Alexei

1: August 12, 1912

The sun soaked into my skin, the heat baking me like a loaf of bread in the oven. I watched the clouds as they shifted, their shape meshing from one figure to another. As I looked into the purity of the cotton clouds, I saw my country, the nation I could never lead. Hemophilia would kill me before I got the chance. I felt the blood coursing in my veins, the blood of Queen Victoria, Tsarina Alexandra and Tsar Nicholas II, my father. And then, I felt my own blood, in which the most trivial slice of a finger would be my undoing. But it was not a time to feel unconfident. It was the twelfth of August, my eighth birthday. This was a time to rejoice and celebrate having lived so long. So as I let my eyes close and as a sensation of rising up to the heavens came upon me, I heard the voice of my elder sister, Olga.
  "What are you doing, Alexei?" Olga asked in a benign tone.
  I did not open my eyes. I let her words absorb into my brain.
  "Just thinking," I replied.
  "What about?" She queried.
  "Oh, so many things," I explained, each word sending me deeper into a joy which I hoped would never end. "I enjoy the sun and the beauty of summer as long as I can. Who knows whether one of these days I shall not be prevented from doing it?"
  "Yes," Olga said uncomfortably, knowing I was referring to what might happen when my hemophilia worsened. "But let's try not to think about such on your birthday."
  Olga turned towards the palace and started to walk away. "Open your eyes, Alexei. Enjoy the view."
  I picked myself off the ground and scurried cautiously towards the palace. As we walked in, we were greeted by a queue of guards dressed like the Nutcracker and standing immobile like statues, never blinking for fear of missing someone entering the palace.
  "Happy birthday, Alexei!" Each of the soldiers greeted as we passed by.
  I smiled in reply. But they smiled even wider, their yellow teeth racked on their dirty gums.
  A banner was draped over the door leading to the front of the Peterhof which read:  С Днем Рождения Алексей (S Dnem Rozhdeniya Aleksey). Happy Birthday Alexei. The halcyon sound of the orchestra performing drowned into my ears. I gazed in amazement at the beauty of the gardens. Yes, I had seen it before, yet I had never noticed its marvels. The translucent, crystalline waters of the fountain erupted like a volcano. The golden statues stood magnificently, bathing in the sacred waters. I walked carefully down the steps, checkered like a chess board, my hand skidding down the marble railing. I looked past the fountains and saw a crowd in the heart of the garden. There was an orchestra with many violinists and cellists, a band with trumpeters and flautists. It was as if I had died, and God had sent me to the best version of heaven imaginable. You're not dead, I told myself. Not yet, anyway. This is true.
  As we approached the crowd and the music began to boom in my eardrums, pound against my skull until it felt almost tranquilizing. I saw my father and mother, standing abreast, hand and hand with their hearts almost touching. I saw my sisters: Anastasia, Maria, and Tatiana; their vivid-colored dresses swaying and their golden hair tied taut in a bob on their heads. It was like a dream. Une rêve de la vie, as my tutor, Pierre Gilliard, would say. For once, I felt both at peace with myself and felt confident in my survival. I felt like the center of attention, but not because of my illness, but because people thought I was important. And that is the most honorable feeling one can have.
  Anastasia came up to me. "Happy Birthday, Alexei!" She said in an ecstatic whisper. "Would you care to dance with me?"
  "I'd be pleasured," I said and took her by the waist and led her across the emerald grass.
  Anastasia loosened her hair and let it fall down on her shoulders. I could tell it felt releasing. Releasing from the stern rules I felt too. I remember playfully stealing one of my father's dinner guest's shoe. I showed it to my father and he angrily told me to return it. I did so, after I stuffed a strawberry in the toe. When my father found out, he punished me seriously and sternly, as Tsarevichs were supposed to be proper and mature.
  We danced until my father approached us, and Anastasia quickly put her hair back up.
  "Здравствуйте (Zdravstvuyte), father," Anastasia said as she curtsied.
  "Hello, Anastasia," Father replied. "May I talk with Alexei for a moment?"
  "Of course," Anastasia said as she let go of my hand and walked away, arranging her hair so it looked almost perfect.
  "Hello, Father," I said.
  "Alexei, my dear," Father said. "Are you enjoying the party?"
  "Yes," I said with a smile. "I am."
  And it was true. It was the best day in history.