Zoya (26 page)

“Yes?” Vladimir hesitated as he spoke. He had almost been afraid to bring him there, afraid the shock would be too great for her, but he knew that they had to come. “Hello, Vladimir.” Without saying a word, he stepped aside, and she gasped as she saw Pierre Gilliard behind him.

His eyes filled with tears as he looked at her, it seemed a thousand years since they'd last met on the day she left Tsarskoe Selo. He took a step toward her and she fell into his arms. And then she looked up at him, begging him, barely able to speak through her sobs.

“Have they come at last?” Gilliard was the tutor the imperial daughters had studied with all their lives, and Zoya knew he had gone to Siberia with them, but unable to speak, he only shook his head in answer.

“No …” he answered finally. “No … they have not… ” She waited for more news from him, and feeling her body turn to stone, she walked inside to the ugly living room, as he followed her. He looked thin and worn, and desperately pale. Vladimir left them alone then. He closed the door softly as he went, and with head bowed, walked slowly down the stairs to his taxi.

“Are they all right?” Her heart pounded as she waited for Pierre Gilliard to speak, and as they faced each other in chairs, he reached out and took her hands in his own. Hers were like tiny icebergs, as Gilliard began speaking.

“I have only just now come from Siberia … I had to be certain before I came … We left them in Ekaterinburg in June. They told us we had to leave.” It was as though he wanted to apologize, but all she wanted to hear was that Mashka and the others were all right. She sat in stunned silence, amazed just to see him there, as she clung to him with her icy hands trembling.

“You weren't there then when … when Nicholas …” She could not bring herself to say the words to him, but he understood and miserably shook his head.

“Gibbes and I had to leave … but we went back again, in August. They let us into the house, but there was no one there, mademoiselle.” He couldn't bring himself to tell her what they'd found, the bullet holes, and the pale traces of washed blood. “They told us they had moved them somewhere else, but Gibbes and I feared the worst.” She waited for the rest with a pounding heart, sure that there would be a happy end to it. After all this time, there had to be.
Life surely couldn't be so cruel as to let the Bolsheviks kill the people she loved so much … one frail little boy, and four girls who had been her cousins and friends and their mother who loved them. It was bad enough that their father had died. It couldn't possibly get any worse than that. She watched his face as he went on, he closed his eyes, and fought back tears. He was still exhausted from the trip, and he had arrived in Paris only the night before, determined to see her.

“We arrived back in Ekaterinburg on Alexis's birthday, but they were gone by then,” he sighed. “We've been there ever since. I was certain, even when I saw the bullet holes in the house, that they were still alive.”

She felt her heart stop and stared at him. “Bullet holes. Did they shoot Nicky there in front of the children?”

“They killed Nagorny three days before … he tried to stop a soldier from stealing Alexis's medals. The Tsarevich must have been heartbroken, he'd been with him all his life.” Faithful Nagorny, who had refused to abandon them. Was there no end to it?

“In the middle of July the Bolsheviks told them that their relatives were going to try and rescue them and they had to be moved before their whereabouts could be discovered.” Zoya thought of Mashka's letters before that, telling her where they were. But who was it who tried to save them? “The bloody revolution had been raging since June, it was almost impossible to go anywhere. But they got them up at midnight and told them to dress.” His voice caught and Zoya clutched his hands so tightly, they
ached, as his eyes reached into hers, two people left on a deserted island, the others gone … but where? She waited for the rest without saying a word. Soon, soon he would tell her that they were on their way to Paris. “They went downstairs, the Empress, Nicholas, and the children … Anastasia still had Jimmy with her,” Alexis's little spaniel, Pierre Gilliard began to cry again at the thought of it,” … and Joy …” Sava whined as though she knew her mother's name and he went on,”… The Tsarevich could no longer walk by then, he had been very ill …. They told them to dress and took them to the basement to wait for transportation … Nicholas had them bring chairs for Alexandra, and Alexis, and he was …” He could barely go on,“… he was holding him, Zoya, across his lap, when they came in … he was holding him when they opened fire.” She felt her heart turn to stone, it must have been the moment when they killed Nicholas, but Gilliard sobbed as he went on. “They shot them all, Zoya Konstantinovna … they opened fire on all of them, only Alexis lived a little longer than the rest of them, they beat his head in with rifle butts as he clutched his father … and then they murdered little Jimmy. Anastasia had fainted and when she screamed, they killed her with bayonets, and then,” he went on as Zoya cried silently, unable to believe what he told her. “They put them all into a mine, and covered them with acid … they are gone, little Zoya … gone … all of them … even poor, sweet Baby.” Zoya took him in her arms then and held him there as he cried. Even now, months later, he himself was unable to believe it. “We found Joy,
one of the solders had taken her in, she was almost starved when they found her near the mine … crying for the children she loved. And oh, Zoya, no one will ever know how dear they were, or how much we loved them.”

“… Oh, God … oh, God … my poor little Mashka … murdered with rifles and bayonets … how frightened she must have been. …”

“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.

“Was Gilliard there when they killed the Tsar?” He had a heavy heart himself, just thinking about it, although he had never known the man. But Zoya had brought him to life, with her tales of Livadia and the yacht and Tsarskoe Selo, and now he felt almost as though he knew him.

“Apparently the soldiers of the Soviet sent him and the English tutor away shortly before, but they came back two months later, and they've been speaking to soldiers and guards and local peasants in Ekaterinburg for months, helping with the White Army investigations. They know most of it and he wants to go back and talk to them some more. But it doesn't matter anymore.” His eyes were old and sad as he looked at Clayton Andrews. “They're all dead … all of them … murdered at the same time as the Tsar … even the children.” He was not ashamed of the tears that rolled down his cheeks. He cried every time he thought of it. He had lost so many good friends. They all had. But Clayton Andrews looked shocked, horrified, and he knew what it would do to Zoya.