Zoya (31 page)

“No … no, my love … it's yours … Papa gave it to you.”

He stood very tall then, fighting back his own tears. “Papa would want me to take care of you.” Zoya only shook her head, unable to speak, as she pressed the coin back into his hand, and holding him close to her, walked him back to his room.

CHAPTER
32

The Wrights had lost their money too. Cobina and her daughter had formed a supper club singing act, wearing frontier garb and funny hats. She and Bill were getting a divorce and the house on Sutton Place had been sold for almost nothing. Other women were selling their fur coats in hotel lobbies, and polo ponies were being traded for quick cash. Everywhere, Zoya saw the same kind of panic there had been in St. Petersburg twelve years before, but without the physical threat of the revolution.

Their own house on Long Island sold for barely more than the price of the cars kept there, and Clayton's attorneys told her to grab it. “Cholly Knickerbocker” reported fresh outrages almost daily. The column was actually written by a man named Maury Paul, and the fates he described now were beyond belief, society ladies becoming waitresses and shopgirls. Some remained unaffected by the crash, but as Zoya looked around Sutton Place now, it seemed almost deserted. Her own servants were all gone, save the nurse who had looked after the children.
Sasha still didn't seem to understand why Clayton was gone, but Nicholas had grown thoughtful and quiet, and asked Zoya constant questions about where they would live, and when they would sell the house. It would have driven Zoya mad, except that she was so sorry for him. She remembered her own fears in Russia during the revolution. His eyes were bottomless green pools of pain and worry. And he stood looking like a sad little man, as he watched her pack her more practical dresses in her bedroom. There seemed to be no point taking her elaborate evening gowns, all the Poirets and Chanels and Lanvins, and Schiaparellis. She wrapped those in bundles and gave them to the nurse to sell in the lobby of the Plaza. The indignity of it would have been crushing, but she was too worried to care. They needed every penny they could get to live on.

And in the end, she sold the house with the furniture Elsie de Wolfe had bought for them, the paintings, the Persian rugs, even the china and crystal. It barely managed to cover Clayton's debts, and gave them enough to live on for only a few months.

“Won't we keep anything, Mama?” Nicholas looked around so sadly.

“Only what we'll need in the new apartment.” She pounded the pavements for days, in neighborhoods she d never seen before, and finally she found two small rooms on West Seventeenth Street. It was a tiny walk-up apartment, with two windows looking into the back of another building. It was small and dark and there was an almost overwhelming smell of garbage. For three days, she moved things in herself, with the help of the nurse and an old black man she hired for a dollar. They brought in two beds, and a
desk, the settee from her boudoir, one small rug, and some lamps. And she hung the Nattier painting Elsie de Wolfe had recently brought them back from Paris. She dreaded bringing the children there, but in late November, the house on Sutton Place sold, and two days later, they tearfully kissed the nurse good-bye, and standing in the marble hall, Zoya watched her kiss Sasha as they all cried.

“Will we ever come back here, Mama?” Nicholas looked at her, trying to be brave, his chin trembling, his eyes full, as he looked around for a last time. She would gladly have tried to spare him the pain of it, but she took his small hand in her own, and pulled her warm coat tightly around her, as she answered.

“No, darling, we won't” She had packed almost all their toys, and a box of books for herself, not that she could concentrate on anything now. Someone had given her Hemingway's
A Farewell to Arms
, but it had sat on her night table, unread. She could barely think, let alone read, and she was going to be busy, looking for a job. The money she'd gotten from selling the house would only keep them going for a few months, if they were lucky. Nothing was worth anything now, everyone was selling houses and furs and antiques and treasures. None of it was worth more than someone else was able to pay, and the market was glutted with once expensive objects that were now worthless. It seemed remarkable that there were others who were virtually untouched by the crash, as Cholly Knickerbocker continued to report their weddings and parties and dances. There were still people dancing at the Embassy Club every night, or at the Central Park Casino, to the music of Eddy Duchin. But Zoya felt as though she would never
dan: e again, as she and the children walked down their front steps for a last time with their suitcases, and Sasha's best doll tucked under her arm. And as though it had happened only the day before, she could think of nothing but the burning of the Fontanka Palace … her mother's nightgown in flames as she leapt from the window … and Evgenia hurrying her out the back door of the pavilion to Feodor and the waiting troika.

“Mama? …” Sasha had been talking to her as they got into the taxi, and Nicholas waved at the nurse who stood crying on the sidewalk. She was going to stay with friends, and had already had an offer of a job from the Van Alens in Newport. “Mama … answer me …” Sasha tugged at her sleeve insistently as Zoya gave the driver their new address, her eyes dull, her face wooden. She felt as though she were leaving Clayton again … the house they had shared … the life that had always been so easy. Ten years gone like the blink of an eye, an eye filled with tears now, as she longed for him again. She sat back against the seat and closed her eyes in pain, trying to concentrate on her children.

“I'm sorry, Sasha … what did you say?” Her voice was a whisper as they left Sutton Place for the last time. Gone the beauty and the easy life that had ended so abruptly on that fateful day in October.

“I said who is going to take care of us now?” She wasn't so much pained by the loss of her nurse, as she was curious about who would take care of her. It was all very strange and confusing, even for Nicholas, who was four years older.

“I am, sweetheart.”

“You are?” Sasha looked amazed, and Nicholas
looked at his mother with the gentle smile that always reminded her of Clayton. It was almost painful to see it now. Everything was a constant reminder of all they had lost, just as it had been in the days when they had first left Russia.

“I'll help you, Mama,” Nicholas said proudly, holding his mother's hand and trying not to cry. “I'll take care of you and Sasha.” He knew it was what his father would have wanted of him, and he wouldn't let him down now. He was the man of the family suddenly. In one short month, his whole safe, happy world had been turned upside down, but he was determined to rise to the occasion, as was Zoya. She refused to be beaten once again. She would fight for them … she would work … and one day … one day … they would be safe and warm again. She wouldn't let her life end in defeat, like so many others.

“Will you cook for us, Mama?” Sasha asked as she took her doll from her mother and smoothed the hair. Her name was Annabelle, and she looked well loved. Her other dolls were waiting in the new apartment. Zoya had done everything she could to make the place look cozy and familiar, but there was nothing familiar to them about the ugly surroundings as the taxi stopped on West Seventeenth Street. Zoya shuddered as she looked around again, struck more than ever by how dismal it was, and Nicholas's face registered shock as he followed his mother up the stairs, and tried not to feel sick from the awful smells.

“Eghh … this smells ugly,” Sasha said as she walked up the stairs behind Zoya. The driver carried their bags for them, and Zoya paid him from their meager funds. She vowed to herself not to take any
more taxis. They would travel on buses now, or walk. There would be no more taxis, no more cars. She had sold the Hispano-Suiza to the Astors.

Zoya showed them into the apartment's single bedroom, and their two beds were there, dwarfing everything else. Their toys were arranged neatly beside them, and the paintings from Sasha's nursery had been carefully hung over her bed. Next to Nicholas's she had put a picture of Clayton, looking handsome in his uniform during the war. She had brought a suitcase filled with photographs of her own, of Clayton, and the children, and others that were yellowing and frayed, of Nicky and Alix, and the children at Livadia and Tsarskoe Selo. She had also brought the treasured imperial egg, it was carefully rolled into a pair of Clayton's socks. She had brought a box of his cuff links and studs as well, but her own jewelry was going to be sold at auction. For those who still had money, there were fantastic opportunities everywhere, diamond necklaces and tiaras and incredible emerald rings, picked up for pennies in auctions or at private sales. One family's desperation would suddenly become another's good fortune.

“Where will you sleep, Mama?” Nicholas looked worried again as he walked around the apartment, and realized there was only one bedroom. He had never seen quarters so small, even their servants on Sutton Place had had nicer rooms than these. The whole place looked so tiny and so ugly.

‘I'm going to sleep here on the settee, my love. It's very comfortable.” She smiled at him, and bent to kiss his cheek as she saw tears come to his eyes. It wasn't fair, having to do this to the children, and she fought back a wave of the anger she had recently
begun to feel for Clayton. Others had been wiser than he, less daring, and less foolish than he had been in risking all they had. And if only he had lived, they might have survived it differently … the two of them … they could at least have raged at the fates, side by side, but now she was alone as she had never been before. It all rested on her shoulders now, as she realized it must have rested on Evgenia's. And how brave she had been, how strong, it served as an example to Zoya now, as she looked at her son with a gentle smile, as he offered her his bed in the room he was to share with his sister.

“You can have my bed, Mama. I will sleep here.”

“No, darling … I'll be fine.” And then with a brave smile, “We all will. Now, you must watch Sasha for me while I cook dinner.”

She hung up their coats and her own, glad that she had brought warm clothes for them. The apartment was cold and there wasn't even a fireplace as there had been in the apartment in Paris.

“Why don't you take Sava for a walk?” The old dog was sitting quietly by the door, as though waiting to be taken home again, as they all were.

Nicholas put her on the leash, and told Sasha to be good while he went downstairs and their mother cooked them the chicken she had brought from the house on Sutton Place. But she knew only too well that the provisions they had brought wouldn't last long, nor would their money.

Christmas was a day like any other, except for the doll she bought Sasha and the pocket watch she'd saved from Clayton's things to give Nicholas. They huddled together as they bravely tried not to cry, and think of the enormity of their losses. The apartment
was freezing cold, the cupboards were bare, and Zoya's jewelry had gone at auction for pennies. She was determined to keep the imperial egg, but other than that, there was almost nothing left, and she knew she had to find a job soon, but the question of where haunted her day and night. She thought of working in a shop, but she didn't want to leave the children alone all day long. Sasha wasn't in school, and she couldn't leave her alone when Nicholas went to the public school nearby with the neighborhood children, most of whom were dressed in rags, and some of whom lived
in
shanties along the Hudson River. Shantytowns were springing up everywhere, filled with people who had once been stockbrokers and businessmen and lawyers. They cooked their meals in cauldrons on open fires, and they prowled the neighborhood at night, looking for food, and discarded items they could use. It broke Zoya's heart to see the children there, with their big hungry eyes and thin faces, their cheeks red from the cold, as they huddled near the fire to keep warm outside their shanties. It made the apartment seem like a haven in comparison, and she reminded the children of how much they had to be grateful for, almost daily. But even she had a hard time remembering that sometimes, as she watched their money dwindle, and began looking for a job in earnest. It would have to be something she could do at night, when the children were asleep, or at least safely at home. She knew she could trust Nicholas to take care of Sasha once he was home from school. He was responsible, and always kind to his little sister, sharing his games with her, helping her fix her toys, and talking endlessly about their father. The subject was still too painful for her,
as she watched them and went back to the living room to cry silently, as she stroked ancient Sava. The little dog was almost blind now, and Nicholas had to carry her down the stairs, when he took her out into the bitter cold to walk her.

It was January when Zoya walked from West Seventeenth Street all the way to Sixth Avenue at Forty-ninth Street, with a wild scheme. She knew it was crazy, but it was all she could think of. She had applied at several restaurants, but the proprietors had seen too many other women like her. What do you know about being a waitress? they asked, she would drop their trays, break their plates, and be too refined to work the long hours for tiny wages. She had insisted that she could do it, but they had turned her away, and there was nothing else she knew how to do, except dance, but not in the ballet, as she had in Paris.

More than once, in desperation, she had even considered prostitution, others had turned to that too, but she knew she couldn't do it. The memory of Clayton was too strong and pure, he was the only man she had ever loved, and she couldn't bear the thought of another man touching her, even to feed her children.

Dancing was the only thing she knew, but she knew just as clearly that at thirty, she could not return to the ballet, after more than eleven years without dancing. She was still supple and lithe, but she was too old, and she felt a thousand years old, as she walked into the theater she had heard of. She had already been to the Ziegfeld and they had told her she wasn't tall enough. So there was nothing left but to try the burlesque halls. It was five blocks south of
the Ziegfeld Theater. Not surprisingly, when she walked through the stage door, the theater was filled with half-dressed women, whom she tried not to stare at while she looked for someone she could talk to.