An Open Letter to Her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess

Particularly in times of war, one should remember there are histories contained within histories. Here is my own; and, as unbelievable as it may seem, every word is true.

Growing up, I had a pen pal whose dad died when he was only thirteen years old. Not when she was thirteen. When he was.

He, along with his four sisters, his mom, his dad, their household staff, and a small pet dog were executed by firing squad in the cellar of Ipatiev House, Yekaterinburg, in the early hours of July 17, 1918. Their bodies were mutilated, doused with acid, then thrown into an abandoned mineshaft along the old Koptyaki Road and, with their death, the Romanoff dynasty – the ruling family of Russia for over three centuries – came to its brutal end.

At least, that’s what the history books say.

As a kid, though, I never really believed it because, every few weeks, my pastoral life would be interrupted by the arrival of another one of the szarevna’s – the Russian grand duchess’ – letters. It was half a mile from our rural mailbox back up the gravel lane to our house and, long before I’d gotten home, I would rip open the envelope. It was postmarked Queens, NY, which seemed fitting for the daughter of an exiled tsar. I remember her handwriting was small, almost cramped, but given to occasional flourishes, especially when writing out her full title, or signing her name, Tatiana Alekseivna Romanoff, the double f’s at the end joining into an artistic swirl that doubled back on itself.

The content of her letters was largely unremarkable, but that was partly my fault. Due to her careful upbringing, etiquette demanded fully half of each letter be in reference to something I had written earlier. Her satisfaction our raspberries had come in well, despite the heavy rains. Polite commiseration at the loss of yet another of our chickens, the raccoons having figured out the latch on the hen house door. By the time she got around to mentioning herself, she was nearly out of space on the page but, to me, that was the best part of all. Her description of the correspondence courses she was taking. The little things she wanted to see or do one day. The small gifts and trinkets she sent us (once she gave my sister, also a pen pal of hers, a copy of In a Blue Velvet Dress by Catherine Sefton, which remains a prized possession to this day, not just because it is an excellent children’s book, but because it has Tatiana’s autograph and dedication on the flyleaf).

What she must have thought of us! Living in rural Pennsylvania in the ‘80’s, raising goats, and growing ‘organic produce’ before that was a thing, running wild through the deer paths that crisscrossed our neighbors’ woods. Attending our parents’ Dharma Initiative-style school that convened at 10 am, or at noon, or not at all, as the spirit moved them. We must have seemed so common to her, coarse, even; a petty proletariat to her haute bourgeoisie. But our fathers were friends, men bent on protecting their daughters – her from Soviet assassination, us from sex ed classes and the music of Guns N’Roses. So, although we were unlikely correspondents, we were eager ones, teenage girls lonely for friendship and news from outside of our own small circles of safety.

I wonder now if her father cringed when I’d pick up the landline, barreling through the kitchen on my way out to gather the eggs or de-worm the goats, yelling over my shoulder, ‘Dad, Alexei’s on the phone!’ Alexei. Not ‘the Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias,’ or ‘the Possessor of the Circassian and Mountain Princes,’ or ‘the Heir of Norway, Duke of Schleswig-Holstein,’ or any of the twenty-one other titles of the tzar, but the familiar Alexei, like he was a Russian handyman, some undocumented worker we’d hired to help turn over the soil. Whether or not he had, as a frail child with hemophilia, somehow survived the Russian Revolution – whether or not he was entitled to the fortune the Romanoffs had deposited all over the world – this man had, indisputably, been one of the most successful triple agents of the Cold War. Operating as Michael Goleniewski, first for Poland, then for the Soviet Union, then for the American CIA who granted asylum to his expectant wife and to the illustrious agent himself who went by the code names of Lavinia and Sniper. Yes, looking back, I’m pretty sure he cringed.

The fact that this man would eventually claim to be the tsarevich (Russian prince, and heir to the throne) didn’t matter to me (although it certainly mattered to the CIA, who later distanced themselves from Goleniewski, ultimately reneging on their financial promises for political secrets he had already given them). My only concern was with his daughter, my friend and pen pal. And whether she was a Russian princess, or just the daughter of a spy, I realize now if I didn’t then that there was never a chance her life could be normal. Her father – either by virtue of his bloodline, or by defecting to the United States, or both – had made real enemies in the real world, enemies that would make simple things like his daughter going to school, or accepting a ride home with a friend’s mom, or even having a pen pal who had not already been vetted by him, an impossibility. All I knew at the time was that I wanted to be her friend; or, at least, a friendly voice jumping off the page, my squiggly schoolgirl cursive unknowingly describing the very things she would never get to do. Lying alone in the upper field, invisible to the world, watching the clouds race over me as the tall grass whipped in the wind. Walking by myself to the barn at night, feeling the moisture freeze on my face, memorizing the stark winter constellations. Getting lost in the woods one day, and getting scared, and finally making my way back home, bramble-scratched and breathless, opening my mouth to tell my family I was alright, I was safe, and finding no one had even known I’d gone out. I wonder now if my innocence, if my obliviousness made it worse for her.

If I could say one thing to the adult Tatiana now, it would be, I hope you got away. Or, rather, I hope you got away with it. Your father was, by all accounts, a clever man, whatever else he may have been. He would have raised a clever girl. I hope you changed your name, dyed your hair. I hope you started up again somewhere small, and out-of-the-way. A waitress at an Alaskan rest stop. A dental hygienist in Holcomb, Kansas. I hope you met a man who drinks beer and drives stick and loves you for you and I hope you never once doubted he is anything other than what he appears to be. I hope you carved out a life for yourself, on your own terms; and that you are safe somewhere, raising a pair of boys, Alex and Nick, boys who are noisy and rambunctious and leave their hockey gear all over the floor and still kiss you goodnight. If they are named after your father and grandfather, I hope only you know that. And whether Alexei Romanoff died in agony as a young boy in the Urals, or in loneliness as an old man in Queens, I hope you, at least, have found peace, the peace of obscurity I so heartlessly flaunted in front of you.

Teresa Messineo is an international bestselling author of historical fiction. The Fire by Night (HarperCollins), her debut novel about frontline military nurses of the Second World War, is now available in three languages in seven countries. The second book in that trilogy, What We May Become (Severn House), is set in post-World War II Tuscany and deals with themes of betrayal, survival, and rising above our darkest selves. She is represented by Mark Gottlieb of Trident Media Group. Teresa currently teaches creative writing at Drexel University. Reach her at tmessineo.com

Illustration by Emily Hoffman.