The Last of the Romanovs

Vera may have been born in a poor home in an obscure village in Russia six years before the 1917 Revolution, but by the time she was nineteen and living in Paris she had become a very attractive woman. So much so, in fact, that she was briefly courted and married in France by Dimitri Romanov, the youngest son of a displaced Russian Grand Duke.

Unfortunately, at the time of the Revolution, the Grand Duke and his family had been compelled to flee Russia with nothing but the clothes on their backs and a few jewels sewn in the hems and linings of their clothes. Whenever criticized for leaving the country with so little, the Grand Duchess, standing to her full height of 5’3, tartly replied, “When one’s in the middle of a revolution and fleeing for one’s life, one seldom has time to sell property or withdraw money from a bank.”

Vera and Dimitri met in the L’Oiseau Rouge on the Champs Elysee where they both worked: he as a cook, she as a waitress. It was her long flowing black hair that first attracted him. Sometimes she arranged it in a single braid that drew attention to the smooth sweep of her neck. Other times she tied it with a ribbon and let it fall in graceful curls that emphasized its ebony sheen.

Since Vera was not an aristocrat, Dimitri’s parents initially frowned on the match. But her beauty and intelligence and Dimitri’s determination eventually mollified their objections. When questioned about her daughter-in-law’s background, the Grand Duchess said stiffly, “she’s not exactly the kind of woman we would have chosen for Dimitri, but at least she’s Russian.”

The Grand Duke died from mysterious causes a short time after Vera and Dimitri’s marriage. But an investigation into his death was not undertaken because the family wished to avoid drawing attention to itself and the Russian community in Paris.

The Grand Duke’s death reduced the money the family received from a Russian trust fund held in London. In fact, the loss would have threatened the family’s social position within the tight colony of Russian aristocrats if it had not been for Dimitri’s two older brothers. Neither chose to marry, but instead, dedicated themselves to supporting their own and their mother’s status and comfort.

Olga was born to Vera and Dimitri in 1932. Out of personal pride and to lessen the drain on the money provided to the family by his brothers, four years later, Dimitri and Vera immigrated to the United States and found a small apartment on Chicago’s north side. It was on the third floor so its windows were not accessible from the outside. In addition, the hall door had a security lock, and the backdoor was protected by a storm door that locked and a solid wood inner door with two dead bolts. Dimitri had been especially pleased with these security features, although he never told Vera why.

The next five years were the couple’s happiest. Dimitri worked as a cook at the Cornucopia restaurant over on Rush Street, and Vera looked after Olga, taking her to and from school everyday even though it was less than two blocks from their apartment. More than once, Dimitri had insisted that she accompany Olga. “Olga must not go out alone,” he had said firmly, without giving a reason.

In May of 1941, Dimitri received a call from the government, ordering him to report to an office in the Federal Building downtown. He was to tell no one about the call except his immediate family. At the meeting, he was advised to be prepared to leave Chicago in 24 hours on a secret assignment and the only reason he was to give his wife and daughter was his need to go to Washington on business. It was imperative he say nothing more. His and their lives depended on his silence.

Dimitri followed instructions, and the following morning he left his wife and daughter. Vera was sure there was more involved in her husband’s departure than the little she had been told, and privately believed it was related to his Russian heritage.

A week later, while Vera was taking Olga to school, she noticed a man in a long black overcoat following them to school.

That afternoon, he appeared again and followed them home. When this happened again the next day, Vera decided to try and learn the stranger’s identity and why he was following them. When she made an attempt to approach him, however, he turned and fled down an alley. That evening, Vera considered calling the police, but she hesitated because she was unsure of the man’s intentions. Recalling Dimitri’s cautions about Olga and the security of their home, Vera thought the man in the black overcoat might be someone Dimitri sent to guard them. With that in mind and since it was Friday, she decided to wait until Monday, and see what happened when she took Olga to school.

Saturday morning, Vera and Olga remained in the apartment. When she went down at noon and opened her mail box, she found the following message scribbled on a slip of paper:

The man you have seen in the black overcoat is an agent sent to kill Olga. She and Dimitri are the last living descendents of the Russian royal family. The others are dead, including Dimitri’s two older brothers, who were killed in Paris two weeks ago. The man will be eliminated. Think no more about it.

When Vera took her daughter to school on Monday morning, she was relieved to see that the man in the long black overcoat was nowhere to be seen. He also did not appear in the afternoon.

That evening, Vera heard the following announcement on the radio:

“Police are attempting to learn the identity of a man in a long black overcoat who was found dead Sunday night at the corner of Webster and Racine, on Chicago’s north side. Neighbors phoned the police at 11:30 after hearing several shots fired. Robbery was ruled out as a motive for the slaying because the victim’s coat was still buttoned, and his wallet was found intact in a deep inner pocket. It contained money and a Russian passport. Police also found a gun on the slain man and suspect him of being a Russian agent.”

When, several weeks later, the dowager Grand Duchess, living in London, read Vera’s letter describing the event, she remarked dryly, “I’m not surprised the man in the long black overcoat met his appointed end. Anyone who wears such ridiculously dark heavy clothes in the middle of May…deserves to be shot.”