Danielle Steel - Zoya

“I don't know how you can't see how much he likes you, little one.” But Zoya was more concerned by the terrible cough that racked her grandmother as she said it. She had had a cold for weeks, and Zoya feared the Spanish flu that had killed Feodor, or the dreaded tuberculosis that seemed to be devouring Paris. Even her own health was not as strong as it had once been. With so little food, and such hard work, she had gotten desperately thin, and her girlish face seemed suddenly much older.

“How's your grandmother tonight?” he asked quietly one night as they were cooking together in the kitchen. It was a nightly ritual between them now. They no longer took turns on her nights off, but instead they cooked together, and when she had to work, he cooked for Evgenia himself, more often than not supplying the food himself, buying it on the way home with the pennies he earned from his teaching. Like everyone else in Paris these days, his small funds seemed to be dwindling. “She was so pale this afternoon” Antoine looked at Zoya with worried eyes, as she sliced two ancient-looking carrots to divide among the three of them. She was sick to death of stew, but it seemed to be what they ate almost every night, it was the easiest way to conceal the inferior quality of the meat and the near absence of vegetables.

“I'm worried about her cough, Antoine.” Zoya glanced at him from across the kitchen. “I think it's worse, don't you?” He nodded unhappily and added two small cubes of meat to the pot where Zoya was boiling the carrots in a watery broth. There wasn't even any bread tonight. It was fortunate that none of them were very hungry. “I think tomorrow I'll take her to the doctor.” But even that was more than they could afford, and there was nothing left to sell, only her father's last cigarette case, and three silver souvenir boxes that had been her brother's, but Evgenia had promised her that she wouldn't try to sell them.

“I know a doctor on the rue Godot-de-Mauroy, if you want his name. He's cheap.” He did abortions for the prostitutes, but he was better than most in that milieu. Antoine had gone to him for his leg several times, and had found him skilled and sympathetic. It pained him terribly now in the bitter cold and damp of winter. Zoya had noticed that his limp seemed to be getting worse, but he looked happier than he had when he'd first come to live with them. It seemed to do him good to have decent people to come home to, and her grandmother to worry about. It never occurred to her that his feelings for her kept him alive, and that at night he lay in bed and dreamed of her in the next room, sleeping huddled with Evgenia.

“How was school today?” she asked as she waited for the pot to boil. Her eyes were kinder now when she looked at him. He even dared to tease her now once in a while, and the exchanges vaguely reminded her of her brother. He was not a handsome man, but he was bright, and well read, and he had a good sense of humor. It helped during the air raids and the cold nights. It was what got them by in place of food and warmth and life's little pleasures.

“It was all right. I'm looking forward to the holidays, though. It will give me a chance to catch up on my reading. Do you want to go to the theater sometime? I know someone who might let us in at the Opéra Comique, if you want to try it.” The mention of it reminded her of Clayton and the gentler days of summer. She hadn't heard from him in a while, and assumed he was busy with General Pershing, who was designing the entire French campaign, and Zoya knew it was very secret. God only knew when she would see him again, if ever. But she was used to that now. She had seen the last of so many people she had once loved. It was difficult to imagine loving anyone without losing them. She forced her mind away from Clayton and back to Antoine and his offer to go to the theater.

“I'd love to go to a museum sometime.” He was actually good company, and very cultured, though not in the polished sense of her lost Russian friends. But in a quiet way all his own, which was equally pleasant.

“As soon as school is out, we'll go. How's the stew?” he inquired, and she laughed.

“As rotten as ever.”

“I wish we could get some decent spices.”

“I wish we could get some real vegetables and fruit. If I see another old carrot, I think I may scream. When I think of the food we used to eat in St. Petersburg, I could cry. I never even thought of it then. You know, I even had a dream about food last night.”

He had dreamed of his wife the night before, but he didn't tell her that, he only nodded and helped her to set the table.

“How's your leg, by the way?” She knew he didn't like to talk about it, but more than once she had wrapped a hot water bottle for him and he'd taken it to bed and said it had helped him.

“The cold doesn't help much. Just be glad you're young. Your grandmother and I aren't as lucky.” He smiled at her and watched her ladle out the thin stew into three chipped ugly bowls. It would have made her cry if she had let herself think of the beautiful china they'd dined on every night at the Fontanka Palace. There was so much they had taken for granted that they would never see again. It was horrifying to think of it now, as Antoine went to knock on her bedroom door to bring Evgenia to dinner. But he looked worried when he returned alone and eyed Zoya over the small kitchen table. “She says she's not hungry. Do you think I should get the doctor for her tonight?” Zoya hesitated for a long moment, weighing the decision. A night call to the house would be even more expensive than a visit to his office.

“Let's see how she is after dinner. She may just be tired. I'll bring her some tea in a little while. Is she in bed?”

He shook his head with a look of concern. “She's dozing in the chair, with her knitting.” She had been working on the same tiny square of wool for months, promising that one day it would become a sweater for Zoya.

The two of them sat down to dinner then, and by silent agreement did not touch the third bowl, no matter how hungry they were. There was still a chance that Evgenia might decide she wanted her dinner.

“How was rehearsal?” He was always interested in what she did, and although he wasn't handsome, there was a boyish look about his eyes. He had thinning blond hair, which he parted carefully in the middle, and nice hands, which she had noticed long since. They no longer shook, and though he was constantly in pain from his leg, he no longer seemed as nervous.

“It was all right. I wish the Ballet Russe would come back. I miss dancing with them. These people don't know what they're doing.” But at least it was money for food. A job was too precious to lose in the winter of 1917 in Paris.

“I ran into some people in a caffe today who were talking about the coup d'otat in Russia last month. It was an endless discussion about Trotsky and Lenin and the Bolsheviks with two pacifists who got so mad, they threatened to punch the other two.” He grinned impishly. “It was pacifism at its best. I actually enjoyed the discussion.” There was a great deal of hostile feeling against the Bolsheviks at the time, and Antoine shared the pacifist view like so many others.

“I wonder what effect that will have on the Romanovs,” Zoya voiced quietly. “I haven't had a letter from Siberia in a long time.” It worried her, but perhaps Dr. Botkin hadn't been able to get her letters to Mashka. One had to consider that, and be patient in waiting for an answer. Everything seemed to require patience these days. Everyone was waiting for better times. She only hoped that they all lived to see them. There was even talk of the possibility of Paris being attacked, which seemed hard to believe with English and American troops swarming all over France. But after what she'd seen in Russia only nine months before, she knew that anything was possible.