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'Olya' was the first victim Written by Natalya Shchedrina , on 05-03-2007 13:59 I've known her since 1984, when I first started school, we were in the same classroom. Romanova, I called her 'romashka' (Daisy), Olga, Olka, Lolka… it's so painful now to say these words. Kind, eccentric, candid, simple, and always merry. … You little fool, why did you go there???    She was sitting at work, that evening, and said to the girls she worked with, almost like a joke: «I'll go there, they'll kill me there.»    Who could have stopped her? Who could have believed her? Who could have forseen it?    She went home, late… She sat up with her mother, then suddenly she started getting dressed: «I'm going there, Mom. They're people, they have kids, they'll understand. They'll let the women and children go.» Her mother yelled at her, begged her, and cried. She couldn't hold her…    All that happened next is just conjecture. Even the hostages can't agree on just what happened.    We only know that no one noticed her, or knew how she got through the cordon at 4 in the morning. We know that they broke her fingers, and that she had powder burns on her arms because she covered her chest when they started shooting at her. They hit her on the head, and broke her arms, and dragged her from the hall.    I know how her mother cried. I couldn't tear myself away from Olga, either. I kissed her forehead for the last time at the cemetary. It was painful… I tossed clumps of earth on her coffin and heard how they thudded, how they crumbled.    I know how we all cried while the rain fell when they carried her from the cathedral to the grave… And I know about a heap of naked, gutted terrorists laying on the floor in the Baumansk morgue.    And I also know that I'll never forget her… We weren't best friends, but I'll never forget her voice… her smile… her eyes… They shined… She was always smiling… She was always glowing… everything… Such a lively girl, a bit eccentric, perhaps… But a tender, loving daughter. As much as I remember her her, the whole time I thought about her parents and brother. She wanted them to live well and be healthy…    She WAS… How horrible it is to say WAS… A somewhat hopeless, quickly-ending WORD…    WAS….    On the night before her death she had a dream in which she was combing her hair, throwing her head back. Her hair was long and heavy. Her mother told her then that «the dream is of a long road.» Who would have known that this road would be her last… A few earlier she had dreamed of tables in a big hall, covered with white tableclothes. The tables were arranged like the Russian letter . She sat at a table and it was as if it were some kind of holiday, or a party, the tables were set and covered with foods.    I saw these tables… the same ones she dreamed about. I saw them in the club of the 'Red October' factory were she used to work. The tables stood in a big hall and covered with white tableclothes, and there were drinks and food…… and memorial garlands. This was on October 30th, 2002. The day of her funeral.    The next day was already the 9th day since her death, the day when the soul finally departs the earth. That morning I laid the baby on the balcony to sleep. The windows of the enclosed balcony were shut tight… I started to adjust the matrass in the baby buggy, when suddenly up from underneath flew a little bird, and it started to beat itself against me and the glass. It was small and black… I opened the window and in an instant it flew out and settled in a tree opposite the window. A second latter I looked at the spot where it had perched, and it had disappeared.    At first I didn't know what to do… But later I broke down and cried… I don't know, perhaps I think too much, but at that moment I took it to be a sign. From Olya. On that day friends were at the cemetary with Olya's parents. A little titmouse caught their attention. The bird kept flying about the people's legs, taking crumbs from the food they'd left on Olya's grave, and looking into the eyes of Olya's parents… Later, when everyone started to leave, it flitted away.    That day other friends went to see Olya. And once again the same little bird flew up to meet them. It persistently tried to attract their attention…. It fluttered about their legs, then landed on a girl's shoulder….    Merely a bird, but one wishes to believe that Olga's soul was bidding us farewell.    She'll be in paradise, like all innocents who are murdered… But what are we to do… here? How can we not become bitter, or frightened? I'm scared for my son… for my parents and friends… How can one learn NOT to hate those who did this? A former hostage who was talking with journalists from Finland said that she saw how the Chechen women-terrorists were crying. They also didn't want to die, but they made their choice. As did Olga. And we should just excuse Olga for leaving us. She left her elderly, handicapped parents, and her brother, also handicapped since childhood. She left friends and loved ones, people who loved her. She went there, not thinking about WHAT she was leaving behind. She went there in order to rescue children, believing that she could carry out perhaps one child.    I only know that I'll never be able to forget her, and that I bow down before her outburst of the heart, her deed. I don't care what our leaders think, or the opinion of those who could care less upon whom they toss their dirt….    Rest in peace, dear. Let the earth be as soft as down.