Written:1940
First Published:1941 (English translation)
Source: Fourth International
Online Version: Natalia Sedova Archive, December 2001
Transcribed/HTML Markup: Mike Bessler (original markup by ETOL)
(Tuesday, August 20, 1940; 7 o’clock in the morning)
"You know, I feel fine today, at all events, this morning; it’s a long
time since I felt so well… Last night I took a double dose of the
sleeping drug. I noticed that it does me good."
"Yes. I recall that we observed this in Norway when you used to feel
run-down much more often… But it isn’t the drug itself that does you
good, it’s sound sleep, complete rest."
"Why yes, of course."
As he opened in the morning or closed at night the massive steel
shutters built in our bedroom by our friends after the attack of May 24
on our home, L. D. would occasionally remark: "Well, now no Siqueiros
can get at us." And upon awakening he would greet me and himself by
saying, "You see, they didn’t kill us last night after all, and yet you
are still dissatisfied." I defended myself as best I could… Once,
after such a "greeting," he added pensively: "Yes, Natasha, we received
a reprieve."
As far back as 1928, when we were being exiled to Alma-Ata, where
the unknown awaited us, we had a talk one night in the compartment of
the train which was taking us into exile… We could not sleep, after
the tumult of the last weeks, and especially the last days, in Moscow.
In spite of our extreme fatigue, the nervous excitement persisted. I
recall that Lev Davidovich said to me then: "it’s better this way
(exile). I am not in favor of dying in a bed in the Kremlin."
But this morning he was far from all such thoughts. Physical
well-being made him look forward eagerly to a "really good" day’s work.
Vigorously he walked out into the patio to feed his rabbits, after
performing swiftly his morning toilet and dressing just as quickly.
When his health was poor, the feeding of the rabbits was a strain on
him; but he couldn’t give it up, as he pitied the little animals. It
was difficult to do it as he wanted to, as was his custom–thoroughly.
Besides, he had to be on guard; his strength had to be conserved for
another, different kind of work–work at his desk. Taking care of the
animals, cleaning their cages, etc., provided him, on the one hand,
with relaxation and a distraction, but, on the other hand, it fatigued
him physically; and this, in turn, reflected on his general ability to
work. He became completely absorbed in everything he did, regardless of
the task.
I recall that in 1933 we departed from Prinkipo for France, where we
lived in a lonely villa not far from Royan, by the shores of the
Atlantic. Our son together with our friends had arranged for this villa
which was called "Sea-Spray." The waves of the turbulent ocean came
into our garden, and salt spray would fly in through the open windows.
Surrounded by our friends, we lived under semi-legal conditions. We
would have on occasion as many as twenty people. Eight or nine lived on
the premises. In view of our position, it was out of the question to
call in a housekeeper or someone to help in the kitchen. The whole
burden fell on Jeanne, my son’s wife, and on Vera Molinier, and I also
helped. The young comrades washed the dishes. Lev Davidovich, too,
wanted to help with the housework and began washing dishes. But our
friends protested: "He should rest after dinner. We can manage
ourselves." Besides, my son Leva told me: "Papa insists on using a
scientific method of dish-washing, and this eats up too much of our
time." In the end, L. D. had to retire from this occupation.
The middle way, the lackadaisical attitude, the semi-indifferent
manner, these he knew not. That is why nothing tired him so much as
casual or semi-indifferent conversations. But with what enthusiasm did
he go to pick cacti with a view to transplanting them in our garden. He
was in a frenzy, being the first on the job and the last to leave. Not
one of the young people surrounding him on our walks into the country
and working with him outdoors could keep pace with him; they tired more
quickly, and fell behind one after the other. But he was indefatigable.
Looking at him, I often marveled. Whence did he draw his energy, his
physical endurance? Neither the unbearably hot sun, the mountains nor
descents with cacti heavy as iron bothered him. He was hypnotized by
the consummation of the task at hand. He found relaxation in changing
his tasks. This also provided him with a respite from the blows which
mercilessly fell upon him. The more crushing the blow the more ardently
he forgot himself in work.
Our walks, which were really war-expeditions for cacti, became more
and more rare because of "circumstances beyond our control." However,
every now and then, having had his fill of the monotony of his daily
routine, Lev Davidovich would say to me: "This week we ought to take a
whole day off for a walk, don’t you think so?"
"You mean a day for penal labor?" I would twit him.
"All right, let’s go, to be sure."
"It would be best to get an early start. Shouldn’t we leave around six in the morning?"
"Six is all right with me, but won’t you get too tired?"
"No, it will only refresh me, and I promise not to overdo it."
Usually Lev Davidovich fed his fondly-watched rabbits and chickens,
from a quarter past seven (sometimes 7:20) till nine o’clock in the
morning. Sometimes he would interrupt this work to dictate into the
dictaphone some order or some idea which occurred to him. That day he
worked in the patio without interruption. After breakfast he assured me
that he felt fine and spoke of his desire to begin dictating an article
on conscription in the United States. And he actually did start to
dictate.
At one o’clock Rigault, our attorney in the case of the May 24th
attack, came to see us. After his departure, Lev Davidovich looked into
my room to tell me, not without regret, that he would have to postpone
work on the article and to resume preparing the material for the trial
in connection with the attack upon us. He and his attorney had decided
that it was necessary to answer El Popular in view of the fact that L.
D. had been accused of defamation at a banquet given by that
publication.
"And I will take the offensive and will charge them with brazen slander." he said defiantly.
"Too bad, you won’t be able to write about conscription."
"Yes, it can’t be helped. I have to postpone it for two or three
days. I have already asked for all the available materials to be placed
on my desk. After dinner, I shall start going over them. I feel fine,"
he once again assured me.
After a brief siesta, I saw him sitting at his desk, which was
already covered with items relating to the El Popular case. He
continued to be in good spirits. And it made me feel more cheerful. Lev
Davidovich had of late been complaining of enervation to which he
succumbed occasionally. He knew that it was a passing condition, but
lately he seemed to be in greater doubt about it than ever before;
today seemed to us to mark the beginning of improvement in his physical
condition. He looked well too. Every now and then I opened the door to
his room just a trifle, so as not to disturb him, and saw him in his
usual position, bent over his desk, pen in hand. I recalled the line,
"One more and final story and my scroll is at an end." Thus speaks the
ancient monk-scribe Pimen in Pushkin’s drama "Boris Godounov," as he
recorded the evil deeds of Czar Boris.
Lev Davidovich led a life close in semblance to that of a prisoner
or a hermit, with this difference that in his solitude he not only kept
a chronological record of events but waged an indomitably passionate
struggle against his ideological enemies.
Brief as that day was, Lev Davidovich had until five in the
afternoon dictated into the dictaphone several fragments of his
contemplated article on conscription in the United States and about
fifty short pages of his exposure of El Popular, i.e. of Stalin’s
machinations. It was a day of physical and spiritual equanimity for him.
Jacson Appears
At five, the two of us had tea, as usual. At twenty minutes past
five, perhaps at half past, I stepped out on the balcony and saw L. D.
in the patio near an open rabbit hutch. He was feeding the animals.
Beside him was an unfamiliar figure. Only when he removed his hat and
started to approach the balcony did I recognize him. It was "Jacson."
"He’s here again," it flashed through my mind. "Why has he begun to come so often?" I asked myself.
"I’m frightfully thirsty, may I have a glass of water?" he asked, upon greeting me.
"Perhaps you would like a cup of tea?"
"No no. I dined too late and feel that the food is up here," he
answered, pointing at his throat. "it’s choking me." The color of his
face was gray-green. His general appearance was that of a very nervous
man.
"Why are you wearing your hat and topcoat?" (His topcoat was hanging
over his left arm, pressed against his body.) "It’s so sunny today."
"Yes, but you know it won’t last long, it might rain." I wanted to
argue that "today it won’t rain" and of his always boasting that he
never wore a hat or coat, even in the wont weather, but somehow I
became depressed and let the subject drop. Instead I asked:
"And how is Sylvia feeling?"
He did not appear to understand me. I had upset him by my previous
question about his topcoat and hat. And he was completely lost in his
own thoughts, and very nervous. Finally, as if rousing himself from a
deep sleep, he answered me: "Sylvia?… Sylvia?…" And catching
himself, he added casually: "She’s always well."
He began to retrace his steps towards Lev Davidovich and the rabbit
hutches. I asked him as he walked away: "Is your article ready?"
"Yes, it’s ready."
"Is it typed?"
With an awkward movement of his hand, while he continued to press
against his body his topcoat in the lining of which were sewn in, as it
was later revealed, a pickaxe and a dagger, he produced several
typewritten pages to show me.
"It’s good that your manuscript is not written by hand. Lev Davidovich dislikes illegible manuscripts."
Two days earlier he had called on us, also wearing a topcoat and a
hat. I did not see him then as, unfortunately, I was not at home. But
Lev Davidovich told me that "Jacson" had called and had somewhat
surprised him by his conduct. Lev Davidovich mentioned it in a way which
indicated that he had no desire to elaborate upon the matter, but at
the same time he felt that he had to mention it to me, sensing some new
feature about the man.
"He brought an outline of his article, in reality a few
phrases–muddled stuff. I made some suggestions to him. We shall see."
And Lev Davidovich added, "Yesterday he did not resemble a Frenchman at
all. Suddenly he sat down on my desk and kept his hat on all the while."
"Yes, it’s strange" I said in wonderment. "He never wears a hat."
"This time he wore a hat," answered Lev Davidovich and pursued this
subject no further. He spoke casually. But I was taken aback: it seemed
to me that on this occasion he had perceived something new about
"Jacson" but had not yet reached, or rather was in no hurry to draw
conclusions. This brief conversation of ours occurred on the eve of the
crime.
Wearing a hat.. topcoat on his arm… sat himself down on the
table–wasn’t this a rehearsal on his part? This was done so that he
would be more certain and precise in his movements on the morrow.
Who could have suspected it then? It stirred us to embarrassment,
nothing more. Who could have foretold that the day of August 20, so
ordinary, would be so fateful? Nothing bespoke its ominousness. From
dawn the sun was shining, as always here, the whole day brightly.
Flowers were blooming, and grass seemed polished with lacquer… We
went about our tasks each in his own way, all of us trying in whatever
we did to facilitate Lev Davidovich’s work. How many times in the
course of that day did he mount the little steps of this same balcony,
and walk into this, his room, and sit down on this very same chair
beside the desk… All this used to hem ordinary and is now by its very
ordinariness so terrible and tragic. No one, none among us, not he
himself was able to sense the impending disaster. And in this inability
a kind of abyss yawns. On the contrary, the whole day was one of the
most tranquil. When L. D. stepped out at noon into the patio and I
perceived him standing there bareheaded beneath the scorching sun, I
hastened to bring him his white cap to protect his head against the
merciless hot rays. To protect from the sun… but even at that very
moment he was already threatened with a terrible death. At that hour we
did not sense his doom, an outburst of despair did not convulse our
hearts.
I recall that when the alarm system in the house, the garden and the
patio was being installed by our friends and guard posts were being
assigned, I drew L. D.’s attention to the fact that a guard should also
be posted at his window. This seemed to me at the time so palpably
indispensable. But L. D. objected that to do so it would be necessary
to expand the guard, increase it to ten which was beyond our resources
both in point of money and of available people at the disposal of our
organization. A guard outside the window could not have saved him in
this particular instance. But the absence of one worried me. L. D. was
likewise very touched by a present given him by our American friends
after the attack of May 24. It was a bullet proof vest, something like
an ancient shirt of mail. As I examined it one day, I happened to
remark that it would be good to get something for the head. L. D.
insisted that the comrade assigned to the most responsible post wear
the vest each time. After the failure suffered by our enemies in the
May 24 attack, we were absolutely certain that Stalin would not halt,
and we were making preparations. We also knew that a different form of
attack would be used by the G.P.U. Nor did we exclude a blow on the
part of a "solitary individual" sent secretly and paid by the G.P.U.
But neither the bullet-proof vest nor a helmet could have served as
safeguards. To apply these methods of defense from day to day was
impossible. It was impossible to convert one’s life solely into
self-defense–for in that case life loses all its value.
The Assassination
As "Jacson" and I approached Lev Davidovich the latter addressed me
in Russian, "You know, he is expecting Sylvia to call on us. They are
leaving tomorrow." It was a suggestion on his part that I should invite
them to tea, if not supper.
"I didn’t know that you intend leaving tomorrow and are expecting Sylvia here."
"Yes…yes… I forgot to mention it to you."
"It’s too bad that I didn’t know, I might have sent a few things to New York."
"I could call tomorrow at one."
"No, no, thank you. It would inconvenience both of us."
And turning to Lev Davidovich, I explained in Russian that I had
already asked "Jacson" to tea but that he refused, complaining about
not feeling well, being terribly thirsty and asked me only for a glass
of water. Lev Davidovich glanced at him attentively, and said in a tone
of light reproach, "Your health is poor again, you look ill… That’s
not good."
There was a pause. Lev Davidovich was loath to tear himself away
from the rabbits and in no mood to listen to an article. However, he
controlled himself and said, "Well, what do you say, shall we go over
your article?"
He fastened the hutches methodically, and removed his working
gloves. He took good care of his hands, or rather his fingers inasmuch
as the slightest scratch irritated him, interfered with his writing. He
always kept his pen like his fingers in order. He brushed off his blue
blouse and slowly, silently started walking towards the house
accompanied by "Jacson" and myself. I came with them to the door of Lev
Davidovich’s study; the door closed, and I walked into the adjoining
room….
Not more than three or four minutes had elapsed when I heard a
terrible, soul-shaking cry and without so much as realizing who it was
that uttered this cry, I rushed in the direction from which it came.
Between the dining room and the balcony, on the threshold, beside the
door post and leaning against it stood… Lev Davidovich. His face was
covered with blood, his eyes, without glasses, were sharp blue, his
hands were hanging.
"What happened? What happened?"
I flung my arms about him, but he did not immediately answer. It
flashed through my mind. Perhaps something had fallen from the
ceiling–some repair work was being done there–but why was he here?
And he said to me calmly, without any indignation, bitterness or
irritation, "Jacson." L.D. said it as if he wished to say, "It has
happened." We took a few steps and Lev Davidovich, with my help,
slumped to the floor on the little carpet there.
"Natasha, I love you.’" He said this so unexpectedly, so gravely,
almost severely that, weak from inner shock, I swayed toward him.
"0…0… no one, no one must be allowed to see you without being searched."
Carefully placing a pillow under his broken head, I held a piece of
ice to his wound and wiped the blood from his face with cotton…
"Seva must be taken away from all this…"
He spoke with difficulty, unclearly, but was–so it seemed to me–unaware of it.
"You know, in there–" his eyes moved towards the door of his
room–"I sensed… understood what he wanted to do…. He wanted to
strike me… once more… but I didn’t let him," he spoke calmly,
quietly, his voice breaking.
"But I didn’t let him." There was a note of satisfaction in these
words. At the same time Lev Davidovich turned to Joe, and spoke to him
in English. Joe was kneeling on the floor as I was, on the other side,
just opposite me. I strained to catch the words, but couldn’t make them
out. At that moment I saw Charlie, his face chalk-white, revolver in
hand, rush into Lev Davidovich’s room.
"What about that one" I asked Lev Davidovich. "They will kill him."
"No… impermissible to kill, he must be forced to talk," Lev
Davidovich replied, still uttering the words with difficulty, slowly.
A kind of pathetic whining suddenly broke upon our ears. I glanced
in a quandary at Lev Davidovich. With a barely noticeable movement of
his eyes, he indicated the door of his room and said condescendingly,
"It’s he"… "Has the doctor arrived yet?"
"He’ll be here any minute now… Charlie has gone in a car to fetch him."
The doctor arrived, examined the wound and agitatedly stated that it
was "not dangerous." Lev Davidovich accepted this calmly, almost
indifferently as though one could not expect any other pronouncement
from a physician in such a situation. But, turning to Joe and
indicating his heart, he said in English, "I feel it here… This time
they have succeeded." He was sparing me.
The Last Hours
Through the roaring city, through its vain tumult and human din,
through its garish evening lights, the emergency ambulance sped,
weaving through traffic, passing cars, with the siren incessantly
wailing, with the cordon of police motorcycles shrilly whistling. We
were bearing the wounded man unbearable anguish in our hearts, and with
an alarm that increased with every passing minute. He was conscious.
One hand remained quietly extended along the body. It was paralyzed.
Dr. Dutren told me this after the examination at home, in the dining
room, on the floor. For the other hand, the right, he couldn’t find a
place, describing circles with it all the time, touching me, as if
seeking a comfortable place for it. He found it more and more difficult
to talk. Bending very low I asked him how he felt.
"Better now," answered Lev Davidovich.
"Better now." This quickened the heart with keen hopes. The
ear-splitting tumult, the whistles and the siren continued to wail but
the heart pulsed with hope. "Better now."
The ambulance pulled up at the hospital. It stopped. A crowd milled
around us. "There may be enemies," it flashed through my mind, as was
always the case in similar situations. "Where are our friends? They
must surround the stretcher…"
Now he was lying on the cot. Silently the doctors examined the
wound. On their instructions, a "sister" began shaving his hair. I
stood at the head of the cot. Smiling imperceptibly, Lev Davidovich
said to me, "See, we found a barber too…"
He was still sparing me. That day we had talked about the necessity
of calling a barber to give him a hair-cut, but did not get around to
it. He was now reminding me of it. Lev Davidovich called Joe, who was
standing right there, a few feet away from me and asked him, as I
learned later, to jot down his farewell to life. When I inquired what
Lev Davidovich had said to him, Joe replied, "He wanted me to make a
note about French statistics." I was greatly surprised that it was
something related to French statistics at such a time. It seemed
strange. Unless perhaps his condition was beginning to improve…
I remained standing at the head of the cot, holding a piece of ice
to the wound and listening attentively. They began to undress him. So
as not to disturb him, his working blouse was cut with scissors; the
doctor politely exchanged glances with the "sister" as if to encourage
her; next came the knitted vest, then the shirt. The watch was
unstrapped from his wrist. They then began to remove the remaining
garments without cutting them, and he said to me then, "I don’t want
them to undress me… I want you to do it." He said this quite
distinctly, only very sadly and gravely.
These were the last words he spoke to me. When I finished I bent
over him and touched his lips with mine. He answered me. Again… And
again he answered. And once again. It was our final farewell. But we
were not aware of it.
The patient fell into a state of coma. The operation did not bring
him out of this condition. Without removing my eyes, I watched over him
all that night, waiting for the "awakening." The eyes were closed, but
the breathing, now heavy, now even and calm, inspired hope. The
following day passed the same way. By noon, according to the judgment
of the doctors, there was an improvement. But toward the end of the
day, a sharp change in the sick man’s breathing suddenly took place. It
became rapid, more and more rapid, instilling mortal fear. The
physicians, the hospital staff surrounded the cot of the sick man. They
were obviously agitated. Losing my self-control, I asked what this
meant, but only one among them, a more cautious man answered. "it would
pass," he said. The others remained silent. I understood how false was
all consolation and how hopeless everything really was.
They lifted him up. His head slumped on one shoulder. The hands
dangled like those in Titian’s crucifixion: "The Removal from the
Cross." Instead of a crown of thorns, the dying man wore a bandage. The
features of his countenance retained their purity and pride. It seemed
as if at any moment now he would straighten up and take charge himself.
But the wound had penetrated the brain too deeply. The awakening so
passionately awaited never came. His voice was also stilled. Everything
was ended. He is no longer among the living.
Retribution will come to the vile murderers. Throughout his entire
heroic and beautiful life, Lev Davidovich believed in the emancipated
mankind of the future. During the last years of his life his faith did
not falter, but on the contrary became only more mature, more firm than
ever.
Future mankind, emancipated from all oppression will triumph over coercion of all sorts. He taught me to believe in this too.
November, 1940
Coyoacan, Mexico
