Romanov

by Nadine Brandes

Romanov. For that name alone, bound to my blood like a Bolshevik is bound to the Russian Revolution, I am destined to die. Because not even royal blood can stop bullets.

We understood that being left in the dark was far more despairing than dealing with the weight of dark news.

So it was decided. As simple as that. Like a surgeon slicing a heart in two. My heart pumped a broken rhythm.

Some people supported with their physical strength. Others supported with their emotions. Alexei’s hand was the latter, steadying me with his heart since he couldn’t steady me with his strength.

I’d not mourn the lost good memories—I would apply them to my heart as a poultice every time it ached. That was what positive moments were for—to help heal the wounds of the future. As long as we chose to remember them.

More tears came from our eyes than words from our mouths. Papa always said that tears were the most fervent prayers, so I let them flow.

I squeezed his hand, so tight it likely pained him. But sometimes comfort needed to sting more than the sorrow for it to break into the grief.

his weeping was silent but his anguish went deeper than sound. My heart could sense it . . . and it wept with him.

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.”