Surviving Leon Trotsky: Untold Story

By Eliyahu Abramson

What if Trotsky's life long partner Natalya Sedova was a writer just like Leon was Then Natalya, living her live with such an interesting man had an incredible story to tell! At the beginning of the Last Century, young Leo Trotsky travels abroad, escaping Siberian Exile, to meet a radical revolutionary, V. Lenin. There Leo befriends a young Russian Noble woman Natalya Sedova. Leo continues his journey to Paris, where he and Natalya end up fundraising for Lenin. Natalya falls in love and hands over her heart to Leo. "Surviving Leon Trotsky" is a historical novel,Trotsky told through Sedova.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257542123

Book preview

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CHAPTER ONE: FIRST LOVE

First love, eluding me like morning smoke, haunting me like there was no tomorrow… Alarmed, I shook him up – how could he be dozing off in a historical moment like this! Besides, I was there with him, me, Natalya the love of his life.

The passion of his existence – well, probably that would have been an overstatement, a hopeful thinking, if you wish, making a basis in fact out of fantasy. I was his sweetheart, his darling indeed I was, but was I the ardor of his being, was I everything he lived for, was I? No, darn, no – she, Alexandra, was. That lady in question was always there and would be – no matter how high strung him and I got with each other, she held his heart. You could forgive your beloved one’s momentary transgressions, and even an affair. After all I would absolve him later on. Like when he indulged in the passionate intimacy with no other than burning eccentric Frieda Kahlo, as long as his guts were in the right place, as long as his seat of passion was with me, as long as our knight was, first and foremost, mine. But to share his core with another woman, to yield him to her all my life – what could be more excruciating?

Her memory was with him, even there, even then, no matter how close we would be physically, no matter how much sacrifice I made on his behalf, for his cause – no matter what. And at the moment, in that instant, he must have reflected that it was she, not me, who shaped him into someone great enough to lead this momentum of political change. Her – not me – even darn there, even darn then. Low and behold, not just her, I contributed myself, I was all his too wasn’t I? All my life, all his life, and afterlife, every moment of being alive, every second to my very core I was his, and wanted him to be mine. Was I ever bitter to share his life? She terrified me; my very essence took a toll at the mere thought that I was not all he loved. All my life I wanted to be his, all my life him I tried to please. All I wanted was the world of just him and me. All I wanted was the universe, where the primary subjects were just we. My first love was Ideal. There were so many questions I wanted to ask. There was so much I wanted to learn about him. There was so much of his truth that I wanted him to bestow upon me, When did you change to Marxism? Why? I asked overwhelmed and not knowing where and with what to begin my inquiry. Of course it was a loaded question, because it was Alexandra, who introduced him to the Ideal of Revolutionary Marxism. He found the way to dodge my question. He was diplomatic and smart.

This happened after my arrest, his tone changed That was my first time in the big house, he did not stop to mesmerize me.

***

They meant to raise me on the principles that would make me into a Noble woman. Still and all, my own personal interpretation of Silver Age of Russian Literature did not go along with that. Well, more than any developments I saw in the nineteenth century Russian literature, I delved into the dialectics of history.

How could I ignore the whole progress of the Western civilization, from the Renaissance and the Reformation, to the French Revolution? Moreover, how could I ignore the class struggle, which preceded even that, the class conflict that dated to the dawn of a man and a woman? That class battle caused Spartacus to lead the slaves against their masters, Stephan Razin and Yemelyan Pugachev to lead the peasants against their landlords, and, finally, Marx and Engels, to lead the workers against the capitalists. How could I not become a part of the progressive strife, advancing the human development, and social change; I had to become a revolutionary.

Not that I wanted to be what I thought was à la mode – for a young lady of my class it hardy was. I was a rebel. To do that – to become an insurrectionist was uniquely naïve for that matter, not withstanding my upbringing. I was maybe not a virgin by the age I turned sixteen, but I was really pure, when it came to the apprehension of the sufferings of the lower classes. I could not tolerate the way our servants were treated; I wanted to lead servants to the revolutionary effort for their rights. I did not have a clear picture – I did not know how, and when, and why, but I knew that at my trip abroad, I would be with them – the revolutionaries.

And was I up for a surprise, when I easily found them in the roles of my willing new tutors. They were all over me. I had no shortage of the attention from the excited young men, who called themselves revolutionaries. And I was high – strong on my role –intense on my newly acquired place in this society.

So, I did much more than kiss. I did much more than learn about the ideas. I adopted them. I was some kind of a boundless personality. I would jump into the boiler first, and ask the questions later. Not for an instant had I regretted my life’s choice! Not for a second, would I become ashamed of my decisions. I wouldn’t have changed my path for any other ones. And if I had a chance to repeat my journey over again, I would chose to stumble over the same obstacles. I would repeat the equivalent faux passes, for I would aspire for the brightest light as before.

There was nothing that I thought I wouldn’t be able to conquer, there was no role that seemed was untamable for my thriving soul, my unbending character, my outgoing personality. I was a nineteen years old. They said I was beautiful, didn’t care about that. They said I was a noble turned into a revolutionary, I liked that.

Sometimes, I feel I was destined for my life. Other times, I believe that I was truly privileged, unlike the fake advantage I was born into, I chose to be favored in terms of the value my life had for humanity, in the premises of my lifelong companionship with HIM.

The man who was my cellmate was burned alive in the prison for his Marxist views. When before the last breath asked why he chooses Marxism he said ‘Read the Bible’, just like that, he told me on our first date.

I was shocked; Those were his last words? Yes, and coming from a Marxist-atheist, these words catch your attention, you know, he lighted up the living room of my Paris apartment with the passion of his words. His light illuminated this night. He continued, I read Bible in Italian, Latin which I learned along the way, in Hebrew Yiddish, which I knew.

Why, I inquired with some growing puzzlement, not so much over the sparks emanating from him, but the reason why this came forth namely in the matter like this, Why Bible? I was raised on Biblical ideals of good, he was raised without Bible, I knew this much by then, why then, all of the sudden so much gusto, so much excitement so much transient light on the matter that should have been of the least importance.

Oh, I studied Marxist works along the way too, he clarified his own excitement, I started getting the idea that the Marxist factor, not the multiple factors just like God, not the idols – that is what really matters in the final analysis.

Yes, the theory of the multiple factors was a popular hypothesis at the time, and yes, the converse supposal must have been and was quiet a big break through. Common, common, though – I imagined Bibles, Manifestos, and Das Capital – what an unlikely mix. The books were in English, Russian, Yiddish, German, Hebrew, Italian, and Latin. Over and above all – what an appropriately romantic picture for the moment, it was. Obviously I was more interested in him, personally, than Bibles and Manifestos in particular. And, perhaps, even some of his ideas in general. I brought my hands to my cheeks and looked as the crow flies into his eyes. Was he turning Jewish on me all of a sudden? Where did this expression come from?

There were so much I wanted to tell him about myself, there was little he wanted to know about me at the moment, there was even less that he asked. He seemed to finally awaken to our charade. I went on, artfully, even pretending crassly. He interrupted shyly even obtusely; nevertheless, by then his response still carried a great deal of sarcasm. Have I found the way to conclude what I considered, conversely, this sensitive, easily upset subject matter, contemplating as selflessly as generously, as I thought this chitchat allowed me? Again, I gave away altruistically I almost sung mockingly, aggravated. He made known passionately, he would uncompromisingly proclaim even with some sort of aggression, as if catching my drift, but in reality drawing deeper into his absentminded dream world, ominous, he moralized in an evocative way, in reality, still and all, unaware of anything loaded, manipulative, thick with his idealism. I was pulling his leg, humorously reflecting my picky disposition and independent spirit in the same time. I turned to my cigarette pack, took out and lighted up the cigarette I inhaled through the cigarette and exhaled the smoke: Darn, We all die, I decided to argue, after all the death of that Marxist Trotsky should not have ruin our life’s good time at the moment, But why not let the natural force fret about taking its own course? Why alter it, he asked, implying. Why to be at odds with nature, I reiterated. So the universe would become at odds with you, he even tried to crack a prank.

Then Mexico, Coyoacan; New York; Atlantic Ocean; Paris; London; Zimmerwald, Switzerland; Vienna; Odessa; Moscow; St. Petersburg; Ural Mountains; Oral Sea would spit him out with force, push him over and over again to the new horizon of unexpected turns, to unexplored future.

Siberia is the only place that does not spit you out but draws you in, I argued.

In fact, I have left it. I had escaped from Siberia, he replied.

But, that was before me and you, was my failed attempt at romance and flirting.

Still, maybe I just didn’t want, or couldn’t commit to any one place and any position, he shot right back.

Maybe you are a natural wonderer, who knows, I exclaimed.

Maybe my fate is of my own making, he said.

On another hand, I was raised on extreme commitment, was my immense enthusiastic response, Not so much attachment to Russia per say, as the love of its literature. In a fraction of Russian nobility that considered their children’s education priority that somewhat went along with their balls and parties!

Little did your folks know that you would outgrow your social class, he noted.

I would rebel against gentry, period. Like earlier, I rebelled against fairly strict rules, I said.

They would never dream that you would grow to scorn the privileged society, in the vein of them despising the lower classes, he smirked, that you would passionately delve into the world of the revolutionaries!

Well, I did. Just like I had affairs with my tutors since I was fifteen, I tried, to change the subject to a more intimate one after all I was talking to him.

Rather austere parents do not think a girl is even ought to be kissed, before she is married – servant girls, they are kissed, before they are married, he responded, while I understood that my romantic aspirations with him at the moment were in vain:

I was kissed, all right, but what’s much more – I was shattered by the world of the best in the Russian tradition that from the December of eighteen twenty-five rebelled against, and stood up against the Czar, Czarist authorities, and the common order, which came to be known as Oppression.

"In the beginning, I would be excited about a lot of great ideas, but Marxism, he said.

You were bored there, at this Marxist meeting led by ALEXANDRA, I argued.

I wanted to leave the gathering, he replied.

Maybe if you did, what was happening later would never come around, I blamed.

Then again, we would never meet either, He blasted right back.

Alexandra was not a greatly prominent Marxist, I argued.

She was sound enough to lead me ahead, he retorted.

In her ‘personification’, I uttered, the Social Democratic Marxist movement noticed you!

I was agitated, but stayed at this meeting, due to her note of me, he said, Suddenly, the czar’s police people broke in and made arrests. Alexandra and I were arrested as well!

How did two complete strangers become the closest people! Gosh, was I annoyed.

In spite all the unbearable odds? he did not make any easier for me.

And when you were so young, your love conquest happened relatively overnight?

She was really astonished by my organizational ability to create the South Union!

And she thought to get you close was a good move for her career, I mocked.

Well, at least, that was how you justified that to yourself, he was not less direct.

The rest was history, he was really getting on my nerves.

What madness, I uttered, ridiculing.

He and Alexandra were getting married by a rabbi inside the prison’s chapel, in this ever so ‘memorable’ day. I hated that day, didn’t I. That day had ever so transformed me and my subsequent life. If not for this day, he most likely, would never meet me, either. I thought: Alexandra, will you follow your husband in the sorrow and grief as well as in the splendor and joy? the rabbi asked. I will, said Alexandra. Then, groom, step on the glass said the Rabbi. He stepped on the glass and kissed Alexandra. To Siberia? he asked. To Siberia, said Alexandra.

***

The heavy snowfall rose across the white frozen slumber land. After all, it was Siberia. It was his Siberia. I never had the high and mighty privilege to step my foot in. Thanks my Lucky Stars! The snowstorm always would stir Siberian Forest. So he could attest to Siberia in all its glorious grandeur. In the twilight, the Siberian forest would transform into even a more dangerous animal. Even its callous predators would howl ear-piercingly, as if yowling for mercy. The wind whirled the tempest. The dry slaughtering gale almost blocked the dim pack of the hungry grim wolves. In the deep contrast, the warm inside of the only dwelling in this harsh arousing awakening emanated soothing comfort that was exceptionally tidy, in the view of the extreme height of a Spartan reserve, I thought. Every object, article, item… everything had a touch and feel of a Siberian goddess, who cared, heeded for the esteem adored things, in spite of all the unbearable and horrendous odds. The living room was the only big chamber brightening up their dwelling, still and all, capturing almost all of its space. So when sometimes during the exceedingly normal day in nineteen-o-two, maybe too ordinary, he smashed the door and treaded right into the warmth of the light from the frozen and outside darkness, wouldn’t he be carrying a bunch of newspapers under his arm? Indeed, the copy of the paper Iskra was in his right hand.

They’ve Printed Me!

Iskra or The Spark was the early publication of the Russian Social Democrats. The only place for such issuance could be from abroad. The utterly carrying of its readership would be amongst people with unbending will, not unlike our naïve virtuous warrior. ‘Iz Iskri Razgoritsa Plamya …’ – ‘The Spark will infuse the Flame…’ – the fire of the revolution that was. ‘Iskra’ was outlawed.

That took courage, as well as a great deal of finesse, to get this Vladimir Lenin’s Edition, I argued.

Not only from abroad, but also into the confinement of Siberia, he replied.

What was the point of Siberian Exile, if you could be connected to the revolutionary fires of the world? What was the point for Czarist Authorities, if not to cut you off? I asked.

Isolation, it didn’t go along with me, he shot back.

It never was, it never would, I argued.

In spite of the attempts of all the powerful forces in the world to implement the latter, he replied.

From the very start, I inserted from my personal experience.

Being quarantined? Not our activist. No. He would prevail. Our champion would break on through. Our winner got Iskra. Our victor was energized, lighthearted. Our brave man shook Iskra. Happy blossomed Siberian Goddess, Alexandra ran to kiss him. Our god shouted, Alexandra, they’ve printed me! They finally have noted me. Thousands of articles and a year later, they’ve published my works. I am Pen! I am Pero! Of course they would print you. I always said you are a genius. You are a phenomenon revolutionary brain. Oh, My Love, exclaimed Alexandra.

They’ve printed you, our ‘pen’. Why was that a matter of such importance? I asked.

I always wanted to be a writer! He clarified.

Correspondingly, since I was a young lady I also indulged in letters, and even poetry, myself, I became almost existential.

I amused myself, played about, if you wish, until I found a worthy enough subject, my passion transformed my amusement into much more earnest writing…

And what could such writing would be directed to? he asked.

What else if not our star – the light illuminating darkness, I smiled:

Go, My Love, GO …

The bedroom was only a corner in this Siberian house? I tried to belittle everything Siberian.

He was agitated now with my high brow temperaments, he was irritated, he defended himself earnestly, he, in spite of everything, tried to be oblivious, yet somehow getting back at me by making me jealous, he knew exactly what to say, at the moment:

And night was almost never going reality of this Siberian winter!

Even you, our fertile chap, and Alexandra were reserved to things normal people do under the pressure of Siberian night, I teased on with the sense of witty irony.

Perhaps our daughters, our lovely deserving daughters, came out more likely as the result of this pressure, than any conscious family planning in the era, when we could not practice birth control efficiently, he affirmed for a callous laugh.

There was something ubiquitously amusing about the young Russian Jewish Revolutionaries making love, I wanted to mock to his passive aggressive assault.

There was a great deal of innocence, he reacted as if hurt.

Even some nerdiness, I aspired for nastiness.

But what’s more, was the truth of taking the individual pursuit of pleasure in a never bending perceived reality of the Revolution around the corner? He replied earnestly.

You were probably even similar in that matter, to say, Hassidic Jews with their expectation of immanent Messiah around the corner, whereas everything would be holier and the physical matter would blend with the spiritual one? But then again, I don’t know so much about the Hassidic Jews, I shot back, unmasking all the pretence even more,

I knew that much though – the Revolution for the many offspring of Moses would often take the place of the messiah, he pronounced,

Yet, nothing took the place of those religious corners that made Jews remain ubiquitously Jewish, I forcefully drew back to what I thought was harsh reality, no matter what proclamation they took in life upon themselves, no matter if they ‘reversed’ their Jewishness, denounced it… threw it to the wind. When you made love, you were ubiquitously Jewish. When you made love, you remained in the roles that neither Italians, nor French, nor even us, Russians, stuck around.

When we made love, we were non-lovers first, and whatever we believed in first, only to allow the pleasure of the love making to come in a second, if at all, or at the best, blend with the pursuit of our higher goals and greater aspirations! he lied.

Well, I was not an expert authority neither on the Jews, nor their lovemaking I said.

You sound as if some sort of a phoebe, he twisted my arm.

But I did know you, our idealist. You our ‘idol’ was the embodiment of what I thought the Jewish people would be in that matter, you and Alexandra for me were the ultimate Jewish ‘lovers’. When you, Our Don Juan, and Alexandra were making heart and love all their heart… I said.

I appeared odd even there, in such a far away isolation, I made sure everything was so dark, that barely anything would and could be seen, and he shared.

But you, our enthusiast, and Alexandra were outrageous revolutionaries, and the sheets were soaked with the sweat of your young bodies, I lucidly inquired.

Still pious when it came to being in bed and making love, he said.

Our solider for justice was almost uncomfortably comfortable.

She was almost delirious, Ah, Ah, Ahahah … And when we will feed every hungry mouth, people will make love all day, and night. AHAHAH! Alexandra whispered.

AH-Ah, revolution… He moaned, as if that was his response.

He thought the revolution would solve all the problems. He read her mind even before she opened her mouth. Those words were only a symbol that didn’t need to be spoken.

He was passionate.

She was even more enthusiastic, AH, proletariat… Alexandra groaned.

He knew what she would insinuate – proletariat was the weapon, the driving force of the revolution, just like he was the driving force for her into her, there, then.

AW-Ah! would be his only response.

She loved him. She was assigning roles to him – just like she already made him into a father twice – she saw him as the father of the whole humanity, to all the classes, And you, My Love, you will be in charge of the distribution. You have such a generous heart!

Hardly, he absorbed her not that unusual compliment, as she yet surprised him, But now, my beloved, you belong to the revolution! You will have to leave me.

Then, as if awoken by shock, he would burst out:

I want to spend the rest of my life with you.

She was his wife, his beloved, the parent of his children; she was almost like a matriarch to him.

Alexandra was unbending, My love, you must go! I want you to be with the leaders of the Russian social democracy. I want you to vote and participate in their disputes.

I do participate in their disputes. I am their ‘Iskra’ man, I am Pen, I am Pero, he was quite proud of his accomplishment.

Yet, he had a woman beside him, who saw something an even greater in him – a lady, who was willing to forfeit her opulence for his excellence, making his even greater eminence:

Live! Meet Lenin. Be close to him. Support him. You must go my beloved. Find a guide, My Love, and go! I will cover you up. And yes, I am ready to bind you by my word, Alexandra exclaimed.

Should I stay or should I go? He howled to Alexandra, In the decision made here, could be the inception of the future storm and trepidation!

Of taking your own destiny into your own hands, in overcoming the gravity life presents, Alexandra rebuked, If you are to go, the only way, is to go abroad.

This is my first time, he sobbed.

But by far not the last time around, she reflected.

This could be the inception of my future upheavals, he whined.

Your greatness, she rebuked.

As well as my future fall, he, yet, wept, There would not be this abundant greatness, but there perhaps would be my personal untamed happiness.

Nevertheless, that is your break through, Alexandra argued. It means to aspire to the skies, Alexandra, yet, argued, It means to fly!

But, well, is there such a thing as flying, he sniveled, maybe floating?

That is yet to be seen – is hitherto to be accounted for, Alexandra contended.

For want of a better reason my passion becomes a lethal aspiration for the skies: to live off the air; to live by the air, for the air; to live in the air, he wailed.

Well, are you really worse off, than one of those pragmatists, who see only molecules in the air that are in front of them, Alexandra contended.

No, I lived unlike everybody else, he sobbed.

Your principles are of a much higher degree, Alexandra reminded him, To live according to one’s abilities – to receive according to one’s needs.

Would I continue like this – would I survive? He bawled.

Your path has higher conscious seeds, Alexandra called