My Auntie Zoya

By Tania Senko

Groomed for the stage since childhood, Zoya Frank-Paradowski exceeded her mother's expectations. Her raw talent coupled with her beauty lead her to success in ballet, theater, film, and opera under her stage name, Zoya Valevska. Having escaped the new Soviet, post-Russian Revolution, regime, and subsequently blacklisted by the Communists, she flourished in European film and opera. Twice married to wealthy men, although wealthy in her own right, Zoya joined the rich and famous while jet-setting about Europe. Her film career skyrocketed until the booming German movie industry came to a grinding halt when Hitler began to expand his Third Reich. She fled to Great Britain, as her second husband was a citizen of Great Britain, and she became a citizen as well. During World War II, she joined ENSA, an organization providing entertainment to the British Armed Forces, where she sang and performed Russian dances. While in Great Britain, Zoya also sang opera and was dubbed, The Russian Nightingale. After an amicable divorce from her second husband, Zoya relocated to Paris, France, post World War II. It was in the city of lights that she continued to shine, recognized and admired by her fans. A born flirt, she met the love of her life in her 50's and continued a long relationship with him. Although it ended tragically, Zoya, no stranger to adversity, lived life to the fullest until her death.

Always in awe of my aunt and godmother, I remember her fondly, in my heart, and now in these pages. She truly lived up to her name, which means "life."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tanya Goodwin
• Release date: Dec 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310002656

Book preview

PART I

My Auntie Zoya

Through the Looking Glass

Chapter One

1916, January, Russia

St. Petersburg Ballet School

Yuri Andreyevich strode alongside the girls spaced equidistantly at the barre with his hands on his hips and his footsteps staccato, striking the planks of the wooden floor in perfect time to every snap of a battement jeté. Madame Marskova, their stern ballet teacher, had warned the class of the ballet master’s visit. There was a decision to be made. Today, he would choose only one ballerina to join the corps de ballet of his company. Zoya had made her decision. She would be the one.

Yuri halted beside Larissa, Zoya’s best friend. Larissa’s ballet technique was one of the best in the class, almost on par with hers. He must have stood next to Larissa for what seemed like an eternity. He corrected her fingers. He straightened her spine. Zoya prayed for Larissa even though they were in direct competition for the coveted corps position. They’d been friends since age five. They came to ballet class together at dawn everyday, and left for school hand-in-hand, afterwards without fail.

Larissa didn’t flinch. Yuri nodded and moved on.

Zoya flung her leg forward, to the side, and to the rear, snapping back into fifth position in perfect synchrony to the music, her arm open to second position and her fingers like delicate flower petals. Sprinkles of sawdust wafted from the tips of her pointe shoe with each battement jeté. After each ballet class, she’d write in her notebook every step, position, and dance combination that day. The hours she spent practicing the exercises in her bedroom had paid off. Zoya performed them effortlessly. Hopefully a new notebook would be under the Christmas tree! But the best present would be a promotion to the corps.

Mama had braided Zoya’s hair to perfection that morning, topping the end with a white satin ribbon. Her black cotton leotard and tights were washed fresh, and her muslin ballet skirt had been hung up with care. Mama reminded her daily that appearance was paramount. Zoya had purposely not told her mother of the competition; on the off chance she’d disappoint her. Her older sister, Tamara, was deemed the more talented of the two. Her voice made angels weep. Mama enrolled Zoya in the ballet, hoping Zoya would flourish there. And she did.

The tapping of Yuri’s teaching cane grew louder. Zoya prepared for his assessment. She kept her eyes forward. She vowed to outdo her older sister. Tamara! Tamara! Tamara! My turn, now!

Yuri paused next to Zoya. Her heart pounded. He moved in closer. His breath slid off her cheek. He made no corrections, nor any comments. Zoya snapped her perfectly arched foot into fifth position, ending the exercise on the last plunk of the piano key. Yuri turned and walked away.

Madame Marskova clapped three times. That is all. Class dismissed.

What had happened? He didn’t choose Larissa. He didn’t choose me. He didn’t choose anyone. Zoya frowned. The whole class would have to suffer Madame Marskova’s dramatic disappointment. Her reputation was at stake, at least that’s the way Madame surely saw it. Zoya frowned. Madame the Terrible, as her students had nicknamed her, would be that more wretched to deal with now that none of her ballet students were chosen.

Zoya caught up with Larissa and the rest of the class heading to the dressing room to change out of their ballet clothes and into their school uniforms.

Wait for me, Larissa. We’ll walk to school together.

Larissa nudged against her. Do you believe it? No one. Not a soul. Let’s go. Or we’ll be late.

Zoya Paradowski! the ballet master called.

She halted, ramrod straight, while the rest of the class buzzed with gossip as they moved like a gaggle of geese into the dressing area.

Go. Go, Larissa whispered, and then scurried away.

Lord have mercy. Be composed. Be composed. Zoya took a deep breath, pivoted around, and proceeded towards Yuri Andreyevich, with a graceful ballet run. She stopped before Yuri, curtsied, and bowed her head.

Monsieur, she said demurely, addressing the ballet master with the proper French term.

Yuri circled her. Her heart beat with every tap of his wooden cane. His breath moved from the back of her neck to straight into her face. Yuri halted in front of her. He slid his finger beneath her chin and lifted her head. They were eye to eye, her steel blue ones to his coal ones. They were an odd pas de deux. He poked his cane under the hem of her muslin skirt and inched it up. She dared not move. The piano keys had long gone silent, and Madame Marskova, too. Zoya inhaled with a gasp, aware she’d been holding her breath. Her lungs clung to her ribs. He hiked her skirt higher. The muscles in her legs tightened. Yuri tapped her thighs with his cane. He drew his lips into a flirtatious grin.

So, Mademoiselle Paradowski, show me what you can do with those.

Her breath stuttered to the back of her throat.

Yuri pivoted on his cane and walked away. Zoya balanced on the tip of her toe, flexed behind her in a frozen curtsy.

Croisé derrière, he called over his shoulder. Madame Marskova, bring me a chair.

Zoya assumed the commanded position, one arm draped gracefully over her head, and the other outstretched to the side, her leg, the one Yuri had prodded with his cane, pointed to the rear. She focused on a long, lightening bolt crack in a corner wall. It would be her zen, until further instruction. She dared not glimpse at Yuri Andreyevich, or Madame Marskova. The hardened woman was rather unpleasant to look at, anyway. A wooden chair creaked open. The groan echoed throughout the gymnasium as Yuri sat.

Mademoiselle, do entertain us with some adagio.

Zoya set her gaze free from the corner, and peeked through her raised arm at Yuri and Madame Marskova. Yuri sat with his cane between his legs, his arms folded across the top of it. His lips eased into a softer smile. Madame stood typically waxy, behind him, her arms crossed in military fashion upon her bosom and her lips in a thin straight line.

Sir, Mozart, number 12 in F major, please, he called to the piano player, his eyes not wavering from Zoya.

Zoya glanced at the pianist’s raised hands, waiting for them to strike the keys. She readied her body for the downbeat. The notes began, beckoning her to respond. She shifted her weight. There was only her in that sweat filled gymnasium, the piano pulling at her soul. Her heart beat steady, and she tightened her legs from thighs to calves, her muscles in her complete control beneath her skin, warm and pliable. Every fiber did as she commanded it. She’d performed this piece hundreds of times in her bedroom and in her dreams, the music playing so sweetly in her head. A wave satisfaction flooded from her scalp to the tips of every pointed toe. She was the mistress of her body. Zoya pulled breath into her lungs. The stale air tumbled inside her, nonetheless renewing her balletic vigor. Zoya prodded her body to unfold in an ethereal fashion that went against movements deemed humanly possible. The dank gymnasium had transformed into her personal stage. Zoya leaned downward into an arabesque penché. She stretched her body until it would not stretch anymore, to a vertical 90 degrees, needle nose display. With her toes pointed to the rafters, she rested there, poised, until the final plink of the piano. She smiled inwardly. It was a perfect performance!

Silence echoed in her ears. Her thoughts spun back to reality, to Yuri Andreyevich, and to the ever sour, Madame Marskova. The only sound in the rickety expanse was her breath. Zoya lifted out of her arabesque as graciously as she had leaned into it. She swept her leg to the fore and curtsied. Still nothing. No words of praise. No well done. Worst, the words she had waited for, the words she was certain would be issued, Congratulations. You are promoted to the corps de ballet, failed to come from Yuri’s lips. She glanced up at her silent judges. Yuri and Madame Marskova looked at each other, and then they darted their gazes at her. Zoya met their scrutiny straight on, though her heartbeat raised an octave.

Yuri’s relaxed smile had exited the room sometime during her hallmark adagio. The wrinkles across his forehead tugged at his furrowed thick brows. Madame Marskova remained with her stoic stance. The woman’s unchanging expression was no surprise, but why had his look turned pensive? She had performed admirably for him at the barre, and flawlessly during her adagio. What more could this man want from her?

Yuri crooked her finger at her. Come. Move forward, please, he said flatly.

Zoya cautiously proceeded towards him. At least he said please.

He raised his hand. Stop there.

She halted, resting in first position, her hands rounded low in preparatory stance. Zoya breathed steadily. She silently counted to five to quell the anxiety rising in her throat. She needed to be ready for what was to occur next in this trial.

The floorboards creaked beneath Madame Marskova’s feet. Yuri sat statuesque. Dust particles danced in the beam of light coning down from the window above while she waited, and waited, and waited. This was some sort of medieval torture, to see who would break first. Well, Yuri Andreyevich, it will not be me, she thought, defiant inwardly, but obedient outwardly.

The ballet master dismissed the pianist. The legs of his stool stuttered against the wood. Footsteps marched behind Zoya. The heavy door to the gymnasium slammed shut. There’d be no music now. What does he have planned? Perhaps he didn’t want to dismiss me in front of the pianist. No. Why would he care? Zoya debated.

Yuri leaned against his ballet master’s cane. Your barre was solid, and your adagio, more than adequate. However, when I choose a dancer for the corps, I do so with the intention of eventual promotion to a principal position with the company. As such, I require a versatile ballerina.

Zoya’s ears perked. A prima ballerina? She pinned down her shoulders, elongated her neck, and lifted her torso. That adagio had cinched it! This was better than the corps. This was the gateway to her heaven!

I want to see foutté en tourant, he said, without request.

The successive pendulum pirouettes were strictly a soloist move. No dancer in the corps would perform them. This was insane! The most spins she’d done were seven, before listing sideways. The stairway to her heaven inclined steeper. There was no choice in the matter. She had to perform them. Maybe he’d stop her after five rotations. Yes, that would be good. It would be enough for him to see that she could do it.

Zoya assumed the fifth position, jutted out her leg, and with one arm in front and the other out to the side, she bent the knee of her standing leg and readied for the whip of her leg to set her turns into motion. There came the wobble. Her balancing leg quivered at the knee. Yuri raised a brow. Her faux pas shot to her heart that responded in kind with its own quiver. There was no turning back. She had to salvage what remained of this audition. In a momentous swing, she sprang into the first pirouette. She whipped her head around, making Yuri’s eyes her focal point. She pliéd up into the next fouetté en tourant, and the next, and the next, her eyes meeting his each rotation. Three pirouettes complete, two more to go, she cheered. Yuri began to clap in time to her twirls. Five. Six. Seven. He kept clapping. Keep going. Keep going. Her stomach churned. She’d gone beyond her personal best. Zoya sought his face each time, desperate to stay on course. She dug the box of her pointe shoe into the wood with each rise. Eight. Nine. Ten.

During the tenth rotation, Yuri yelled, Enough! Stop!

Adrenaline coursing through her, Zoya finished the eleventh twirl. She halted in a demi-plié, her leg outstretched, confused as if she needed it to hoist her around again. Her heart beat bird-quick. She drew a muted gasp. She’d held her breath after the seventh rotation. Yuri’s face was a blur. Zoya blinked, bringing him back into focus. Had he noticed she’d lost control at the end? Of course he had. She’d not pulled it off. She was done for. Zoya snapped her feet back into fifth position and waited for Yuri to stand up and leave.

Stand he did, but he made no move towards the exit. His eyes softened, though not as much as a half smile graced his lips. And stern Madame Marskova? No explanation necessary.

Yuri tucked his cane under his arm. Their eyes locked.

Mademoiselle Paradowski, he started.

Her heart twisted. Whatever his decision was, Zoya lowered her gaze out of respect. Why doesn’t he just say it so I can go onto class? Mathematics would be a safer place.

You surprise me. He folded his hands. I don’t know quite what to do with you. Clearly, you have talent.

Zoya widened her eyes and pulled towards him. She couldn’t hold it in any longer. She grinned. Talent! Yuri Andreyevich declared I have talent!

Madame Marskova snapped her fingers in admonishment. Zoya lowered the corners of her lips. But her soul sang loudly!

You will continue with your morning classes here. Madame Marskova will report to me how you are progressing. The corps de ballet’s class commences at 3 o’clock sharp. If you are not dressed in the proper attire and ready at the barre, then do not bother to grace my presence. You will not like my response. Clear?

Zoya bowed her head. Absolutely, Monsieur. She cast her eyes upward to him. And thank you. I will not disappoint you. I will work hard. Oh, my. She was rattling on. She should have stopped at Absolutely, but joy pushed her into it. Zoya pressed her lips tight before any other childish glee escaped.

Yuri frowned, but there was a glint in his eyes. Humph. Work on your fouetté en tourant. I want to see ten perfect ones by the month’s end. He pointed his cane toward the back room. Come a half hour earlier tomorrow morning for costume fitting. The Dying Swan debuts on stage next month. You will be performing in the corps, that is if you can keep pace with the company, and continue to progress. If you cannot, I will pull you out in a heartbeat.

Yes, Monsieur, she said. I understand.

He stared at her. She dared not move.

Yuri finally waved his hand at Zoya. Dismissed.

Zoya curtsied, first to Yuri, and then to Madame Marskova.

Yuri flicked his hand again. Go. Go.

Madame Marskova said nothing, submitting with silence to his higher rank, the ballet pecking order in play.

Zoya skittered away toward the dressing room. She was a grain of sand in this mix. But grains of sand become pearls. Zoya passed into the changing room, away from his view. Her whole body smiled. She’d be Yuri Andreyevich’s pearl!

*****

Zoya burst through the back door of the gymnasium and into the winter morning light. Her button collared gray school dress clung to her skin beneath her woolen coat, replacing the happiness of her leotard and flowing skirt. Mother had secured a fine lace coverlet draping over the shoulders and had sewn an extra scallop of matching lace at the neckline, making the everyday dress fashionable. At least she was still wearing the bow in her hair and in her thick cotton tights, a souvenir of her promotion.

Zoya adjusted her white fur hat, and with her leather satchel containing her treasured ballet attire in one hand and her book strap in the other, she crunched in the snow towards school. The soft hairs of her stole caressed her chin. She wiggled her toes in her fur-lined boots sparking warmth with every sink of her feet into the glistening Russian snow. Snowflakes dotted her eyelashes and left cold kisses on her cheeks. Zoya let the snowfall flirt with her. Today was the best day. And besides, she was toasty in her winter wardrobe, lucky to be so, she reminded herself. Her family was truly blessed, barricaded from the harshness of the Great War, thank God. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. There would be parties to attend, presents to open, and family to kiss. Life could not be sweeter than a cup of cherry tea!

The school bell tolled three times, a warning for all to come inside.

Do you not miss me? Larissa called behind her.

Zoya spun around. Larissa, you waited for me all this time? In the cold? Her voice squeaked in surprise.

Larissa marched in the snow towards her. Her nose and cheeks had long passed pink.

Guilt grabbed at Zoya, hard. While she was in the gymnasium still heated from the sweat of dancers and auditioning for a position Larissa had coveted, her best friend hunkered in the frigid morning, waiting for her exit.

Larissa halted, less than a hand away, in front of Zoya. Her strained breath formed a foggy wall between the two. We always walk to school together. Why would today be different?

Zoya stepped through the mist. Larissa stood her ground. The pout on her friend’s lips and the turbid blue of her eyes, twisted the knife further into Zoya’s soul.

Larissa, my darling, I’d anticipated you’d moved on. Which was the truth. You whispered to me, ‘Go. Go,’ before you left for the changing room with the others. Zoya shook her head. I’d thought you’d ‘Gone. Gone.’ I was so wrong. You are a loyal friend. I do not deserve you.

Larissa shrugged in her heavy coat. True.

Zoya snatched Larissa into a tight embrace. Their winter coats meshed into a glob as big as a bear. Zoya rubbed her cheek against Larissa’s. Her friend’s face lay frigid on her chilled skin. She rubbed against her harder, the friction finally taking hold. They kissed three times, alternating each cheek.

Are we fine? Zoya asked with a genuine mix of conciliation and humility.

Larissa grinned. Fine.

Wonderful! Zoya squeezed Larissa’s hand. Warmth seeped from Larissa’s gloved hand and radiated clear through Zoya’s glove to her palm, sealing the temporary rift between them.

They swung their bound hands to and fro as they half ran to class, kicking up the powdery snow in their tracks.

Well? Larissa puffed. How was it? Tell me everything!

Yuri, of course, sat speculative in his chair with that cane of his, scrutinizing every move I made. Madame Marskova stood behind him, her face pinched, as usual. Those black eyes of hers follow one from all angles like she’s part of a spooky portrait.

I know!

They sang a verse of Ochi Chyornye (Dark Eyes).

Their laughs rose like halos in the cold air. The heaviness of Zoya’s heart lifted. It was so wonderful to share a giggle with her best friend.

So, Zoya continued. My adagio...perfect.

Yes, that is your strength.

I was sure I’d passed, but then he demanded to see my fouetté en tourant.

Unbelievable!

That was my thought, exactly! Her voice escalated with excitement.

Larissa raised her frosty eyebrows. What did you do?

Zoya slowed their pace. The tale deserved embellishment. Zoya widened her eyes for full effect. I did them, as ordered. Seven was my best. I was sure that would suffice. But once I began, Yuri started to clap. She purposely omitted the part about the bobble. It would tarnish her story.

Larissa’s gaze had not wandered from Zoya’s eyes. How many times did he clap? she asked, teetering on breathlessness.

Ten!

Oh, my God!

My thought, exactly! she repeated. So I spun and I spun, spotting Yuri’s eyes each time.

No!

Yes! He clapped to ten. My heart was pounding so hard I accidentally finished with eleven.

You were still standing?

Of course. The Holy Ghost must have been with me. It was a nice touch. She wanted to believe that, but perhaps the Spirit thought twice about piercing through the frigid Russian sky.

So now you’re in the corps? Larissa asked. Her inquisitive thrill had faded to a thin smile that envy and hurt hid behind.

Zoya nodded and softly replied, Yes, sparing crushing her friend’s tender ego.

Larissa squeezed Zoya’s hand. Congratulations, she replied with a glint of defeat in her eyes. I suppose I can stand behind Olga at the barre. She sniffled. I guess this is the last time we will walk to school together. She shook her head and wrinkled her nose. But I don’t want to walk to school with her. She is unnecessarily full of herself.

Zoya pulled them to a stop. She grabbed Larissa by both hands. Snowflakes fell faster, pummeling their fur hats. Nothing of the sort! I am still to take classes with you and that insufferable Madame Marskova. We will be at the barre together, and we will walk to school as always, I promise. After the holidays, and after my classes with the corps, we will practice everyday. She bobbed her head with determination. I need to improve my pirouettes, and to progress. We will do this together, and come spring, I swear you will be in the corps with me. You and me, dancing alongside the great Vera Karalli! Zoya punctuated their grip. What do you say?

She could not vouch for any such opening in the spring, but at the least she’d motivate Larissa. Her friend would become even a better dancer than she was now. Who knows? There may very well be a spot waiting for her. Warmth spread through her chest. She and Larissa, they’d be together forever, until they were old and gray.

Larissa’s eyes perked. Really?

Zoya hugged her. Absolutely, my friend.

Ah, you are golden!

She let loose of one of Larissa’s hands and tugged her along. The school bell tolled twice, the final warning. Come, let’s hurry, or we’ll be late.

They trudged through the snowing, whipping one another, faster and faster.

Zoya squinted past the snowflakes. A crowd had gathered in front of the school.

What’s going on? Larissa asked.

I don’t know, but let’s find out.

Larissa bucked backwards. Stay away. I’ve heard of crowds like this. No. Let’s circle around them and mind our own business.

Zoya shook her hand free from Larissa’s grip and plodded in the snow towards the crowd. She surveyed the half moon of participants. That was no ominous gathering! Those were her classmates. She whipped around to Larissa, who stood where she’d left her. Zoya waved.

Come on. It’s only our fellow students. Let’s join them.

We’ll be tardy, Larissa admonished her, while taking cautious steps.

Zoya picked up her pace. She glanced back. The distance between her and Larissa had widened. Never mind, Zoya mused. She’ll catch up. The excited crowd pulled her in faster.

Hit him back, Vasily! Get him! Push him! the crowd chanted.

Zoya ran. Her book strap and leather satchel swung haphazardly behind her. Snowflakes grazed her cheeks. Her good friend was in trouble! She had to get to him.

Vasily and she were neighbors and good friends since childhood. Tall, but of slight build, he was more boy than man. Amiable, he had no enemies except one, and Zoya knew who that was. She pushed her way through the crowd. Sure enough, Petya was behind this melee! The oaf was a foe to all and friend to none. He fancied himself like Peter the Great, however he was more like Goliath with an expanded musculature, but a contracted brain.

Petya, three times Vasily’s size, straddled Vasily’s back and dunked his face mercilessly into the snow. Their classmates cheered Vasily on. Zoya couldn’t open her mouth, her retort frozen in the back of her throat. All the hails wouldn’t help Vasily escape the crushing blows of Petya’s gigantic hands. It wasn’t a fair fight. But when was Petya ever fair? Never!

Pathetic imperialist weakling. Your money can’t help you, Petya yelled into Vasily’s ear. With bare fists, he pummeled Vasily, again and again. Petya’s face grew redder with each angry punch. Vasily squirmed in the snow, his face pale. He bucked, trying to overthrow his tormentor. Petya slapped him across his naked head. Vasily’s hat lay strewn in the snow, just out of his reach. Petya raised his hand, poised to land a crushing blow. This one’s for your Captain father, leading his soldiers to their deaths!

Liar! Liar! the crowd cried.

Petya narrowed his dark eyes at them. You will all be next. One way, or another, you will salute the Bolsheviks. You will see that day, soon!

The students booed, but did not interfere with the fight.

Zoya’s heart stopped in her chest. Something had to be done, now. She broke free from the crowd. Hot rage bubbled up inside her. She sped towards Petya before he could release his blow. With gathered momentum, Zoya threw her leg upward in a grande battement. Her boot smacked Petya’s rubbery cheek. He rolled off of Vasily from the impact. Petya cowered on his side in the snow, holding his hand to his injured cheek. A sick vibration shot from her heel to her calf. She’d never hit anyone. The crowd hushed. Vasily crawled to his hands and knees, and resurrected. He stumbled forward and picked up his hat.

A student ran up to Zoya, grabbed her hand, and raised it above her head. The victor!

The crowd applauded.

Zoya blinked. Her mind spun in circles trying to process what had happened. She blinked. Divots and scattered footprints remained, post schoolyard war. The crowd dispersed. Zoya looked at Larissa, who stood like a grim statue. She finally moved.

Larissa shook her head. Why did you do that?

He would have severely injured our friend. Enough was enough. No one was doing anything.

With good reason!

So I should have stood by with the rest?

Yes, Larissa said flatly.

Zoya snatched up her book strap and satchel. Thank you for your support, my friend. And might I say Vasily’s friend?

I am Vasily’s friend, but I do not interfere in men’s business.

Zoya arched her brows. Men? These are not men. They are boys with poor impulse.

These boys are your classmates today, but your soldiers tomorrow.

Uh! Zoya gasped. You are on Petya’s side!

Shush! I’m not anything of the sort!

Zoya opened her arms in supplication. I’m sorry. That was a horrible thing to say. She hugged Larissa. Please, forgive me.

Larissa patted her on the back. There. There. Your emotions got the best of you. It’s been a long day, and it’s only morning!

Zoya let out a needed breath. Let’s walk with Vasily. Zoya and Larissa hurried in the snow. Vasily, she called. But he didn’t turn around. Zoya tapped his shoulder from behind. Vasily, are you all right?

He turned around sharply and glared at her, his eyes daggers. I’m fine, no thanks to you. You humiliated me! I’m a man. I could endure. I didn’t need you, a ballerina, no less, to rescue me.

Yes, Vasily, the man, whose whiskers were as soft as a cat’s coat!

I’m so sorry, my dear Vasily. But what he said about you, really about all of us. Those sacrilegious Bolsheviks! Peasants! And what he said about your father. I couldn’t allow him to blaspheme against our courageous captain! Zoya declared, justifying her actions. But her words poured from her heart. Were the rumors true? Was Petya the ominous messenger?

It’s all right, Zoyechka. His eyes softened. Vasily stroked her cheek. You’ve always been passionate. Thank you for your efforts. However, in the future, let me handle my affairs. Petya is dim. I forgive him for that. I will take care of the Petya’s of Russia, like my father. You, my dear Zoyechka, must take care not to utter any political thoughts. Beware of big ears.

I will. Thank you for your forgiveness. Friends?

Friends, always.

He kissed her on the cheek, thrice.

Fine. Now that everything is settled, let’s get to class. No more trouble for today. My heart can’t take anymore, Larissa said.

They ran up the school steps and scurried to their desks. They sank into their seats as the final bell tolled. Petya arrived to class tardy.

Madame Korchenko raised her eyes from her desk. Pyotr Kirillovich.

Petya nodded to her. Yes, Madame Korchenko.

Take your seat.

Even the teachers approached him cautiously.

Petya strode past Zoya’s desk, her boot imprint fresh upon his face. Her stomach clenched, but her eyes did not waver from his stare. He knocked his hip against the corner of her desk. She jostled in her seat but kept her face poker, not giving into his boorish satisfaction. Petya slunk into the seat behind her. He leaned forward. She wrinkled her nose at his sour breath.

Zoyechka, he hoarsely whispered.

She bristled at him daring to call her by her affectionate name.

I hear you are now in the corps de ballet.

She didn’t response. He was clearing goading her. Zoya straightened her spine and pushed back her shoulders.

He continued with a cackle. It would be a shame if something happened to those strong legs of yours.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose. Her shoulders sank forward reflexively. Clearly, not everything was settled.

Chapter Two

The Long Walk Home

Take out your books, please, Madame Korchenko ordered.

Zoya’s book slipped from her hands and landed with a thud on her desk. Madame Korchenko’s eyes searched for the offending noise. Books opened and papers rustled, thankfully hiding the drop. Madame Korchenko cleared her throat. Her gaze found Zoya. Zoya silently addressed her scrutiny and opened her book. The binding creaked. Her fingers trembled as she turned the pages, but the teacher’s eyes skimmed over the top of her head and landed on Petya. Giant Petya obstructed every student’s view. Those wanting the freedom to do as they pleased during class fought to sit behind him.

We will continue with Pushkin’s ‘The Captain’s Daughter.’ Petya, come to the front.

His chair groaned as he stood as if it were relieved of his weight. The wooden floor shook with each step he took.

Madame Korchenko sighed. Bring your book.

He turned around and shot Zoya an evil grin. Petya marched to his desk and snatched his book. He thundered to the front of the class as if it were an imposition. Petya scowled and opened his book.

Please read from the beginning of chapter two, the teacher said.

Petya grabbed the corners of his book so hard, that his knuckles blanched. He uttered not a word for a minute. Silence permeated to the dull plastered walls. Then a chair squeaked. Petya peered over his book. His eyes scanned for the impatient classmate. Petya glared at Zoya. She returned his stare, sending a clear message that it was not she. He bowed his head back to his book.

Chapter Two, The Guide, Petya read aloud, slowly and infantile. He drew a deep breath and proceeded:

My re-re-reflections dur-ing the jo-jo-journey were not very a...gree...a...gree-able. My loss, accor-ding to the value of mon-ey at that time, was of no little im-im-portance. I could not but confess-

Students leaned forward in a wave, prodding Petya to get on with it.

Zoya grasped the edge of her desk. Sound the words out. Keep going. She wrinkled her brow. Why was she championing this brute that minutes ago threatened her? Sweat glistened off his forehead.

Petya continued battering Pushkin:

Within my own mind, that my be-behavior at the Simbirsk inn was very stupid,

All right Petya. That’s enough, Madame Korchenko mercifully interrupted his stammering.

Petya snapped his book shut and strode to his seat, his face indifferent. He had no use for intellect. Brawn had given all he had needed to survive.

Madame Korchenko returned her gaze to Zoya. Zoya Paradowski. Please stand.

Zoya obediently rose and stood by her desk.

Madame waved to her. Come to the front and continue.

Zoya picked up her book and hugged it to her chest as she walked, ballet soft, to the front of the classroom. Wonderful, she thought, sarcastically. Not only did she kick Petya in the face, but also now she’d crush his performance. She opened her book and waited for her instruction.

Please start with the second paragraph.

Zoya bowed her head. Yes, Madame.

She quickly assessed Petya’s demeanor. He rolled his eyes and smirked. She buried her eyes in the book to get away from his stare. Zoya scanned to the second paragraph and began:

Come, come, Savelitch, that will do, let us be friends. I was to blame; I see myself that I was in the wrong. I acted very foolishly yesterday, and I offended you without cause.

Zoya swallowed past the lump bubbling to her throat. The words rang as if they were her confession. She lifted her head from her book and looked bleary eyed at Larissa who smiled, acknowledging their continued friendship. Zoya swung her gaze to Vasily. He bowed his head to her.

Her soul renewed, she pressed the open book to her chest with one hand and dramatically swung the other arm open. Zoya needn’t look at the book. She recited the paragraph, letting the passion that flowed from deep within her rise to her lips:

I promise that I will act more wisely for the future, and listen to your advice.

Come, don’t be angry, but let us be friends again.

Madame Korchenko clapped her hands together. Excellent, Zoya. Well done. Such passion!

A confident, warmth spread to her cheeks. She gave a little curtsy. Happiness had reclaimed her day! She pattered to her desk on the balls of her feet and half pirouetted into her seat. Fresh from expressing Pushkin’s words of forgiveness and friendship, she’d make amends with Petya. After all, she’d witnessed a glimmer of his insecurity. Perhaps she could tap into that little kernel of vulnerability deep inside him. Zoya twisted toward Petya.

I’m sorry I kicked you, Petya, she whispered sweetly.

He hissed past his bared yellowed teeth.

She reared back into her seat. It was as if she’d sprinkled Holy water upon a demon.

You’re an imbecile if you think that means anything to me, he retorted.

She swung her back to him. Who was calling whom an imbecile? He’d swatted her act of kindness away like an annoying fly. Instead of extending a truce, he displayed nothing more than his cast iron heart. He was not only dim, but also evil. Vasily may forgive him. God may forgive him. But she was done trying.

Vasily, Larissa, and three other classmates read. Petya’s breath poked at her neck the whole time, spoiling her concentration. She wiggled her shoulders, but she couldn’t shrug his meddlesome presence off of her. He was a perpetual stain on her most important day, and she despised him for that.

The bell tolled, signaling the end of morning classes. Vasily and Larissa shot out of their seats and rushed over to Zoya before she could stand. They each grabbed her by the hand and swung her out of her seat. The tips of her toes grazed the floor.

All right. I’m going. You, two, must be famished.

They were hurrying her away from Petya. But she’d not cower to that oaf! She’d hit him once already, an object lesson for the Bolshevik bully. Despite his vulgar words, he’d surely think twice before accosting her. Zoya lifted her chin and strode with purpose to the dining hall. Petya bolted past them, speechless and disappeared through the exit.

Good! she muttered.

Larissa narrowed her eyes. He’s horrid!

Zoya squeezed her friends’ hands. Let’s not give him another thought. That’s precisely what he wants us to do.

Well said. I agree. Let’s eat. Vasily turned to Zoya and grinned. I understand congratulations are in order. You’ll have to tell me all about it.

Oh, yes, please. I want to hear it all over again! Larissa cheered.

Zoya beamed. She’d recount the audition with pleasure. Petya hadn’t sabotaged her day, after all!

They took their seats at the table and stirred their bowls of Lenten borsch. The beet soup lingered on her tongue. With her promotion to the corps and Christmas Eve tomorrow, it tasted extra delicious today.

Vasily sipped his borsch. Well?

Larissa massaged her hands together. She widened her eyes as if she were about to hear her favorite fairytale.

Zoya laid down her spoon. She recanted her adventure. Vasily remained riveted the whole time, and Larissa clapped with glee.

The threesome chatted among the cacophony of spoons tinkling against bowls throughout the dining hall. Zoya lapped up the last of her borsch. The bell rang twice, announcing the end of lunch. She reached beside her and stroked the leather satchel containing her ballet gear. She carried it everywhere. Her whole life was packaged in there. The ballet was her destiny. Mathematics? An unfortunate necessity.

Zoya stood and pushed in her chair. She scanned the room. Petya was nowhere in sight. Perhaps he left to brood at home. She repeated his malicious words inwardly. You’re an imbecile if that means anything to me!

*****

Madame Rostov was not inclined to gush over Zoya, and rightfully so. Zoya hadn’t the passion for mathematics that she had for literature. There was no drama in numbers. There was no romance. No verve. Just a lot of dullness. Zoya drew tutus and pointe shoes in the margins of her paper, looking up periodically while a classmate solved an algebra problem at the blackboard. This should take a while, she thought. With a satisfied smile, she returned to her paper. She had just finished outlining a ballet combination at the bottom of the page, when a finger pecked her paper. Zoya lifted her eyes. She let out a muted gasp. How had she missed Madame Rostov sneaking up beside her? Zoya slapped her hand across her artwork, covering her dalliance. But she couldn’t hide every detail.

Madame Rostov shook her head and exhaled with exasperation. Zoya shrugged her shoulders coquettishly and added an apologetic wince. Neither maneuver impressed her teacher. The mathematics professor, who apparently wore soft -soled shoes, slid Zoya’s embellished paper out from beneath her sweaty palm. Her fingertips grazed the bottom edge of the page as Madame Rostov confiscated her work. Zoya held her breath, waiting for Madame to wad it up and toss it into the waste can, but she didn’t. She strode to her desk and laid Zoya’s paper on it. Zoya blew out a thankful sigh. Praise, God! She’d spent a lot of time on that paper, and had only written the first ballet combination. She’d finish the rest at home in the privacy of her bedroom.

Zoya Paradowski, please come to the blackboard, Madame said.

God must have taken Madame Rostov’s side.

Zoya slinked out of her chair and inched to the front of the classroom.

Madame pointed a piece of chalk at Zoya. Zoya held her hand up and accepted the gauntlet. She faced the blackboard and rolled the powdery chalk between her fingers while inspecting the algebraic equation shouting at her. It would have made no difference if the numbers were upside down. Why would a ballerina need algebra? Why would anyone? But she had to put forth some answer. Parentheses, plus, and minus signs tangled in her head until none of it made sense. She stared at the numbers taunting her. Madame drummed her fingers on her desk. Zoya tapped her chalk across the arithmetic puzzle. She’d separate the equation as if it were a ballet, orderly, with each segment playing its part on a blackboard stage. Yes! This could work! She calculated the problematic portions in sequence. With confident strokes, Zoya etched the final answer onto the blackboard. She twirled around, and with a newfound grin, held out the chalk to Madame Rostov. Madame declined it.

Are you sure that is the correct answer? Look again, Zoya.

Zoya darted her eyes to the blackboard, and retraced her computations. Ah! She nodded. She had forgotten to multiply her response by two. Zoya returned to the board and wrote the revised response. She offered Madame the piece of chalk. She was done with it.

Madame Rostov nodded with a smile and plucked the chalk from Zoya’s palm. Correct. You may take your seat.

Zoya cast her eyes downward at her confiscated paper. She humbly hesitated. Madame picked up her paper and handed it to her. Next to her successful ballet audition, it was the best reward today.

She walked briskly to her seat, performing a little sashay in between her happy promenade. She had her artwork, the day was almost over, tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and stupid Petya was gone. She’d skip home, come through the door with a graceful arabesque, and announce her promotion to the corps de ballet. Mama would embrace her with tears, Papa would kiss her with pride, but Tamara would skulk. So what? Tamara always received accolades. Tonight she’d finally outshine her sister. Zoya folded her hands on her desk and patiently waited for the dismissal.

Madame Korchenko stood. Please rise.

She nodded after all her students stood at attention. The girls curtsied, and the boys bowed.

Christ is Born!

The class responded with glee, Glorify Him!

Dismissed.

With a rumble of thunder, the students scurried out the door. Zoya, Larissa, and Vasily were the last to leave. Zoya tucked her paper into her satchel instead of folding it into her mathematics book. She turned around and waved to Madame Korchenko.

Merry Christmas, Madame.

Madame smiled and bobbed her head. Merry Christmas, Zoya.

Zoya had just turned around when Madame called, Zoya?

Zoya spun back towards her. Yes, Madame.

You are a smart girl, but work a bit harder on your mathematics.

I will.

Madame winked. Congratulations on your promotion to the corps de ballet. I look forward to the performances.

Thank you, Madame. I will work hard in both respects.

I’m sure you will.

Madame Korchenko waved her on. With her book strap over one shoulder and her precious satchel grasped in her hand, Zoya bolted towards the door.

Come on! Come on! Let’s get home and start the celebrations, she shouted to Larissa and Vasily.

Coming, your Majesty, Vasily teased.

Larissa giggled and curtsied to Zoya.

Zoya sighed. Really! But she was bubbling over on the inside, reveling in her friends’ attentions. Her family’s fanfare would be triple the applause. She had to get home, soon!

It had stopped snowing, but Father Frost had left behind drifts to their knees. Vasily jumped into a pile. Hey! Look at me!

Vasily! Get down from there, Zoya yelled from street flattened by sleigh traffic. You’ll be sick for the whole holiday! She turned towards Larissa and shook her head. He fancies himself a man, but plays like a child.

Larissa chuckled. Ah, you my ballerina friend are too serious. She swatted a glove-full of snow at Zoya. The winter puff landed with a muted thud onto her chest. She scraped the crystals from her fur coat.

She gently set her satchel and book strap down, safely away from the mêlée. Hmm? So, is that the way it’s going to be?

Zoya charged at a drift, and with both hands full of snow, she tossed her armament at Larissa.

Larissa shook the snow off her coat and brushed the flakes from her hat.

Ha! Look at the two of you! Vasily called from high on his frozen podium.

Larissa arched her brows