Romanov

by Nadine Brandes

But Alexei and I had a mutual understanding never to keep things from one another. We understood that being left in the dark was far more despairing than dealing with the weight of dark news.

That was how we sisters worked. When one was weak, another picked up the strength.

We are Romanovs. The bond of our hearts—” “—spans miles, memory, and time,”

Our voices were losing power. No one could outshout a revolution.

Emotions were private—even the fake ones. We Russians weren’t required to share any amount of emotion we didn’t want to.

That was what positive moments were for—to help heal the wounds of the future. As long as we chose to remember them.

Papa always said that tears were the most fervent prayers, so I let them flow.

must show kindness to the soldiers,” Papa entreated us. “Every day, show them forgiveness. We are a reflection of Iisus, and he was rejected by his own people just as we are. Love. Forgive.”

I was determined to be as he asked. To be humble....

Nothing was more exhausting than putting forth kindness and receiving indifference in return.

“What is Lenin going to do with them?” “He’s promised to make spells accessible to everyone. Someday.” I tilted my head. “That doesn’t sound so terrible.” “It sounds like a good solution, da? Simple. Equal. But if the spells become free and distributed equally, who pays the spell masters? How do they live? How do they eat?”

“So the government will provide spell masters with food. But then . . . if the spell masters stop working, the new system fails. And in the end there is still one group of people—the Soviet leaders—who decide who gets what. Those who do not want to work take advantage of the system and those who work harder receive no gain for their diligence.”

I was in that dreamy middle ground where opening the fortochka was not yet forbidden so I could claim ignorance.

No amount of age, pride, or maturity could stop me from loving my papa with the heart of a little girl.

But I’d learned that when I felt like despairing, a well-timed giggle could infuse a measure of strength. It could also lead straight to tears if I wasn’t careful.

“Papa’s goal is to care for the Russian people . . . as a fellow citizen. Through love, forgiveness, and humility. Perhaps that is the sign of a true tsar. One that doesn’t change whether he has a throne or not.”

And when improvisation couldn’t rescue you, the best bet was to spill the truth. Honesty was the most efficient—and the most dangerous—rescuer.

The more starved we were of kindness, the more we clung to any crumb of it.

Nothing made a soldier handsomer than hearing of his dangerous escapades.

a kind word turns away wrath.

Papa was right—holding on to hope would always lead to surprises.

Emotions buzzed like a beehive in my brain. He was flirting. And I liked it—craved it. Danger, danger, danger, the bees hummed, to deter me.

“You find joy in so many little things. For once . . . I want to see joy find you. Surprise you. You deserve it.” His fingers brushed mine, ever so lightly. My breath caught and I found myself fighting the urge to move closer. To twine my fingers in his.

“It’s not about more or less. We care about every soldier. I am a Romanov, and I will value life—every person’s life—above all else. There is nothing to gain from hatred of our fellow man.”

But sometimes comfort needed to sting more than the sorrow for it to break into the grief.

He was my new hope. And hope never abandoned us—only we could abandon it.

Whatever this state of existence was, it was freedom and healing and hope.

I hadn’t understood his humility then, but now I did. Now I knew that pride meant nothing when set against the life and well-being of a loved one.

“Was it hard to start a new life?” I asked quietly as she worked. “It is if you separate the two—old life and new life. But once you learn that it’s all one life and each day is a new page, it gets a bit easier to let your story take an unexpected path.”

I wasn’t ready to understand it, because to accept it meant to move past what he did.

His humility ate at me—causing an odd mixture of regret and disgust. He had no right to be humble. He had no right to ask for forgiveness.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t panic. Instead, my mind entered that cool calm that came when everything went wrong. A sharp, almost painful clarity.

And the best rule of thumb was to tell the truth unless you absolutely had to lie. Truth was easier to keep track of, and no matter how good one was at lying, it could often be detected.

I kept thinking, Soon. Soon this will be over. It is misery now, but not for long.

“Because I have a story I was meant to live. And not even you can unwrite it.”

I realized that a part of forgiveness was accepting the things someone had done—and the pain that came with that—and moving on with love. Forgiveness was a personal battle that must always be fought in my heart. Daily. And though I was tired of running and surviving and fighting . . . I wasn’t ready to surrender that battle yet.

I finally realized why Papa always asked me to forgive. Because it takes more strength and courage to forgive than it does to enact revenge.”

“Peace, quiet, and safety are all well. But community and relationship are what truly fill a person’s life.

Because we were all at risk of accidents. Pain could strike us all in a moment. And just because it could strike Alexei more severely and more swiftly didn’t turn him timid.

As we sat before the cross, it reminded me of the many times Papa read to us and led us in prayer. It reminded me of the hope and the life that Papa so strongly instilled in us.

“All my life I was driven by the loyalty of caring for the people I loved. Caring for fellow herders, caring for Vira. I was taught that nothing was more important than such care. But your family showed me differently. You cared equally as much about those you loved—you would do anything for them. But you also allowed yourselves to love . . . more. You loved your enemies. You loved your friends. You loved the Bolsheviks enough to sacrifice an opportunity to escape.”

To trust Zash was to believe there was still hope—in humanity, in my future. That frightened me.