“I can't … truly … I can't.” She saw with relief that they had arrived, and she turned to look at him for a last time. “Please don't wait for me now. All I want is to forget … what was … we can't bring it back. It wouldn't be right for us … please …” He said nothing as she slipped out of the car and hurried away, leaving the white roses on the seat beside him.
CHAPTER
12
“Did Vladimir bring you home?” Her grandmother smiled at her as she came in, and Zoya noticed with a sinking heart the white roses in a vase next to her on the table.
“No. One of the others gave me a ride.” She sat down with a smile and rubbed her legs. “It was hard today.” But she didn't mind. Dancing with the Ballet Russe made her feel alive again.
“He said he'd bring you home.” Evgenia frowned. He had brought her fresh bread, and a jar of jam. He was such a kind man, and he was being so good to them. And in an odd way, it comforted Evgenia to think of him taking care of Zoya.
“Grandmama …” Zoya looked at her, struggling for the words. “I don't want him to.”
“Why not? You're far safer with him than with someone you don't know.” He had said as much to her himself that afternoon, when he came to the apartment to drop off Zoya's roses, and the pain of Zoya dancing with the Ballet Russe struck her again like a knife to her heart, but she knew there was no stopping her now. And she had to admit that one of them had to work, and Zoya was the only one who could. She just wished she would find something else, like Yelena's teaching. And perhaps, if Vladimir took her under his wing, Zoya might even stop dancing. He had suggested it only that afternoon, and it made Evgenia see him in a different light. That of hero and savior.
“Grandmama … I think Prince Vladimir … I think he has something more in mind.”
“He's a decent man. Well mannered, wellborn. He was a friend of Konstantin's.” Evgenia didn't want to show her hand too soon, although Vladimir had convinced her.
“But that's just what I mean. He was Papa's friend. Not mine. He must be sixty years old.”
“He's a Russian prince, and a cousin of the Tsar.”
“Does that make everything all right?” Zoya asked angrily as she sprang to her feet. “Don't you care that he's old enough to be my grandfather?”
“He means you no harm, Zoya … someone has to take care of you. I'm eighty-two years old … I will not always be here for you … you must think of that.” And secretly, she would have been relieved to know that she was leaving Zoya in Vladimir's hands. At least he was someone she knew, someone who understood the life they had led before. No one in Paris could possibly understand that, except one of their own, and she looked imploringly at Zoya, begging her with her eyes to think of that, but Zoya looked horrified.
“Would you have me marry him, then? Is that what you want?” Tears sprang to her eyes at the thought of it. “He's an old man.”
“He would take care of you. Think of how kind he's been to us since we arrived,”
“I don't want to hear about it anymore!” She ran into the bedroom and slammed the door, and then threw herself on the bed crying hopelessly. Was that all that was left? The prospect of marriage to a man three times her age, only because he was a Russian prince. The very thought sickened her, and it made her long more than ever for her lost life and friends.
“Zoya … don't … darling, please …” Her grandmother came to sit on the edge of her bed, and gently stroked her hair. “I'm not trying to force you to do anything you don't want. But I worry about you so much. Feodor and I are so old … you must find someone who can take care of you.”
“I'm eighteen years old,” she sobbed into the bed, “I don't want to marry anyone … and not him….” Nothing about him appealed to her, and she hated Yelena. The thought of being doomed to live with them made her hysterical. All she wanted to do was dance, she would make enough money doing that to support herself, and Feodor and her grandmother. She vowed to herself then that she would do anything rather than marry a man she didn't love. She'd work day and night … she'd do anything….
“All right … all right … please don't cry like this … please …” Her own eyes were filled with tears, thinking of the cruelty of their fate. Perhaps the child was right. It had only been a thought. He was of course too old, but he was one of them, and that mattered to her a great deal. But there were others who had survived, there were younger men too. Perhaps Zoya would meet one of them and fall in love. It was her fondest hope now. It was the only hope she had left … that and the little bit of jewelry concealed in the bed where they slept. There was nothing else left … except a few diamonds and emeralds» a long rope of exquisite pearls, and the Faberg6 egg Nicholas had given her … and a lifetime of broken dreams. “Come, Zoya … dry your tears. Let's go for a walk.”
“No,” Zoya pouted unhappily, turning her face into the bed again, “he'll be waiting for us downstairs.”
“Don't be ridiculous.” Evgenia smiled at her. She was still such a child, although she'd grown up rapidly in the past two months. “His manners are impeccable. He's not a hoodlum lurking in the streets. Don't be foolish about this.”
Zoya rolled slowly onto her back, looking incredibly beautiful. “I'm sorry, Grandmama. I don't want to make you unhappy. I promise I'll take care of us.”
“That's not what I want for you, child. I want someone to take care of you. That's how it should have been.”
“But everything's different now. Nothing is the way it was.” She sat up with a shy smile. “Perhaps I'll be a famous dancer one day.” She looked excited at the thought and Evgenia laughed.
“God help me, I almost think you're enjoying this.”
Zoya smiled openly then. “I love the Ballet Russe, Grandmama.”
“I know you do. And you're very good. But you must never think of this as something you will do for the rest of your life. Do it now, if you must. But one day things will change again.” It was not a promise, but a prayer, but as Zoya swung her legs off the bed, and went to get her coat, she realized that she wasn't sure she wanted them to. She loved dancing with the Ballet Russe … far more than her grandmother understood.
And as they walked slowly toward the Palais Royal, and glanced at the arcades and their many wares, Zoya felt a thrill fill her soul. Paris was beautiful and she liked the people there. It wasn't such a bad life. She suddenly felt happy and young. Far too young to waste her life with Prince Vladimir. Ever.
CHAPTER
13
Zoya danced with the Ballet Russe all through June, and she was so totally involved in her work that she scarcely knew what was happening in the world. It came as an enormous surprise to her when General Pershing and his troops arrived on June 13. The city went wild, as they marched to the Place de la Concorde and the facade of the Hotel Crillon. People shouted and waved, and women threw flowers at the men, screaming “Vive l'Amérique!” Zoya could hardly get back to the Palais Royal to tell her grandmother what she'd seen. “Grandmama, there are thousands of them!” “Then perhaps they will end the war for us soon.” She was exhausted by the nightly air raids, and some secret part of her thought that if the war came to an end, perhaps things would change in Russia again and they could go home. But most people knew there was no hope of it.
“Do you want to take a walk and see?” Zoya's eyes were bright. There was something wonderful about the hopeful look of the French, and the fresh-faced men in their khaki uniforms. They looked so wholesome and alive. Everywhere, there seemed to be hope again, but her grandmother only shook her head.
“I have no desire to see soldiers in the streets, little one.” She had ugly memories of that, and she was safe at home and urged Zoya to stay there too. “Stay away from them. Crowds can quickly become dangerous.” But there was no sign of that here. It was a happy day for everyone, and rehearsals had been curtailed for the remainder of the week. For the first time in a month, Zoya had some time to herself, to lie in bed, to go for walks, to sit by the fi
re and read. She felt carefree and young, and she appreciated the time now. That night, she sat in the living room and wrote a long letter to Marie, telling her of Pershing's march, and her work at the ballet. There seemed to be more to tell her now, although she didn't mention Prince Vladimir. She knew her friend would have been shocked at her grandmother's encouraging his pursuit, but it didn't matter to her now. He had understood, and although he still brought the Countess fresh bread while Zoya was at work, she herself hadn't run into him in weeks.
As she wrote to Marie that night, little Sava sat cozily in her lap, snoring happily.“… She looks so exactly like Joy, she makes me think of you the moment she bounds into the room. Although I don't need any reminders of you. It seems incredible to me still that we are in Paris, and you are there … and we won't be joining you in Livadia this summer. The funny photograph of all of us is next to my bed …” Zoya looked at it every night before she slept. She had also brought a photograph of Olga with Alexis on her lap when he was three or four … and a beautiful one of Nicky and Alix. Only memories now, but writing to her friend kept them alive in her heart. Dr. Botkin had sent her a letter from Marie only the week before, in which she told Zoya that all was well, although they were still under house arrest, but they'd been told that they would be going to Livadia in September. And she was all well again. She apologized to Zoya for giving her the measles, and said she would have liked to see her all covered with spots. Reading the letters made Zoya smile through her tears.
She was rereading her letter, when a message came. She was to dance Petrouchka at the Opéra with the Ballet Russe for General Pershing and his troops. Her grandmother, as usual, was less than happy at the news. Dancing for soldiers seemed even worse than the performance at the Châtelet, but she didn't even try to dissuade Zoya this time, knowing full well that there was no hope of it.
By then, Pershing and his staff were well ensconced in their headquarters on the rue Constantine, across from the Invalides, and he was living on the Left Bank, near the rue de Varennes, in a beautiful hotel particulier loaned to him by a fellow American, Ogden Mills, who was serving elsewhere in the infantry.
“I want Feodor to go with you tonight,” her grandmother said darkly as she left for the Opéra.
“Don't be silly, Grandmama, I'll be fine. They can't be any different from Russian generals. I'm sure they're quite well behaved. They're not going to storm the stage and carry us off with them.” Nijinsky was dancing with them that night and Zoya could hardly wait. Just being on the same stage with him was almost more than she could bear. “I'll be fine. I promise you.”
“You're not going alone. Either Feodor, or Prince Vladimir. Take your choice.” She knew easily which one it would be, although she secretly regretted it, but she hadn't pressed Zoya about the Prince again. In a way, she knew Zoya was right, Vladimir was a great deal too old for her.
“All right.” Zoya laughed. “I'll take Feodor. But he'll be miserable waiting backstage.”
“Not if he's waiting for you, my love.” The old servant served them with a devotion that bordered on the fanatical, and Evgenia knew that Zoya would be safe if he was standing by her. And Zoya only agreed to it to put her grandmother's mind at rest.
“At least tell him he mustn't get in the way.”
“He wouldn't think of it.”
Together they took a taxi to the Opéra, and within moments Zoya was swallowed up by preparations for the performance for Pershing and his men. She knew there were other festivities planned for them as well, at the Opéra Comique, the Comodie-Frangaise, and in other theaters around town. Paris was opening its arms to them.
And when the curtain went up that night, she danced as she never had before. Just knowing that Nijinsky was there spurred her on, and Diaghilev spoke to her himself at the end of the first act. She felt as though she could fly after hearing his kind words, and she put even more of herself into it, and was stunned to realize that the performance had flown by as the final curtain fell. She wanted the evening never to end. She took her bows with the rest of the troupe, and retreated with the others to their common dressing room. The primas had their own of course, but it would be years before she could look forward to that, but she didn't really care. All she wanted was to dance, and she was. She had danced well, and she was filled with pride as she slowly untied her shoes. Her toes were sore from the blocks, but even that didn't seem to matter now. It was a small price to pay for so much joy. She had even forgotten the General and his staff. All she could think of that night was the ballet as she danced and danced and danced … and she looked up in surprise as one of the teachers entered the room.
“You are all invited to a reception at the General's home,” she announced. “Two military trucks will take you there.” She looked at them with pride. They had done well, each and every one of them. “Champagne for all!” she added with a smile as everyone began to talk and laugh. Paris seemed to be coming alive again with the Americans at hand. There were parties and performances everywhere, and Zoya suddenly thought of Feodor waiting for her outside. She wanted desperately to go with them, to be like everyone else, in spite of her grandmother's fears. She slipped quietly outside and went to look for Feodor, and found him standing near the stage door, looking as miserable as she had told her grandmother he would. He felt ridiculous there, surrounded by women in leotards and tulle, and men striding past him less than half dressed. The obvious immorality of it horrified him.
‘Tes, mademoiselle?”
“I must go to a reception with the rest of the troupe,” she explained, “and I can't bring you, Feodor. Go home to Grandmama, and I'll come home as soon as I can.”
“No.” He shook his head solemnly. “I promised Evgenia Peterovna, I told her I would bring you home.”
“But you can't come with us. I promise you I'll be safe.”
“Shell be very angry with me.”
“No, she won't. Ill explain it to her myself when I come home.”
“I will wait for you.” He looked at her stolidly and she wanted to scream. She didn't want a chaperone. She wanted to be just like the rest of them. She wasn't a baby anymore after all. She was a grown woman, of eighteen. And perhaps, if she was very, very lucky, Nijinsky might speak to her … or Mr. Diaghilev again. She was far more interested in them than in any of Pershing's men. But first she had to convince Feodor to go home, and finally, after what seemed like endless arguments, he agreed to go, although he was certain the Countess would be furious at him.
“I promise you, I'll explain everything to her.”
“Very well, mademoiselle.” He touched his brow, bowed, and left via the stage door, as Zoya gave a sigh of relief.
“What was that all about?” one of the other dancers asked as she walked past her.
“Just a friend of the family.” She smiled. No one knew her circumstances here, and no one cared. All they cared about was the ballet, not maudlin tales of how she had come to join the troupe, and having the old servant standing by like a Cossack Guard embarrassed her. She was relieved when he left, and she could return to the dressing room to change for the reception at General Pershing's house. Everyone was in high spirits, and someone had already begun pouring them champagne.
They piled into the military trucks happily, and crossed the Pont Alexandre III as they sang old Russian songs, and had to be reminded more than once to behave themselves as they reached General Pershing's house. But he seemed like a kindly man as he welcomed them, standing tall and slender in his full dress uniform, circulating in the elegant marble hall. And for an instant, Zoya felt her heart catch as she looked around. It reminded her of the palaces of St. Petersburg, although smaller of course. But the marble floors and the columns and the sweeping staircases were all too familiar to her, and all too sharp a memory of the world she had only recently left behind.
They were escorted into a large ballroom with mirrored walls and gold columns and marble fireplaces, all of it beautifully authentic Louis XV. And Z
oya suddenly felt very young again, as the dancers cavorted and laughed, and a military band that had appeared began playing a slow waltz, as others drank champagne. She felt an overwhelming urge to cry as she listened to the music, and feeling breathless, she walked out into the garden beyond.
She stood silently, staring at a statue by Rodin, wishing that she hadn't come, when a voice directly behind where she stood spoke softly in the warm night.
“May I get you something, mademoiselle?” The voice was distinctly American, yet he spoke perfect French. She turned to see a tall, attractive man with gray hair and brilliant blue eyes looking at her, and the first thing she noticed about him was that he looked kind. He seemed to sense that something was wrong, and his eyes gently probed hers as she shook her head, the tears still glistening on her cheeks. “Are you all right?”
She nodded silently and then turned in embarrassment to wipe her tears. She was wearing a simple white dress Alix had given her the year before. It was one of the few nice ones she had managed to bring from St. Petersburg, and she looked lovely as she stood looking up at him. “I'm sorry … I …” How could she begin to tell him all that she felt? She wished only that he would leave her to her memories, but he made no move to go as he watched her eyes. “It's so beautiful here.” It was all she could say, but it brought the squalid apartment near the Palais Royal to mind, and reminded her again of how much their lives had changed, in sharp contrast to the elegant garden where she stood now.
“Are you with the Ballet Russe?”
“I am.” She smiled, hoping he would forget her tears, as she listened to the distant strains of another waltz. She said the words with pride, thinking again how lucky she was. “Wasn't Nijinsky marvelous tonight?”
He laughed in embarrassment and came a little closer to her as she noticed again how tall and handsome he was. “I'm afraid I'm not a great devotee of the ballet, it was a command performance for some of us tonight.”
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