Romanov

by Nadine Brandes

“A worthy death,” I breathed. “I agree.” He dropped his gaze and we both managed to take a breath. “But I couldn’t do that, Nastya. I don’t expect this to make sense to you, but I kept thinking of you and your family being lined up and shot without warning. I imagined you staring into the cold faces of Bolsheviks who did not care about taking life. And . . . I wanted to be the one to do it. I wanted to be there for you.” His hands slid to his face and I barely caught his words. “You told me you didn’t want to die alone. I figured that if you were going to be killed, perhaps it would bring you some comfort to be shot by a friend. By someone who didn’t do it out of hate or malice.” He shook his head. “Now, saying this, it doesn’t make sense. I see it was the nervous mindset of a fool. But on that day, when everything was moving so fast and I feared for both our lives . . . it made sense to me. I suppose because that’s how I would wish to die.”