Age — 26; Russia, Moscow.

‘Olya’ was born on May 13^th, 1976, in the evening.  The spring that year had been cold and rainy, and that night there was a powerful thunderstorm.  While I was pregnant, my sister said that if I had a girl I should name her Olga, because it was a pretty name.  Thus was born Olga Romanova, together with thunder and lightening.  And she died with thunder as well.

She was a quiet baby, and I had no grief with her.  When she turned one I took her to the crèche.  Later came kindergarten, then school.  At ten she was already helping me – she would peel potatoes, or cut onions, and she tried to clean house as best she could. 

One day she came home with bruises.  I asked her: “Where did those come from?”  She said that kids were hurting a girl, so she had to help.  That is how she was: always trying to help everyone.  Girlfriends ran to tell her their secrets and their problems.  Olya would help everyone, and act as a referee.  She was a very warm-hearted girl, and her friends called her Romashka (Daisy).

She took piano lessons for nine years in that very same DK.  She was starting to think about where to go next.  At first she wanted to attend the medical institute, but later she changed her mind and went to work at the Red October candy factory.  She worked there for seven years.  She was not afraid of work, and everything was going well for her.

We lived modestly.  Olya never complained, though once she asked that, should we ever have enough money, could she buy a leather jacket? Olya dreamed having fruit, vegetables, and red caviar on the table, I chided her: you want to live rich, but she said to me: not always, but sometimes you just have to.

Now I understand that this was a mandate, so sometimes now I set a rich table: fruits, pickled vegetables, and red caviar.

Olya worked for a while for the post office, then found a job at L’Etuale.  It was there that her labor and life ended simultaneously.

Olya loved children, and loved animals.  We have two cats – Dasha and Knopka (Button).  Knopka fell out an open window while Olya was washing windows, and ran away, and Olya was very worried.  This was in August.  On October 21^st I bought her an identical kitten, and Olya rejoiced just like a little girl.  But on the 24^th Olya died.

When we went to identify her, they brought her out on a gurney.  A black plastic bag was over her face.  The doctor said that there was not enough to stitch up.  We identified her from the keys she had, and from her boots.  Her crucifix was gone.

We did not get to bury Olya until October 30^th – we could not receive permission from the prosecutor’s office (it was a criminal case).  There were a lot of people at the funeral – friends, classmates, colleagues from work, and a priest.  Olya’s fiancé Ruslan could not get her ring onto her finger, so he left it in her coffin.  He said that he bought it for her, and that it would stay with her. 

Four years after the tragedy, on the day of Olya’s death, Father Nikolai came from the Cathedral of the Sovereign Russia in the city of Zhukovsk, in order to give last rites.  Father said that he would register Olga with the Romanov martyrs, because she was just such a martyr.  Pilgrims still come to Olya’s grave.

Comments (16)

1. Памяти погибшей подруги Written by Наталья Щедрина , on 05-03-2007 10:18 Оля Романова была первой жертвой террористов в Норд-Осте. Я знаю ее с 1984 года, когда я пришла впервые в школу, оказалась с ней в одном классе. Романова, Ромашка, Ольга, Олька, Лёлька … как больно сейчас говорить эти слова. Добрая, взбалмошная, открытая, простая и всегда веселая. … Дурочка, зачем ты пошла туда????? Она еще сидя на работе, вечером, сказала девчонкам, вроде бы в шутку:” Пойду я туда, убьют меня там”. Кто бы остановил, кто бы поверил, кто бы смог предвидеть. Пришла домой, поздно.. Посидела с мамой, вдруг резко стала собираться: ” Пойду туда, мама. Они же люди и у них есть дети, они поймут. Они отпустят женщин и детей”. Мама ругалась с ней, умоляла, плакала. Не удержала… Все, что было дальше, только домыслы. Даже бывшие заложники все говорят всё разное. Мы знаем только то, что никто не видел, как она прошла через оцепление в четвертом часу утра. Мы знаем, что ей сломали пальцы, у нее были ожоги от пороха на руках, потому что она прикрывала грудь, когда в нее стреляли из автомата. Ее ударили по затылку, заломили руки и вывели из зала. Я знаю, как плакала ее мама; я не могла оторваться от Ольги, целуя ее в лоб в последний раз на кладбище, мне было больно…. бросала комья земли на ее гроб слыша, как стуча, они рассыпались. Я знаю, как мы все плакали, как шел дождь, когда несли ее от храма к могиле… И знаю, как валялась на полу в морге куча голых, выпотрошенных трупов террористов в бауманском морге. И еще я знаю, что я никогда не забуду ее… Мы не были лучшими подругами, но я никогда не смогу забыть ее голос… ее улыбку… ее глаза… Они лучились… Она всегда улыбалась…Она всегда светилась… вся… Такая живая, немного взбалмошная… Нежная, любящая дочь своих родителей. Сколько помню ее — все время думала о родителях и брате. Она хотела, чтобы они жили хорошо, в достатке, чтобы они не болели… Она БЫЛА… Как странно говорить БЫЛА…..Как-то безысходно, быстро заканчивается СЛОВО.. БЫЛА…. В ночь перед смертью ей приснился сон. Она расчесывала волосы, закинув голову назад. Волосы были длинными и тяжелыми. Мама тогда еще сказала: «К длинной дороге сон». Кто же знал, что эта дорога окажется последней… За несколько дней до этого она видела во сне столы в большом зале, укрытые белыми скатертями. Столы стояли буквой «П». Она сидела за столом и как будто вокруг был какой-то праздник, или вечеринка, так как столы были накрыты. Я видела эти столы…те самые, что снились ей. Я видела их в клубе фабрики «Красный Октябрь», где она работала раньше. Столы стояли в большом зале и были накрыты белыми скатертями, на них стояли напитки и еда…….. и поминальная кутья. Это был день ее похорон. На следующий день было уже девять дней. Утром я пошла укладывать ребенка поспать на балкон. Створки застекленного балкона были закрыты… Я стала поправлять матрасик в коляске, как из под ног у меня выпорхнула птичка и начала биться то об стекло, то об меня. Она была маленькая и черная… Я распахнула окно и она мгновенно вылетела и села на дерево напротив окна. Через секунду я посмотрела на то место, куда она села — ее уже не было. Сперва мне стало не по себе… А потом я расплакалась… не знаю, может я слишком надумала, но тогда я восприняла это как знак. От Оли. В тот день утром ребята были на кладбище с родителями. И там их внимание привлекла синичка, которая безбоязненно ходила присутствующим людям по ногам, брала крошки из рук, заглядывала в глаза родителям… Потом, когда все стали уходить — и она упорхнула. Днем того же дня туда пришли еще друзья Оли. И снова та же птичка прилетела к ним. Она настойчиво привлекала к себе внимание… Тогда она так же прыгала под ногами, потом села на плечо девушки…. Всего лишь птичка, а как хочется верить, что это душа Ольгина прощается с нами. Она будет в раю, как все невинно убиенные… Вот только что делать нам… здесь… Как не озлобиться, как не бояться. Мне, за своего сына… за родителей и друзей… Как научиться НЕ ненавидеть тех, кто это сделал? Бывшая заложница, с которой беседовали журналисты из Финляндии, сказала, что видела, как плакали чеченки — террористки. Им тоже не хотелось умирать. Но они сами сделали свой выбор. Как и Ольга. И мы должны просто простить ее, что она оставила нас. Оставила престарелых родителей — инвалидов, брата, так же инвалида детства. Оставила друзей и близких. Людей, которые ее любили. Она шла туда, не думая о том, ЧТО она оставляет за плечами. Она шла туда, чтобы спасти детей, веря, что сможет вывести хотя бы одного ребенка. Я знаю только то, что никогда не смогу забыть ее. И что я преклоняюсь перед ее душевным порывом, ее поступком. И мне все равно, что считают наши власти…или те, кому все равно на кого лить грязь.. Покойся с миром, родная. Пусть земля тебе будет пухом. Report

2. '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. Report