It wasn’t until 1991, after the fall of the Soviet Union, that the government allowed an investigation of the remains of the Romanovs. I was training to become a surgeon when their remains were exhumed one final time. I showed up at the pathology laboratory to evaluate thin slices of tumors after reading that the Romanovs had been buried in the Peter and Paul Cathedral and declared saints. No matter how I adjusted the dials of the microscope, I could not bring the slides into focus.

Though two Romanov bodies were still unaccounted for, the world finally knew what had been done to them.

I was happy for the dead Romanovs—and envious too.

I wish I could say I stopped chasing their story then. But the internet had become my private sandbox where I could go digging into the past—both Anastasia’s and mine.

There wasn’t much to find on what had happened in Arg that night. Most of it was speculation and didn’t offer names of those assumed dead except President Daoud and his brother. I searched for my parents’ names, my brother’s name, and my own. I found nothing. No one was looking for me, nor had anyone written about my father. And though I was sure someone knew where they’d been buried, I couldn’t find a scrap of information about it.

The only news I found was a single line in an online discussion thread stating that my uncle had been killed after the Soviet invasion. There were no other mentions of my extended family.

But I didn’t just search for news of my family. I scoured newspapers and the internet for any updates on my homeland. I’d been doing it even when I was still adjusting to life with Mom. Without fail, every tidbit of information I read made me wish I could turn around and share it with my parents, to see their reactions and thoughts.

I cried when I read about the Soviet invasion. A Communist government took over in Kabul. I recognized the man who led the committee. I’d seen him at some events and remember my father saying it was a shame he kept such poor company. He and the Communist committee didn’t last. People cried for God’s return, for an Afghanistan free of Soviets. The mujahideen answered the call—as did Hollywood. Rambo, with his oiled biceps and oiled machine gun, stood side by side with freedom fighters.

It didn’t end when the last weary Russian soldier limped out of Afghanistan. The country was tattered and overrun with militias. From that morass emerged the Taliban with their extreme prescriptions.

The news coming out of the country was gut-wrenching but didn’t get much ink. No one seemed to care anymore. The Cold War had been a phenomenon of the eighties and not as interesting after the fall of the Soviet Union. Rambo had gone home, mission accomplished.