But there was still no news of Clayton. Zoya barely dared to think of him now. If something happened to him too, she knew she couldn't go on living. It was all too much to bear, too much to think about, impossible to understand. Uncle Nicky was dead. The words rang again and again in her head. She had written three letters to Marie since she heard the news, but as yet there had been no answer. She was no longer clear about where Dr. Botkin was, and if the family had been moved, as the newspaper had said, it was impossible to say how long it would take for the letters to reach her.
But finally, after an endless October of silence from those she loved, November came, and with it peace at last.
They sat in their living room when they heard the news, listening to the shouting in the streets, the screams, the jubilation, the church bells, the cannons. It had finally come to an end. The whole world had shuddered from the blow of it, but now, at last, it was finished. The great war was over.
She quietly poured her grandmother a cup of tea, and without a word, she stood watching the celebrations in the street from the window. There were Allied troops everywhere, Americans, English, Italians, French, but she didn't even know if Clayton was still alive, and she hardly dared to hope. She turned to look at Evgenia, so old now, so frail, the cough that had plagued her the previous winter had returned, and her knees were so bad she could no longer leave the apartment.
“Things will be better now, little Zoya,” she said softly, but she was racked by coughs as she said it. She knew what was on the girl's mind. She hadn't heard from Clayton since he left Paris at midnight on Bastille Day. “He'll come home to you, little one. Trust a little bit. You must have faith.” She smiled at her gently, but there was no joy in Zoya's eyes anymore. She had lost too much. And she was worried about too many.
“How can you still say that? With so many people gone … how can you believe anyone will come home again?”
“The world goes on. People are born, and die, and others are born after them. It is only our own sadness that is so painful. Nicholas knows no pain now. He is at peace.”
“And the others?” She had now written five letters to Marie, and all of them were still unanswered.
“We can only pray for their safety.” Zoya nodded. She had heard it all before. She was angry now at the fates that had taken so much from them.
It was almost impossible to get through the streets during those first days after the armistice, and she only went out to bring back food for them. Once again, their supplies had dwindled to almost nothing. There were no performances of the ballet, and they had to get by on the tiny sum she had saved. It suddenly all seemed so exhausting.
“May I help you carry that, mademoiselle?” She felt someone tug at the baguette under her arm, and she turned with angry words on the tip of her tongue, ready to kill for the food she had, or to defend herself against an amorous soldier. Not everyone in Paris wanted to be kissed by an excited boy in uniform, she thought to herself as she swung around, her hands in fists, and gasped as she dropped the prized baguette and he pulled her to him.
“Oh … oh …” Tears sprang to her eyes instantly as she melted into his arms with relief. He was alive … oh, God … he was alive … it was as though they were the only two people left … the only survivors of a lost world, as she clung passionately to Clayton.
“Now that's better!” He looked down at her from his great height, his field uniform stained and wrinkled, his face rough from the beard stubble he hadn't been able to shave in days. He had just arrived in Paris and had come straight to find her. He had already seen Evgenia, and she had told him Zoya was out buying some food and he had rushed back down the stairs to meet her in the street.
“Are you all right?” She was laughing and crying all at once and he kissed her again and again, as relieved as she was that they