.” Marie lay back on her pillow then with a sigh. It was exhausting just to sit up and talk, and then she coughed horribly as Zoya held her.
“Please get well …” She bent one last time to kiss her cheek and felt the soft curls beneath her hand, and then quickly she turned away and walked to the door, turning for a last time with a silent wave, but Marie's eyes were closed again, and Zoya slowly closed the door, her heart tearing from her very soul as she bent her head and cried silently. She had bid the others good-bye half an hour before, and she stopped now for only an instant outside little Alexis's room. Nagorny was there with him, and Pierre Gilliard, and Dr. Fedorov was just leaving him.
“May I go in?” She wiped the tears from her cheeks and he touched her arm in silent sympathy.
“He's asleep.” She only nodded then and hurried down the familiar stairs to her grandmother and the Tsar and Tsarina waiting in the main hall. Feodor was already outside, with two of the Tsar's best horses hitched to the old troika in which they had come. It was all almost more than she could bear as she walked toward them on leaden feet. She wanted everything to stop, wanted to turn back the clock … to run back upstairs to her friend … she felt as though she were deserting all of them, and yet she was being torn from them unwillingly.
“Is she all right?” Alexandra looked worriedly into Zoya's eyes, hoping that Marie hadn't been able to discern the raw agony there.
“I told her we were going back to St. Petersburg.” Zoya was crying openly now, and even her grandmother had to fight back tears, as Nicholas kissed her on both cheeks and held her hands tightly in his, his eyes brutally sad but his lips still wearing a dignified smile. Although Evgenia had heard his sobs in his wife's rooms the night he returned, there was never any evidence of his grief to the rest of them. He staunchly encouraged everyone and was always charming and calm, as he was as he kissed her goodbye.
“Safe journey, Evgenia Peterovna. We shall look forward to seeing you sometime soon.”
“We shall pray for you all every hour, Nicholas.” The old woman gently kissed his cheek. “Godspeed to all of you.” And then she turned to Alix as Zoya stood by with tears streaming down her cheeks. “Take care of yourself, don't exhaust yourself too much, my dear. I hope the children will all be well soon.”
“Write to us,” Alix said sadly, just as Marie had said to Zoya only moments before. “We will be anxious for news of you.” She turned to Zoya then. She had known her since she was born, her baby and Natalya's born only days apart and such fast friends for all their eighteen years. “Be a good girl, listen to your grandmother, and take great good care of yourself.” And then without a word, she held her close to her, feeling for an instant as though she were losing her own child.
“I love you, Aunt Alix … I love you all so much … I don't want to go …” She could barely speak through her sobs, and then she turned to Nicholas, and he held her close as her own father would have done, if he were still alive.
“We love you too, and we always shall. We shall be together again one day. Be certain of it. And God's blessings on both of you until then, little one.” He pulled her gently away then, with a small smile. “You must go now.” He led her solemnly outside as his wife took her grandmother's arm and they helped them into their sled as Zoya cried. The last of the servants had come to say good-bye to them and they were crying too. They had known Zoya since she was a child, and now she was leaving them, and soon others would be leaving too. And it was frightening to think of never coming back. It was all Zoya could think of now, while Feodor slowly lifted his whip and touched the Tsar's horses for the first time. The troika sprang to life and in the gray gloom they suddenly pulled away from Alexandra and Nicholas, who stood waving at them. Zoya turned, clutching little Sava close to her. The puppy suddenly whined as though she also knew that she was leaving home never to return again, and suddenly Zoya buried her face in her grandmother's arms. She couldn't bear seeing it anymore, those two with their brave faces standing there, waving at them, the Alexander Palace seen for the last time, and suddenly Tsarskoe Selo itself disappearing in a distant haze of snow as Zoya wailed in agony, thinking of Mashka … Mashka … her best and only dearest friend … her brother … her parents … everyone gone … She clung to her grandmother and cried as the old woman sat stoically in the sleigh, her eyes closed as icy tears rolled down her cheeks, a lifetime left behind, all she had ever known, a world they had all loved … gone like the snows, as Feodor drove them on, and Nicholas's horses carried them far, far from home, and away from everything and everyone they had known and loved.
“Adieu, chers amis …” Evgenia whispered into the falling snow … Good-bye, dearest friends … They had only each other now, a very old woman and a very young girl, fleeing from a lost world and the people they had loved there. Nicholas and his family were history now, never to be forgotten, always beloved, and never to be seen again by any of them.

[Dalyia]

CHAPTER
8





The journey from Tsarskoe Selo to Beloostrov on the Finnish border took seven hours, although it was not far from St. Petersburg, but Feodor was being careful to travel by all the back roads. Nicholas had warned him that it was safer to travel that way, even if it took them longer. And much to Evgenia's surprise, they crossed the border easily. There were some questions, but suddenly Evgenia seemed to sink into herself and look like a crone, and bundled up and cold, Zoya looked more like a child than she had for a long time. It was Sava who saved them in the end. The soldiers at the border were enchanted with her and after an anxious moment, waved them on, and the three refugees heaved a sigh of relief as the troika moved on behind Nicholas's horses. Feodor had been careful to use the old harness he had brought from St. Petersburg, and had purposely not used any of the equipment from the Tsar's stable with the easily recognizable double-headed eagle.
The trip from Beloostrov across Finland to Turku took two full days, and by the time they arrived in Turku late at night, Zoya felt as though she would be numb for the rest of her life. Her whole body seemed to be frozen into the position she'd been in, in the troika. Her grandmother could barely walk when they helped her out, and even Feodor seemed exhausted. They found a small inn where they took two rooms, and in the morning Feodor sold the horses for a ridiculously small sum before the three of them boarded an icebreaker to Stockholm. It was another endless day on the ship, moving slowly amidst the ice between Finland and Sweden, and the three companions barely spoke, all were lost in their own thoughts.
They arrived in Stockholm late in the afternoon, just in time to catch the night train to Malmo. And once in Malmo, they took the railroad ferry the next morning to Copenhagen, and there they went to a small hotel, and Evgenia called the Tsar's aunt's friends, but they were away, and the next morning they left Copenhagen for France on a British steamer. Zoya seemed to be almost in a daze by then, and she was desperately seasick the first day on the ship. Her grandmother thought she looked feverish, but it was difficult to tell if she was ill or just exhausted. They were all exhausted after the six-day journey. It had been grueling to travel on day after day, by ship and by train and by troika. Even Feodor looked as though he had aged ten years in the single week, but they were also suffering from the sorrow of leaving their homeland. They spoke little, rarely slept, and none of them ever seemed to be hungry. It was as though their very bodies were filled with grief, and they couldn't have borne any more. They had left everything behind them, a way of life, a thousand years of history, the people they had loved and lost. It was almost too much to bear, and Zoya found herself hoping the ship would be sunk by German U-boats on the way to France. Far from Russia, it was the Great War and not the revolution people were afraid of. But Zoya found herself thinking that dying at anyone's hands would have been easier than facing a new world she didn't want to know. She thought of how often she and Marie had talked dreamily about going to Paris. It had all sounded so romantic then, so exciting with all the elegant women and the beautiful gowns they would buy. Now there would be none of that. They had only the small amount of money her grandmother had borrowed from the Tsar before they left, and the jewels sewn into their clothing. Evgenia had already made up her mind to sell as many of them as she had to once they reached Paris. And they had to think of Feodor as well. He had promised to look for work as soon as they arrived, he had vowed to do everything he could to help them, but he had refused to let them make the trip alone. He had nothing left in Russia anymore, and he couldn't imagine a life without serving the Ossupovs. It would have killed him if they'd left him. He was as ill as Zoya was on the trip to France, he had never been on a boat before, and he was terrified as he clung miserably to the railing.
“What are we going to do, Grandmama?” Zoya sat watching her grandmother unhappily in the tiny cabin. Gone the grandeur of the imperial yachts, the palaces, the princes, the parties. Gone the warmth and love of family. Gone the people they had known, their way of life, even the security of knowing they would have enough to eat the next day. All they had were their lives, and Zoya wasn't even sure she wanted hers. All she wanted was to go home to Mashka, and Russia, to turn back the clock and return to a lost world, full of people who no longer existed. Her father, her brother, her mother. And Zoya wondered, as they pressed on, if Marie was getting better.
“We will have to find a small apartment,” her grandmother answered her. She hadn't been to Paris in years. She had traveled very little since the death of her husband. But now she had Zoya to think about. She had to be strong for the girl's sake. She had to see her safely settled. She prayed that she would live long enough to take care of her, but it wasn't Evgenia who seemed in danger now, but Zoya. The girl looked very ill, and her eyes seemed larger than ever in her pale face, and when the old Countess touched her, she knew instantly that she was blazing with fever. She began coughing late that night, and the Countess began to fear pneumonia. By the next morning, her cough was even worse, and as they boarded the train to Paris in Boulogne, it became obvious what she was suffering from. The spots began appearing on her face and hands, and when her grandmother forced her to pull up her wool shirt, it was clear to both of them that Zoya had the measles. Evgenia was less than pleased, and now even more anxious to get the girl to Paris. It was a ten-hour trip to Paris by train, and they arrived just before midnight. There were half a dozen taxis outside the Gare du Nord, and Evgenia sent Feodor in search of one, as she helped Zoya down from the train. She could hardly walk as she leaned heavily against her grandmother, her face suddenly as flushed as her bright red hair. She was coughing horribly and almost incoherent with fever.
“I want to go home,” she whimpered as she clutched the little dog. Sava was bigger now, and Zoya could hardly carry her as she followed her grandmother out of the station.
“We're going home, my love. Feodor is finding us a taxi.”
But Zoya only began to cry, the woman she had become seeming to melt away, as she looked up at her grandmother like a lost child. “I want to go back to Tsarskoe Selo.”
“Never mind, Zoya … never mind. …” Feodor was signaling frantically as he juggled their bags, and Evgenia gently led Zoya from the station and helped her into the ancient taxi. Everything they still owned was piled in beside Feodor and the driver, as Zoya and her grandmother slid onto the backseat with tired sighs. They had no reservations anywhere, no idea where to go, and the driver was deaf and ancient. All the young men had long since gone to war, only the old and the infirm were still in Paris.
“Alors? … On y va, mesdames?” He smiled into the backseat and looked surprised when he saw that Zoya was crying. “Elle est malade?” Is she sick? Evgenia was quick to reassure him that she was only very tired, as they all were. “Where have you come from?” he chatted amiably as Evgenia tried to remember the hotel where she'd stayed with her husband years before, but suddenly she could remember nothing at all. She was eighty-two years old and utterly and completely exhausted. And they had to get Zoya to a hotel and call a doctor.
“Can you recommend a hotel to us? Something small and clean and not very expensive.” He pursed his lips for a moment as he thought about it, and Evgenia instinctively pressed her bag close to her. In it she carried her last and most important gift from the Empress. Alix had given her one of her very own imperial Easter eggs, made for her three years before by Carl Fabergo. It was an incredible piece of work in mauve enamel with diamond ribbons, and Evgenia knew it was the most important treasure she had. When all else failed, they could sell it and live on what it brought them.
“Do you care where it is, madame? … the hotel….”
“As long as it's in a decent neighborhood.” They could always look for something better afterward, tonight all she needed were rooms where they could sleep. The niceties, if any were still possible, would come later.
“There's a small hotel off the Champs-Élysées, madame. The night porter is my cousin.”
“Is it expensive?” she asked sharply, and he shrugged. He could see that they were not well off, their clothes were simple, and the old man looked like a peasant. At least the woman spoke French, and he thought the girl did, too, although she cried most of the time, and she had a fearful cough. He only hoped she didn't have tuberculosis, which was currently rampant in Paris.
“It's not too bad. I'll have my cousin speak to the desk clerk.”
“Very well. That will do,” she said imperiously, and sat back in the ancient cab. She was a spunky old thing and he liked her.
The hotel was on the rue Marbeuf, and it was indeed very small, but it looked decent and clean as they walked into the lobby. There were only a dozen rooms, but the night clerk assured them two of them were vacant. They had to use a common bathroom down the hall, which was something of a shock to Evgenia, but even that didn't matter now. She pulled the sheets back in the bed she and Zoya would share, and they were clean. She pulled Zoya's clothes off, after concealing her bag under the mattress, and Fe-odor had brought in the rest of their things. He had agreed to keep Sava with him. And the Countess went back downstairs as soon as Zoya was in bed, and asked the desk clerk to send for the doctor.
“For yourself, madame?” he asked. He wasn't surprised, they all looked tired and pale, and she was obviously very old.
“For my granddaughter.” She didn't tell him that Zoya had the measles, but two hours later when the doctor finally came, he confirmed it.
“She is very ill, madame. You must tend her carefully. Do you have any idea how she caught it?’
It would have been ridiculous to tell him that she caught them from the children of the Tsar of Russia. “From friends, I believe. We have made a very long journey.” Her eyes were wise and sad as he looked at her and sensed that they had been through a great deal But even he couldn't dream what misery they'd seen in the past three weeks, how little they had left, or how frightened they were of the future. “We have come from Russia … through Finland and Sweden and Denmark.” He stared at her in amazement, and then suddenly he understood. Others had made similar journeys in the past weeks, fleeing from the revolution. And he guessed easily that there would be more in the ensuing months, if they were able to escape at all. The Russian nobility, or what was left of it, was fleeing in droves, and many of them were coming to Paris.
“I'm sorry … very sorry, madame.”
“So are we.” She smiled sadly. “She doesn't have pneumonia, does she?”
“Not yet.”
“Her cousin has had it for several weeks, and they've been very close.”
“I'll do my best, madame. I'll come back to see her in the morning.” But when he did, she was worse, and by nightfall she was delirious with the fever. He prescribed some medicine for her and said it was her only hope. And the next morning, when the desk clerk told Evgenia that America had just entered the war, it seemed almost irrelevant. The war seemed so much less important now, in light of everything else that had happened.
She ate her meals in their simple room, and Feodor had gone out to buy medicine and fruit. They were rationing bread, and it was difficult to obtain anything, but he was ingenious at finding whatever the Countess needed. He was particularly pleased with himself, for having found a taxi driver who spoke Russian. Like them, he had only been in Paris for a few days, he was a prince from St. Petersburg, and Feodor thought he had been a friend of Konstantin's, but Evgenia had no time to listen to him. She was deeply concerned about Zoya.
It was several more days before the girl seemed to know where she was. She looked around the small, unadorned room, and looked into her grandmother's eyes, and then slowly she remembered that they were in Paris.

[Dalyia]

“How long have I been sick, Grandmama?” She tried to sit up but she was still too weak, at least her fearsome cough was finally a little better.
“Since we arrived, my love, almost a week ago. You had us all very worried. Feodor has been running all over Paris, trying to find fruit for you. The shortages here are almost as bad as they are in Russia.”
Zoya nodded, her thoughts seeming to drift away as she stared out the room's only window. “Now I know how Mashka felt … and she was even sicker than I was. I wonder how she is now.” She couldn't bring herself to think of the present.
“You mustn't think of it,” her grandmother reproached gently as she watched the look of sadness in her eyes, “I'm sure she's well by now. We left two weeks ago.”
“Is it only that?” She sighed as she looked into her grandmother's eyes. “It seems like a lifetime.” It did to all of them, and her grandmother had barely slept since they left Russia. She had been sleeping sitting up in a chair for days, afraid to disturb Zoya's sleep by sharing the bed with her, and afraid she wouldn't be awake if the girl needed her, but now she could relax her vigil a little bit. That night she would sleep at the foot of the bed, and she needed the rest almost as badly as Zoya.
“Tomorrow we'll get you out of bed, but first you must rest and eat and get strong again.” She patted Zoya's hand, and Zoya smiled weakly up at her.
“Thank you, Grandmama.” Her eyes filled with tears as she pressed the once graceful gnarled hand to her cheek. Even that brought back painful memories of her childhood.
“For what, silly child? What have you to thank me for?”
“For bringing me here … for being so brave … and doing so much to save us.” It had only just dawned on her how far they had come, and how extraordinary her grandmother had been. Her mother could certainly never have done it. Zoya would have had to carry Natalya all the way out of Russia.
“We'll make a new life here, Zoya. You'll see. One day we'll be able to look back, and everything won't be so painful.”
“I can't imagine it … I can't imagine a time when the memories won't hurt like this.” She felt as though she were dying.
“Time is very kind, my dear. And it will be kind to us. I promise you. We'll have a good life here.” But not the life that they had known in Russia. Zoya tried not to think of it, but later that night as her grandmother slept, she crept softly out of bed and went to her own small bag and found the picture Nicholas had taken while they were clowning at Livadia the previous summer. She and Anastasia and Marie and Olga and Tatiana were leaning backward until they hung almost upside down, grinning after the game they'd played, while their father took the picture. It looked silly to her now … silly … and so sweet … even at that odd angle, they all looked so beautiful to her, even more so now … the girls she had grown up with and loved … Tatiana, Anastasia … Olga … and, of course, Mashka.

[Dalyia]

CHAPTER
9





The measles left Zoya painfully weak, but much to her grandmother's relief, she seemed to revive amidst the beauty of Paris in April. There was a seriousness about her now that hadn't been there before, and a slight cough that seemed to linger. But now and then there was laughter in her eyes almost the way there had been before, and it made her grandmother's heart a little lighter.
The hotel on the rue Marbeuf was becoming expensive for them, though, as simple as it was, and Evgenia knew they would soon have to find an apartment. They had already used a good part of the money Nicholas had given them, and she was anxious to safeguard their meager resources. It was clear to her by early May, that she was going to have to sell some of her jewelry.
On a sunny afternoon, she left Zoya with Feodor and went to see a jeweler the hotel referred her to on the rue Cambon, after carefully cutting a ruby necklace out of the lining of one of her black dresses. She put the necklace in her handbag, and then took the matching earrings out of their hiding place in two carefully covered and rather large buttons. The hiding places had definitely served their purpose. She called for a taxi before leaving the hotel, and when she gave the driver the address, he slowly turned and stared at her. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man with silver hair, and a perfectly groomed white moustache.
“It's not possible … Countess, is it you?”’ She looked at him carefully then, and suddenly felt her heart beat a little faster. It was Prince Vladimir Markovsky. She recognized him with amazement, he had been one of Konstantin's friends, and his eldest son had even offered to marry the Grand Duchess Tatiana, and had been summarily refused. Tatiana thought him far too frivolous. But he was a charming boy, as was his father.
“How did you get here?”
She laughed, shaking her head at how strange their life was these days. She had seen other familiar faces in Paris since they'd been there, and on two other occasions she had called for taxis and discovered that she knew the drivers. The Russian nobility seemed to have no other way to earn a living, skilled at nothing at all, handsome, well born and extremely charming, there remained little that they could do, except drive a motorcar, like Prince Vladimir as he gazed happily at her. It brought bittersweet memories of better days back to her, and she sighed as she began to explain to him how they had left Russia. His own tale was much akin to hers, although far more dangerous when he crossed the border.
“Are you staying here?” He glanced at her hotel as he started the car, and headed toward the address she had given him of the jeweler in the rue Cambon.
“Yes, for the moment. But Zoya and I must look for an apartment.”
“She's here with you then. She must be hardly more than a child. And Natalya?” He had always thought Konstantin's wife extremely beautiful, although nervous to be sure, and he had obviously not heard of her death when the revolutionaries stormed the Fontanka Palace.
“She was killed … only days after Konstantin … and Nicolai.” Her voice was low as she spoke. It was still difficult to say their names, particularly to him, because he had known them. He nodded sadly from the front seat. He had lost both his sons too, and he had come to Paris with his unmarried daughter.
“I'm sorry.”
“We are all sorry, Vladimir. And sorriest of all for Nicholas and Alexandra. Have you had any news of them?”
“Nothing. Only that they are still under house arrest at Tsarskoe Selo, God only knows how long they will keep them there. At least they're comfortable, if not safe.” No one was safe anymore, anywhere in Russia. At least not the people they knew. “Will you stay in Paris?” They had nowhere else to go, any of them, and other Russians were filtering in day by day, with amazing tales of escape, and their terrible losses. To an already burdened city they were adding ever growing numbers.
“I think so. It seemed better to come here than anywhere else. At least here we're safe, and it's a decent place for Zoya.”
He nodded in agreement and darted the taxi in and out of the traffic. “Shall I wait for you, Evgenia Peterovna?” It made her heart sing just to speak Russian again, and to speak to someone who knew her name. He had just pulled up in front of the jeweler's.
“Would you mind terribly?” It would be comforting to know he was there, and to return home again with him, particularly if the jeweler gave her a great deal of money.
“Of course not. Ill wait here.” He helped her out of the car carefully and escorted her to the door of the jewelry store. It was easy to imagine what she was going to do there. It was the same thing all of them were doing, selling everything they could, all the same treasures they had smuggled out with them, which only weeks before were baubles they took for granted.
The Countess emerged half an hour later with a dignified air and Prince Markovsky asked her no questions as he drove her back to the hotel. She seemed more subdued, though, as he helped her out of the cab on the rue Marbeuf and he hoped that she had gotten what she needed. She was very old to be forced to survive by her wits and selling her jewelry in a strange country, with no one to care for her, and a very young girl to take care of. He wasn't sure how old Zoya was, but he was certain that she was considerably younger than his own daughter, who was almost thirty.
“Is everything all right?” He was worried as he escorted her to the door, and she turned to him with wounded eyes.
“I suppose so. These are not easy times.” She glanced back at the waiting taxi and then into his eyes. He had been a handsome man in his youth and he still was, but like her, there was suddenly something different about him. It had changed all of them. The very face of the world was no longer the same since the revolution. “It's not easy for any of us, is it, Vladimir?” And when there was no jewelry left to sell, she wondered to herself, then what will we do? Neither she nor Zoya was able to drive a taxi, and Feodor spoke no English at all and wasn't likely to learn. He was almost more of a burden than a help, but he had been so faithful, and so loyal in helping them escape, she could not let him down. She had to be responsible for him, just as she was for Zoya. But two hotel rooms were twice as expensive as one, and with the insignificant amount of money she had gotten for her ruby necklace and earrings, she had little hope of their funds holding out for much longer. They would have to think of something very creative. Perhaps she could take in sewing, she thought to herself, as she bid Vladimir good-bye with a distracted air. And she suddenly looked older than she had an hour before when she left for the jeweler's. Prince Markovsky kissed her hand and absolutely refused to let her pay him. She wondered if she would ever see him again. She felt that way about everyone now, but two days later, she came downstairs with Zoya and Feodor to find him waiting for her in the lobby.
When he saw her he bowed low and kissed her hand again, glancing with kindly eyes beyond her at Zoya, and then with obvious surprise at how lovely she was, and how grown up. She had come to be a considerable beauty. “I must apologize for intruding upon you, Evgenia Peterovna, but I have just heard of an apartment … it's quite small, but near the Palais Royal. It is not … quite … the most ideal neighborhood for a young girl, but … perhaps … perhaps it might do. You mentioned the other day how anxious you were to find a place to live. It has two bedrooms.” He glanced past her at old Feodor with sudden concern. “Perhaps that won't be large enough for all of you, though …”
“Not at all” She smiled up at him as though he had always been her dearest friend. It suddenly meant so much to see a familiar face, even one that she hadn't seen so very often before. It was at least a face from the not so distant past, a relic from home, and she introduced him quickly to Zoya. “Zoya and I can easily share a room. We are doing so here at the hotel, and she doesn't seem to mind it.”
“Of course not, Grandmama.” She smiled warmly at her and gazed with curiosity at the tall, distinguished Russian.
“Shall I arrange for you to see it, then?” He seemed very interested in Zoya, but her grandmother seemed not to notice.
“Could we see it now? We were just going out for a strojl.” It was a lovely May afternoon, and it was difficult to believe that there was discord anywhere in the world, harder still to believe that all of Europe was at war, and America had finally joined too.
“I will show you where it is, and perhaps they will let you see it now.” He drove them there as quickly as he could, as Feodor sat in the front seat with him, and Vladimir told the two ladies all the latest gossip. Several more of their acquaintances had arrived only days before, although none of them seemed to have fresh news from Tsarskoe Selo, and Zoya listened with interest as he reeled off the names. She recognized most of them, although none of them were close friends. He also mentioned that Diaghilev was there, and was planning an actual performance of the Ballet Russe. They were to perform at the Châtelet, and begin the following week with a full rehearsal. Zoya felt her heart beat faster as she listened, and she barely noticed the streets they drove through to reach the apartment.
The apartment itself was very small, but it looked out over someone else's very pleasant garden. There were two small bedrooms and a tiny sitting room, a small kitchen, and a bathroom down the hall, which they would have to share with four other apartments. The others had to come from other floors, so they were more fortunate than most. It was certainly a far cry from the palace on Fontanka, or even the hotel on the rue Marbeuf, but they had no choices left to them now. Zoya's grandmother had admitted to her what a paltry sum she had gotten for the ruby necklace. They had brought other jewels to sell as well, but it did not bode well for their future.
“Perhaps it is too small after all….” Prince Vladimir looked suddenly embarrassed, but it was no more embarrassing than his having to drive a taxi.
“I think it will do very well,” the Countess said matter-of-factly, but she had already seen the look of dismay in Zoya's eyes. The hallway had an ugly smell, of urine mixed with fetid cooking. Perhaps a little perfume … the lilac smells that Zoya was so fond of … and the windows open onto the pretty garden. Anything might help, and the rent was just what they could afford. The Countess turned to Vladimir with a warm smile and thanked him profusely.
“We have to take care of our own.” He spoke warmly to her, but his eyes were firmly on Zoya. ‘I'll drive you back to your hotel.” They had arranged to move in the following week, and on the way back, Evgenia began making a list of the furniture they would need. She was going to buy as little as she could, she and Zoya could make the curtains and the bedspreads, she was only planning to acquire the essentials.

[Dalyia]

“You know, with a pretty rug on the floor, it might make the room seem a little larger.” She spoke cheerfully and forced herself not to think of the treasured Aubussons in the pavilion behind the Fontanka Palace. “Don't you think, my love?”
“Hm? … Sorry, Grandmama?” She had been frowning and staring out the window as they drove down the Champs-Elysoes to the rue Marbeuf. She had been thinking of something far more important. Something they needed desperately. Something that would allow them to live decently again, perhaps not in a palace but in an apartment that was larger and more comfortable than a foul-smelling matchbox. She was anxious to get back to the hotel now and leave her grandmother to her lists and her plans, and her orders to Feodor to go in search of furniture and a pretty carpet.
They thanked Prince Markovsky again when he dropped them off, and Evgenia was startled when Zoya said that she was going out for a walk, but absolutely refused to let Feodor go with her.
“I'll be fine, Grandmama. I promise you. I won't go far. Just to the Champs-Élysées and back.”
“Do you want me to come with you, my dear?”
“No.” She smiled at the grandmother she so dearly loved, thinking of how much she owed her. “You rest for a little while. We'll have tea when I come back.”
“Are you sure you'll be all right?”
“Absolutely certain.”
Reluctantly, the Countess let her go, and walked slowly up the stairs, holding Feodor's arm. It was going to be good practice for the long hike up the stairs to the new apartment.
And as soon as Zoya left the hotel, she rounded a corner and hailed a taxi, praying that the driver would know where it was, and that when she got there, someone would know what she was speaking of. It was a wild, wild hope, but she knew she had to try it.
“The Châtelet, please,” she said imperiously as though she knew what she was talking about, and prayed silently that the man knew its location. And after an instant's hesitation, she saw that her prayers were answered. She hardly dared to breathe as the taxi sped her there, and she gave the driver a handsome tip, because he had found it, and because she felt guiltily relieved that he wasn't Russian. It was depressing somehow to see members of the families she had known driving taxis and talking mournfully about the family at Tsarskoe Selo.
She hurried inside, and looked around, thinking back to her threats to run away to the Maryinsky Theatre, and she found herself thinking of Marie and how stunned she would have been at this. It made Zoya smile as she looked for someone, anyone, who could answer her questions. She found a woman finally, in ballet tenue, practicing quietly at the barre, and Zoya guessed correctly that she was a teacher.
“I am looking for Mr. Diaghilev,” she announced, and the woman smiled.
“Are you now? Might I ask why?”
“I'm a dancer and I would like to audition for him.” She put all her cards on the table at once, and she had never looked younger or prettier or more frightened.
“I see. And has he ever heard of you?” It seemed rather a cruel question, and the woman didn't even bother to wait for an answer. “I see you haven't brought anything to dance in, mademoiselle. That's hardly an outfit in which to audition.” Zoya glanced down at her narrow navy blue serge skirt, her white sailor blouse, and the black leather street shoes she had worn every day during her last weeks at Tsarskoe Selo. She blushed furiously then and the woman smiled at her. She was so pretty and so young and so innocent. It seemed hard to believe that she would be much of a dancer.
“I'm sorry. Perhaps I could come back to see him tomorrow.” And then in a hushed whisper, “Is he here?”
The older woman smiled. “No, but he will be soon. He is holding full rehearsal here on the eleventh.”
“I know. I wanted to audition for him. I want to be in the performance, and join his troupe.” She said it all at once and the woman laughed out loud.
“Do you now? And where have you been training?”
“At Madame Nastova's school in St. Petersburg … until two months ago.” She only wished then that she could have lied and said “the Maryinsky,” but he would have known the truth almost certainly. And Madame Nastova's school of ballet was also one of the most prestigious in Russia.
“If I get you a leotard and some shoes, will you dance for me now?” The woman looked amused, and Zoya hesitated only for a split second.
“Yes, if you like.” Her heart was pounding like an entire orchestra, but she had to get a job and this was all she could do, and all she wanted to do. It seemed the very least she could do for Evgenia.
The shoes that the woman gave her hurt her terribly, and as she went to the piano, Zoya felt foolish to have even tried it. She would look stupid on the stage all alone, and perhaps Madame Nastova was only being kind when she had said she was very good. But as the music began, she slowly began to forget her fears, and slowly she began to dance, and do everything that Madame Nastova had taught her. She danced for almost an hour tirelessly, as the woman watched her critically with narrowed eyes, but nowhere on her face was either scorn or amusement. Zoya was drenched when the music stopped at last, and she made a graceful curtsy in the direction of the piano. And in the silence of the room, the two women's eyes met, and the woman at the piano slowly nodded.
“Can you come back in two days, mademoiselle?”’ Zoya's eyes widened into two huge green saucers as she ran toward the piano.
“Do I get a job?”
The older woman shook her head and laughed, “No, no … but he will be here then. We shall see what he says, as well as the other teachers.”
“All right. I'll get some shoes.”
“You don't have any?” The woman looked surprised and Zoya looked at her seriously.
“We left everything we had in Russia. My parents and brother were killed in the revolution, and I escaped with my grandmother a month ago. I must find a job. She's too old to work, and we have no money.” It was a simple statement that spoke volumes and touched the other woman's heart to the core, although she didn't show it.
“How old are you?”
“Just eighteen. And I've studied for twelve years.”
“You're very good. No matter what he says … or the others … don't let anyone frighten you. You're very good.” Zoya laughed out loud then, it was just exactly what she had said to Marie, that afternoon at Tsarskoe Selo.
“Thank you! Thank you so much!” She wanted to throw her arms around her and kiss her, but she restrained herself. She was afraid to lose the opportunity she had. She would do anything to dance for Diaghilev, and this woman was going to let her do it. It was beyond anything she had ever dreamed. Perhaps Paris wasn't going to be so bad after all … not if she could become a ballerina. “I'll be better after I've danced again. I haven't danced in two months. I'm a little rusty.”
“Then you'll be even better than I think.” She smiled at the beautiful young redhead standing so graceful and poised beside the piano, and then suddenly Zoya gave a gasp. She had promised her grandmother she'd be back in a little while, and she'd been gone for almost two hours.
“I must go! My grandmother! … Oh … I'm so sorry …” She dashed off to change her clothes again, and returned in her navy skirt and sailor blouse, a swan having been changed back into a duckling. “I'll be back in two days … and thank you for the shoes! …” She started to hurry off, and then suddenly turned back again, and shouted to the woman who watched her go. “Oh … what time?”
“Two o'clock!” The woman called, and then remembered something else. “What's your name?”
“Zoya Ossupov!” she called back, and then was gone, as the woman at the piano sat down with a smile, remembering the first time she had danced for Diaghilev twenty years before … the girl was good, there was no denying that … Zoya … poor child, she had been through enough from what she'd said in her simple words … it was hard to imagine being eighteen again, and as exuberant as Zoya.

[Dalyia]

CHAPTER
10





At two o'clock on a Friday afternoon, Zoya arrived at the Chatelet with a small tapestry bag, a leotard, and a pair of brand-new ballet shoes. She had sold her watch to pay for them, and had told her grandmother nothing of where she was going. All Zoya could think of for two days was the extraordinary opportunity she was about to have, and she was praying to all her guardian angels and favorite saints that she wouldn't make a mess of it. What if she was awkward … if she fell … if he hated her style … if Madame Nastova had been lying to her all these years. She had been filled with dread, and by the time she reached the Châtelet again all she wanted to do was run away, but she saw the woman for whom she had danced two days before, and suddenly it was too late. Diaghilev himself arrived and Zoya was introduced to him. And the next thing she knew she was on the stage, dancing for all of them as they sat in the audience, and she even forgot they were there. She was more comfortable than she had been two days before, much to her own surprise, and the music seemed to lift her up and carry her away. And when she was finished» they asked her to dance again, this time with a man, and he was very good, as Zoya seemed to fly through the air on the wings of angels. All in all, she danced for an hour and a half, and once again she was drenched when she stopped, and the new shoes were killing her, but she felt as though she could have flown to the moon as she turned to them. They were nodding, there were unintelligible words. They seemed to confer for hours, and then one of the teachers turned summarily to her and called across the stage as though it were no very remarkable thing.
“Next Friday, four o'clock, répétition générale, right here. Thank you very much.” And with that, they turned away from her, as she stood with tears rolling down her cheeks. Madame Nastova hadn't lied and the gods had been good to her. She didn't know if it meant she had a job, and she didn't dare to ask them. All she knew was that she was dancing in the rehearsal next Friday afternoon. And maybe … maybe … if she was very, very good … she didn't even dare think of it as she changed her clothes and flew through the doors. She wished she could tell her grandmother, but she knew she could not. The idea of Zoya becoming a dancer would have driven her wild. It was better not to say anything, at least not yet. Perhaps if they actually let her dance with the Ballet Russe … perhaps then …
But the following week, victorious, having landed a job, for the time being at least, she had to share her good news.
“You did what?” Her grandmother looked shocked, stunned beyond belief.
“I auditioned for Serge Diaghilev and he is letting me perform with the Ballet Russe. The first performance is next week” She could feel her heart pound and her grandmother did not look pleased.
“Are you mad? A common dancer on the stage? Can you imagine what your father would say to something like that?” It was a blow below the belt and it hurt too much as she wheeled on the grandmother she loved with wounded eyes.
“Don't talk about him like that. He's dead. He wouldn't like any of the things that have happened to us, Grandmama. But they have, and we have to do something about it. We can't just sit here and starve.”
“Is that it then? You're afraid we'll starve? I'll be sure to order an additional dinner for you tonight, but take my word for it, you are not going on the stage.”
“I am.” She looked at her defiantly for the first time. In the past she had only dared to fight with her mother this way, but she couldn't let her grandmother stop her now. It meant too much to her, and it was their only way out, the only one she could see anyway. She didn't want to work in a shop, or scrub floors, or sew tiny buttons onto men's shirts, or work for a milliner and sew plumes on a hat, and what else was there she could do? Nothing at all. And sooner or later it would come to that. And her grandmother knew it too. “Grandmama, be sensible. You got almost nothing for the ruby necklace you sold. And how much jewelry can we sell? Everyone else here is doing the same thing. Sooner or later one of us has to go to work, and this is the only thing I know how to do.”
“That's ridiculous. First of all, our money has not run out yet, and when it does, we can both get respectable jobs. We both sew decently, I can knit, you can teach Russian or French, or German, or even English if you try a little bit.” They had taught her all those things at the Smolny Institute, along with a great many other niceties that served no purpose whatsoever now. “There is absolutely no reason at all for you to become a dancer like … like …” She was so angry, she almost mentioned the woman Nicholas had been so involved with years before. “Never mind. In any case, Zoya, I shan't allow it.”
“You have no choice, Grandmama.” She spoke with quiet desperation and it was the first time her grandmother had ever seen her like that.
“Zoya, you must obey me.”
“I won't. It's the only thing I want to do. And I want to do something to help you.” Tears filled the older woman's eyes as she looked at her only granddaughter.
“Has it come to this?” In her eyes, it was only a little better than prostitution, but not much.
“What's so terrible about being a dancer? It doesn't shock you that Prince Vladimir drives a taxi. Is that so respectable? Is that so much better than what I want to do?”
“It's pathetic.” Evgenia wheeled on her with broken eyes and a heart that was breaking. “He was an important man only three months ago, and long ago his father was a great one. He is the next best thing to a beggar now … but it's all he has left, Zoya … it's all he can do. It's all over for him, and at least he's alive. Your life is just beginning, and I can't let you begin it that way. You'll be ruined …” She covered her face with her hands and began to sob. “And there's so little I can do to help you.” Zoya was stunned to see her grandmother cry, it was the first time she had ever seen her falter, and it touched her to the core, but she still knew she had to dance with the Ballet Russe, no matter what» She wasn't going to sew or knit or teach Russian.
She put her arms around her grandmother and pulled her close to her. “Please, don't, Grandmama … please don't … I love you so very much …”
“Then promise me you won't dance with them … please, Zoya … I'm begging you … you must not do it.”
She looked at her grandmother sadly then, wise beyond her years. She had grown much too old far too quickly in the past months and there was no turning back now. They both knew that, no matter how hard Evgenia tried to fight it. “My life will never be the same as yours, Grandmama. never again. It's not something you and I can change, we must simply make the best of it. There's no turning back now. Just like Uncle Nicholas and Aunt Alix … they must do whatever they have to. I'm doing that now … please don't be angry. …”
The diminutive Countess sat down in a chair with a look of defeat and stared unhappily up at Zoya. “I'm not angry, I'm sad. And I feel very helpless.”
“You saved my life. You got me out of St. Petersburg … and out of Russia. If it weren't for you, they'd have killed me when they burned the house, or perhaps worse than that … you cannot change history, Grandmama. We can only do our best … and mine is to dance … let me do it … please … please give me your blessing.”
The old woman closed her eyes and thought of her only son and slowly shook her head as she looked at Zoya, but Zoya was right. Konstantin was gone. They all were. What did it matter now? But whatever happened, Evgenia knew that Zoya was going to do what she wanted, and for the first time ever that she could remember, she felt too old and tired to fight her.
“You have my blessing then. But you're a wicked, wicked girl!” She wagged a finger at her and tried to smile through her tears and then suddenly wondered how she could have managed the audition. “How did you ever get the shoes?” Zoya hadn't asked her for a penny since they'd arrived in Paris.
“I bought them.” She grinned mischievously. She was ingenious at least. Her father would have liked that.
“With what?”
“I sold my watch. It was ugly anyway. One of my classmates gave it to me for my name day.” And with that, Evgenia could only laugh at her. She was a remarkable girl, and the old woman loved her even more than she knew, outrageous though she was.
“I suppose I should be grateful you didn't sell mine.”
“Grandmama! What a thing to say! I would never do a thing like that!” She tried to look hurt but they both knew she wasn't.
“God only knows what you would do … I shudder to think!”
“You sound like Nicolai….” Zoya smiled sadly when she said the words, and their eyes met and held. It was a whole new world for them, filled with new principles, new ideas, new people … and a new life for Zoya.

[Dalyia]

CHAPTER
11





Her first rehearsal with the Ballet Russe on the eleventh of May was absolutely killing. It ended at ten o'clock that night, and Zoya came back to the apartment exhilarated but so tired, she could barely move. Her feet had actually bled as she went over the pas de deux and the tours jetés again and again and again. It made her years with Madame Nastova look like child's play.
Her grandmother was waiting up for her in the tiny living room. They had moved into the apartment two days before, and had bought a small couch, and several small tables. There were lamps with ugly fringes, and a green rug with gloomy purple flowers. Gone the Aubussons and the antiques and the pretty things they had once loved. But it was comfortable and Feodor kept it clean for them. He had gone out to the country with Prince Markovsky the day before and come home with the taxi filled with firewood. There was a warm fire blazing as her grandmother waited for her with a steaming pot of tea.
“Well, little one, how was it?” She was still hoping that Zoya would come to her senses, and abandon the idea of dancing with the Ballet Russe, but she could see in the girl's eyes that there was no hope of that now. She hadn't seen her so happy since the whole nightmare began exactly two months before, with the riots in the streets, and Nicolai's death. None of it was forgotten, but the memory of it seemed a little less acute as she fell into one of their uncomfortable chairs and smiled from ear to ear.
“Grandmama, it was wonderful … just wonderful … but I'm so tired I can hardly move.” The long hours of rehearsal had been grueling beyond words, but in an odd way it was a dream come true for her, and all she could think of now was the performance in two weeks. Her grandmother had promised to come, and Prince Markovsky was coming with his daughter.
“You haven't changed your mind, little one?”
She shook her head with a tired smile, and poured herself a glass of tea from the steaming pot. They had told her that night that she would dance in both parts of the performance, and she was so proud of the money they had given her. She slipped it quietly into her grandmother's hand with a shy look of pride as tears filled Evgenia's eyes. It had come to that then. She was to be supported by the child's dancing. It was almost beyond bearing.
“What's that for?”
“Grandmama, it's for you,”
“We don't need it yet.” But the bare walls around them and the ugly green rug told another tale. Everything they had was threadbare and worn, and they both knew that the money from the ruby necklace would be gone soon. There were more jewels, of course, but not enough to support them forever. “Is this truly what you want to do?” Evgenia asked sadly, and Zoya gently touched her cheek, and then kissed it.
“Yes, Grandmama … it was beautiful today.” It was just like her dream of dancing with the students at the Maryinsky, and she wrote to Marie that night, a long, brave letter that told her everything except about the small dreary apartment. She sat in the tiny sitting room long after her grandmother had gone to bed, and told her of the people they'd seen, and what Paris was like, and the excitement of dancing with the Ballet Russe. She could almost see Marie smile as she wrote it. She directed the letter to Dr. Botkin at Tsarskoe Selo and hoped that it would reach Marie before too long. It made her feel closer to her just to write it.
The following day she went back to rehearsal again, and that night there was an air raid. The three of them went to the cellar beneath the building, and then walked slowly back upstairs when it was over. It was a reminder of the war that raged nearby, but Zoya wasn't afraid. All she could think of now was her dancing.
Prince Markovsky was often there when Zoya got home. He always had stories to tell, and he frequently had brought her little cakes, and fresh fruit whenever he could find it. He even brought them one of the few treasures he still had, a priceless icon that her grandmother didn't want to accept, but he insisted. Evgenia knew only too well how desperately they all needed the things they could sell, but Markovsky only waved an elegantly veined hand with long graceful fingers and told them he had more than enough for the moment. His daughter already had a job teaching English.
And the night of her first performance they were all there, in the third row. Zoya had bought the tickets for them with her wages. Only Feodor didn't come. He was proud of her as well, but the ballet was beyond his ken, and Zoya brought him a program, with her name in tiny print near the bottom. Even her grandmother had been proud of her, though she had cried with bittersweet sorrow when she first saw her. She would have preferred anything than to see her own granddaughter on the stage like a common dancer.
“You were marvelous, Zoya Konstantinovna!” The Prince toasted her with champagne he had brought when they went back to the apartment. “We were all so proud of you!” He smiled happily at the young girl with the flaming hair, despite an austere glance and a sniff from his daughter. She thought it shocking that Zoya had become a dancer. The two had never met before, and she was a tall, spare girl with all the earmarks of a spinster. Life in Paris was excruciating for her. She hated the children she taught English to, and it was embarrassing beyond words to see her father drive a taxi. But Zoya shared none of her prim views. Her eyes seemed to blaze with excitement. There was a warm flush on her cheeks, as her fiery hair fell from the bun she had worn and cascaded like flames past her shoulders. She was a beautiful girl, and the excitement of the night seemed only to have enhanced her beauty.
“You must be tired, little one,” the Prince said kindly as he poured the last of the champagne.
“Not at all.” Zoya beamed and pranced around the room on feet that still wanted to dance. It was so much easier than rehearsal had been. It had been everything she'd always dreamed, and more. “I'm not even a little bit tired.” She smiled and then giggled as she took another sip of the champagne he had brought, as Yelena, his daughter, looked on disapprovingly. Zoya wanted to stay up all night and tell them the tales of backstage. She needed to talk about it with people who cared.
“You were fabulous!” he said again, and Zoya grinned. He was so serious and so old, but he seemed to care about her. In a way she wished her father had been there, although it would have broken his heart to see her on the stage … but perhaps, secretly, he might have been proud of her … and Nicolai … tears filled her eyes at the thought, and she set down her glass and turned away, to walk to the window and stare at the gardens outside. “You look lovely tonight,” she heard Vladimir whisper at her side, and she turned to look up at him as he saw the tears shimmer in her eyes. Her lithe body was so young and strong. He ached with desire for her and it shone in his eyes, as she took a step away from him, suddenly aware of what she hadn't noticed before. He was even older than her father had been and she was shocked at what she thought she saw in his eyes now.
“Thank you, Prince Vladimir,” she said quietly, suddenly sad at how desperate they all were, how hungry for love, and some shred of the past they could still share. In St. Petersburg, he would never have looked at her twice, she would have been nothing more than a pretty child to him, but now … now they were clinging to a lost world, and the people they had left behind there. She was nothing more than a way of continuing the past. She wanted to tell Yelena that as she stiffly said good night to them.
Zoya thought of Prince Vladimir again as she undressed and waited for her grandmother to return from the bathroom down the hall.
“It was nice of him to bring us champagne,” her grandmother said as she brushed her hair, her lace nightgown framing her face and making her seem younger in the dim light. She had been beautiful once, and the two women's eyes were almost the same as they met and held. Zoya wondered if she knew that Vladimir was attracted to her. His hand had touched hers as they left, and he held her too close when he kissed her on the cheek.
For a long moment, Zoya didn't answer her. “Yelena seems so sad, doesn't she?”
Evgenia nodded and set her brush down with a solemn air. “She was never a happy child, as I recall. Her brothers were far more interesting, more like Vladimir.” She remembered the handsome one who had asked for Tatiana's hand. “He's a nice man, don't you think?”
Zoya turned away for a moment and then turned back to look at her honestly. “I think he likes me, Crandmama … too much …” She faltered on the words and Evgenia frowned.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that he …” Her face blushed furiously in the soft light and she looked like a child again. “That he … he touched my hand tonight….” It seemed stupid to have to explain it now … maybe it didn't mean anything.
“You're a pretty girl, and perhaps you bring back memories for him. I think he was very fond of your mama, and I know he was close to Konstantin when they were young. They hunted with Nicholas more than once … don't be too sensitive, Zoya. He means well. And it was nice of him to come to see you tonight. He's just being kind, little one.”
“Perhaps,” Zoya said noncommittally as they turned off the light and slipped into the narrow bed they shared. In the dark, Zoya could hear Feodor snoring in the next room, as she drifted off to sleep, thinking of how magical the performance had been.
But the next morning, she was sure that Vladimir wasn't just being kind. He was waiting for her downstairs, when she left for rehearsal again.
“Would you like a ride?” She was surprised to see him there, and he was carrying flowers for her.
“I don't want to put you out … it's all right.” She would rather have walked to the Châtelet. He was suddenly making her uncomfortable the way he looked at her. “I like to walk.” It was a beautiful day, and she was excited to be going to rehearsal again. The Ballet Russe was the happiest thing in her life these days, and she didn't want to share it with anyone, not even the handsome white-haired Prince who stood so gallantly holding white roses out to her. They only made her feel sad. Marie had always given her white roses in the spring, but he couldn't have known that. He knew nothing about her at all, he was her parents’ friend, not hers, and it suddenly depressed her to see him standing there, his jacket worn, his collar frayed. Like everyone else, he had left everything behind, and escaped with his life, a few jewels, and the icon he had given them a few days before. “Perhaps it would be nice if you called on Grandmama.” She smiled politely at him, and he looked hurt.