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