16/29 March 1914

We’re crossing the steppes of Ukraine, a huge area far to the south of Tsarskoe Selo and St Petersburg. Outside the windows of the train I can see the beginnings of spring. The train moves slowly, about the speed of a galloping horse, but it won’t be long now until we cross into the Crimea.

Papa has been making this long journey to the Crimea since he was a young boy, with Grandmother and Grandfather and Papa’s brothers and sisters. Grandmother has told us stories about the old days, when Grandfather was still alive. Tsar Alexander III was “big as a bear and twice as gruff,” she always says, sounding proud. One day in the fall of 1888, the entire family was aboard when suddenly, the train came off the rails and the cars tumbled over. The roof of the car in which they were riding was completely caved in. Imagine how frightened everyone must have been!

But Grandfather was so strong that he pushed up the roof of the car and held it while everyone crawled out.

It’s hard for me to picture my grandfather, who was more than six feet tall and very surly at times. My dear papa is not like that at all. He is just five feet seven inches tall but very handsome, and he is the kindest papa and the kindest tsar in the whole world. That’s why I don’t understand why anyone could ever be angry at him.