Danielle Steel - Zoya

The next day he was later than he had been the day before, and by eleven o'clock, Zoya was getting worried. They had no phone, so she couldn't call, but at eleven-thirty he appeared, struggling with an enormous bundle wrapped in brown paper. He set it heavily on the kitchen table with a look of mysterious delight and told Zoya it was for her grandmother. The old Countess came to join them then, and he stood back as he watched her pull the paper off to reveal an extraordinarily beautiful silver samovar, engraved with the crest of the Russian family that had brought it to Paris and been forced to sell it. He couldn't even imagine how they'd gotten it there, but when he'd seen it that morning in a shop on the Left Bank, he had known instantly that he had to buy it for Evgenia.

She caught her breath as she stood back, staring at it, in wonder, and for a moment she felt a sharp pain of sadness, knowing how dear her own treasures had been and how much it hurt when she had to sell them. She was still grieving over the cigarette cases she had been forced to sell just before Christmas. But now she could only stare at the samovar and at the kind benefactor who had brought it to them.

“Captain … you are far too good to us …” Tears filled her eyes, and she gently kissed him, the faded satin of her cheek touching his male flesh, reminding her of her own son, and her husband. “You are so very kind.”

“I only wish I could do more.” He had brought Zoya a white silk dress, and her eyes opened wide with amazed delight as she peeled away the wrappings. It was designed by a little dressmaker he had found on the Left Bank, a woman named Gabrielle Chanel. She had a small shop, and she seemed amazingly gifted. She had showed the dress to him herself and she seemed lively and amusing, which was unusual these days for the war-worn people of Paris.

“Do you like it?” She ran to her room to try it on, and emerged looking absolutely splendid. The dress looked pure and simple, and the creamy white set off the fire of her hair wonderfully. She only wished she had pretty shoes to wear with it, and the pearl necklace Papa had given her that had burned with Fontanka.

“I love it, Clayton!” She wore it to lunch with him that day, and it lay on his bedroom floor later that afternoon.

The next day was his last, he was leaving at four o'clock that afternoon, and she couldn't bear the thought of it as they made love for the last time, and she clung to him like a drowning child, as he kissed her. When he took her back to the apartment, even Evgenia looked sad to see him go. The farewells in their lives had already been far too painful.

“Be careful, Captain … we will pray for you each day,” as they did now for so many others. She thanked him for his great kindness to them both, and he seemed to linger, not wanting to go, unable to leave Zoya for a moment, let alone for months. He had no idea when he would be able to get back to Paris.

Evgenia left them discreetly alone, as tears filled Zoya's eyes and she looked at him in the tiny living room, the silver samovar dwarfing everything in sight, but she saw only him as she flew into his arms with a sob, and he held her to him.

“I love you so much, little one … please, please be careful.” He knew how potentially dangerous it was for her in Paris. There was still a possibility that Paris could be attacked, and he prayed for her safety as he held her. ‘I'll come back the minute I can.”

“Swear to me you'll be careful. Swear!” she commanded through her tears, she couldn't bear the thought of losing anyone else she loved, and not someone as dear to her as he was.

“Promise me you won't regret what we've done.” He still worried about that and he was still desperately afraid she might have gotten pregnant the first time they made love. He'd been careful after that, but not careful enough the first time. She'd taken him too much by surprise and his own desire for her had been too overwhelming.

“I will never regret anything. I love you too much.” She followed him down the stairs to his car, and stood waving until he was out of sight, the tears rolling down her cheeks as she watched him disappear, perhaps forever.

CHAPTER

23

Contrary to what he promised her, she did not hear from him again. Their strategies and maneuvers were too top secret now, and they were virtually cut off from everyone as they sat by the Marne, trying to protect Paris.

In March, the last great German offensive began, as they sat waiting to pounce just outside the city. There was shelling in the streets, and Evgenia was afraid to go out now.

The statue of Saint Luke was beheaded by shells at the Madeleine. And everywhere, people were hungry and cold and frightened. Diaghilev gave Zoya an opportunity to escape. On March 3, he left for another tour in Spain with the ballet, but Zoya insisted she couldn't leave Evgenia alone in Paris. Instead she stayed in Paris, but most of their performances were curtailed. It was almost too dangerous to move through the streets now. And only by a miracle did she manage to survive the destruction of the church of St.-Gervais-St-Protais near the Hotel de Ville on Good Friday. She had decided to go there instead of St. Alexander Nevsky, and she left only moments before shells hit the roof and it collapsed, killing seventy-five souls and wounding nearly a hundred.

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

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

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

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

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