Danielle Steel - Zoya

“Nicholas stood to stop them … but there was no stopping them. If only they had let us stay … but it would have made no difference.” He didn't tell her the White Russians had come to liberate Ekaterinburg eight days later. Only eight days. It might as well have been eight lifetimes.

Zoya looked at him with empty eyes. Nothing mattered now. Nothing would ever matter again … not to her … or to them … she buried her face in her hands and cried as he held her.

“I had to tell you myself … I'm so sorry … so very sorry …” Such small words for the loss of such extraordinary people. How little they had understood on that last day at Tsarskoe Selo, and she knew then that she should have stayed with them, the Bolsheviks could have killed her too … should have … killed her with bayonets and bullets, as they had killed Mashka, and all of them … and Baby….

He left her then, promising to return the next day after he had slept. He couldn't bear to look at her as he left, the broken eyes, the empty face. And when she was alone again, she clutched Sava to her, and rocked her back and forth in her arms as she cried, shouting into the emptiness, ‘Oh, Grandmama … they're gone … they've killed them all….” And in the end only one whisper left in the silent room as she said her name for the last time. … She would never be able to bear saying it again … she whispered softly … “my Mashka …”

CHAPTER

27

Zoya felt as though she were in shock for several days after she heard the news from Pierre Gilliard. Added to the pain of her grandmother's death was the agony of the knowledge of the execution. Dr. Botkin had died with the rest of them, Pierre told her the next day when he returned, which explained why none of her letters had gotten through, but there was no one to answer them anyway. And she knew that Grand Duke Michael had been shot too, a week before the execution of Nicholas and Alexandra and the children. Four more grand dukes had been murdered after that. The list was seemingly endless. It was as though they wanted to destroy an entire race, a whole chapter in history. And the details were brutal beyond description.

In the face of what she now knew, it was understandable that the Versailles Peace Conference meant little to her. For her, the war, and even its end, no longer held any meaning. She had lost her parents, her brother, her grandmother, her cousins, her friends, and her homeland, and even the man she loved had abandoned her. As she sat in the tiny apartment day after day, staring out the window, her life seemed like a wasteland. Pierre Gilliard came back to visit her several times before he left. He was going home to Switzerland for a rest, before returning to Siberia to help continue the investigation. But even that didn't seem important to her anymore. Nothing did. For Zoya, it was all over.

By the end of January, Paris was in high spirits again, and American soldiers seemed to fill the streets. There were parties and special performances and parades, all in honor of the dignitaries arriving from the States to confer at Versailles and celebrate the end of the Great Adventure, and usher in the new era of peace that was dawning.

But for Zoya, there were no celebrations. Vladimir came to visit her several times, after Pierre Gilliard left for Bern to join his wife, but Zoya barely talked as Vladimir sat watching her, afraid now for her sanity as well as her safety. The news had slowly spread to all of the émigrés, and there were endless tears, and silent mourning. The Romanovs would be sorely missed, and to those who had known them, never forgotten.

“Let me take you for a drive, little one. It would do you good to go somewhere.”

“I have everything I need here, Vladimir.” She looked at him sadly, and quietly stroked little Sava. He brought her food, as he had done when they first arrived. In desperation, he even brought her vodka. Perhaps, if nothing else, she could at least drown her sorrows. But the bottle remained unopened, the vodka untouched, like most of the food he brought her. She seemed to be wasting away, it was almost as though she was willing herself to die, anxious to join the others.

Several of the women he knew dropped in on her as well, but more often than not, she didn't answer when they knocked. She just quietly sat there, waiting for them to go away, and sitting alone in the dark apartment.

By late January, he was frightened, and had even spoken to a doctor. There seemed to be nothing for them to do, except wait for the tides to turn. But he was afraid she would do something drastic before that

He was still thinking about her late one afternoon, as he drove his taxi to the Crillon, hoping for one of the important Americans to hail him. And then, as if it were an answer to a prayer, he looked across the street and saw him. He honked frantically, and waved, but the tall man in uniform disappeared into the hotel, and as Vladimir leapt out of his car, he prayed that it hadn't been an illusion. He dashed across the street and into the hotel, barely catching him as he stepped into an elevator. Clayton Andrews turned with a look of amazement as Vladimir called him. He stepped slowly off the elevator then, afraid that something terrible might have happened.

“Thank God it's you.” Vladimir sighed with relief, hoping that he would still be willing to see the girl. He wasn't sure what had happened between the two, but he knew that there had been some kind of estrangement before Clayton had left Paris.

“Has something happened to her?” It was all Clayton could think of as he saw the look on Vladimir's face. He had arrived the day before, and had had to force himself not to go and see her. But he knew there was no point in torturing himself or Zoya. They were better off like this. He wanted her to have a new life, and hanging on to her wouldn't help her to find it, no matter how much he missed her. He had barely reached New York, when they asked him to return to Paris to assist with the many meetings associated with the treaty at Versailles before leaving the army forever. And he had come back with considerable trepidation. He didn't know if he was strong enough to go back to Paris and not see her. “Is it Zoya?” he asked the tall Prince, frightened by the look in his eyes. It spoke volumes.

“Can we go somewhere to talk?” Vladimir looked around the crowded lobby and back into Clayton's eyes. He had a great deal to tell him. Clayton looked at his watch. He had two hours before he had to be anywhere. He nodded and followed Vladimir outside to the conveniently waiting taxi.

“Just tell me, man, she all right? Has anything happened to her?”

The Prince looked sorrowful as he started the car, his frayed cuffs and worn jacket looking worse than ever, but the clipped moustache was still impeccably neat, the snow white hair. Everything about him bespoke nobility and distinction. There were so many like him in Paris now. Counts and princes and dukes and just men of good families, driving taxis and sweeping streets and waiting on tables.

“Nothing has happened to her, Captain,” he said, and Clayton heaved a sigh of relief. “At least not directly.” They drove to the Deux-Magots, took a table in the back, and Clayton ordered two cups of coffee. “Her grandmother died three weeks ago.”

“I was afraid of that.” She had seemed so ill and so frail when he left Paris more than a month before.

“But worse than that, Pierre Gilliard came from Siberia to see her. The news was terrible. She hasn't left the apartment since he told her. I'm afraid she'll lose her mind, just sitting there, grieving for them. It's too much for her.” There were tears in his eyes and he was sorry Andrews hadn't ordered something stronger. He could have used a stiff vodka. Just thinking about her broke his heart. Too much had happened to all of them, and now especially to Zoya.