The Russian revolutionary Leon Trotsky (Lev Bronstein) wrote this letter to his wife, Natalia Sedova, in 1937 — the year when Stalin’s Big Terror reached its peak in the USSR.
The death toll of the purge campaign of 1936—1938 is estimated as somewhere between 700k and 1.2M people.
Trotsky himself was killed with an icepick hit to the head by an NKVD agent in 1940, in his Mexican exile.
But in July of 1937, he’s chilling at the villa of the director Humberto Gómez Landero, where he was invited by the artist Diego Rivera. He’s catching fish, taking naps, reading newspapers — and thinking about his wife.
I translated a letter he sent her and am sharing it here.
If, by the time you finish reading, you feel like a voyeur, know that this is consensual — Trotsky submitted a typed copy of this missive to the archive of Amsterdam’s International Institute of Social History himself, thus engaging in a conscious, delayed, from-the-other-side-of-the-grave kind of historical exhibitionism, which was, I think, an objectively funny thing to do.
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“I'm sending this via a different route, on 19/VII 1937, at 13 hours.
I am about to have lunch. After I sent you the letter, I washed up. Around 10:30, I started reading old newspapers (for an article), and I've been reading while sitting in a chaise longue1 under the trees, until this very moment. I tolerate the sun well, but it is tiring for the eyes. I obviously need dark glasses. But how can they be bought without me? Almost unthinkable.
On Sunday, Landero wanted to invite me for breakfast, but I escaped by arriving here late. It is possible that such an invitation will follow next Sunday. Keep this in mind if you come here before then: dress and all that. I will probably have to go as I am: they will be lenient with such a famous bandit, but the bandit's wife is, after all, a lady – it wouldn't be appropriate for her to visit lords in a shabby appearance. Consider this in all seriousness!
I am about to eat fish caught by my own hand, then I will lie down to rest for about two hours, after which I will take a walk.
Physically, I feel good. Morally – quite satisfactory, as you can see from the cadet (58-year-old cadet!) tone of this letter.
They don't invite me for lunch. On Wednesday, I will probably go to Pachuca – to send letters, talk on the phone, or send a telegram if necessary. I fear I won’t find you at home. But I can spend 2-3 hours in Pachuca and wait for you.
I can arrive before 9 in the morning and, therefore, catch you for sure, if you are not already in Cornavana. By the way: you said you would go for a couple of days. This is absolutely insufficient. You need to stay until your sense of smell is restored. Conditions here are unfavorable for that.
Had lunch. Lying down, I read the Temps. Fell asleep (briefly). It is now 3:30. In half an hour, tea. Postpone the walk? What if it rains? I suppose I'll go now.
Natalochka, what are you doing now? Resting (from me)? Or are you having surgery? Another abscess? How I wish you would fully recover. How I wish for you strength, peace, a little joy.
Since I arrived here, my poor cock hasn’t stood up even once. It's as if it doesn’t exist. It too is taking a break from the tension of those days. But I, my whole self — apart from it— think with tenderness about the old, dear cunt of yours. I want to suck it, to stick my tongue into it, all the way to the deepest part. Natalochka, my dear, I will still fuck you hard and deeply, with both my tongue and my cock. Forgive me, Natalochka, for these lines — it seems it’s the first time in my life that I’m writing to you like this.
I embrace you tightly, pressing your entire body against mine.
Yours, L.”
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Written in French in the original letter in Russian.
I wonder why Natalia lost her sense of smell? Maybe the abscesses were dental?
I sure learn some interesting history in your writings and artifacts!