Authors: Barbara Kingsolver
He revealed some scraps of his own life: a difficult childhood, the French mother losing her citizenship for marrying a Dutch husband, who died soon after Van’s birth. Van has a weakness for what he calls Nederland licorices. They look like black glass beads, in a packet he keeps in the desk drawer, guarded rather anxiously, as he is sure they can’t be bought in Mexico.
Here are two fatherless boys, then, eager to be anything for Lev, with his own two sons so far gone from him, and the man so kind. Already Lev remembers which assistant takes sugar in his tea. He puts everyone through stretching exercises so they won’t get backaches while typing what he himself stayed up all night to write. But Van will always be the favored son, of course. He has served Lev so long.
Van was surprised to learn the “native typist” is also of hybrid
origin, half gringo. He changed to speaking English after that. His Spanish is very imperfect. He needs help with interpreting at the political meetings, especially when the talk flies around the table like a flock of crows. Last evening it flew from Russian to English (for Mr. Novack), then Spanish (for the Riveras’ colleagues), then back to Russian, with some French thrown in by Van, just for show, it seemed. Excuse this opinion, if it is one, but as Sra. Frida can plainly recall, no one at that meeting needed French.
All papers filed today were letters from the past four years, most in French but some typed in Russian, pages of characters in that strange alphabet lined up like rows of little men doing bending exercises. So it’s untrue that typewriters are restricted to characters of the English language. Van cracked his composure and smiled at the story of Officer Gringo and the Potomac Academy typewriters. He understands Spanish well enough to laugh at the joke about Señor Villanueva and his
anos
in the
bano
. Or he pretended. He seems fearful of losing his position as his commissar’s sole interpreter.
With apologies here to Sra. Frida, because the last paragraph undoubtedly contains at least one opinion. But not a fiction. The second weekly household report from Coyoacán is herein submitted for her inspection.
30 January
A wire came from Paris: Radek, Piatakov, and Muralov were executed in Moscow. Lev’s spirits flag—more of his friends are dead—but he stays absorbed in work. What the newspapers say about Lev is shocking, charges more improbable every day. Lev said that when the public nerve is aroused, the most impressive capacity of man is his skill for lying. Van said, “It’s good to hear you indignant, Commissar.”
But Lev maintained he was not at all indignant. He was holding a Russian newspaper with such ink-stained fingers he could be a print
ing press. “I’m speaking as a naturalist, stating fact. The urge to lie is produced by the contradictions in our lives. We are made to declare love for our country, while it tramples our rights and dignity.”
“But newspapers have a duty to truth,” Van said.
Lev clucked his tongue. “They tell the truth only as the exception. Zola wrote that the mendacity of the press could be divided into two groups: the yellow press lies every day without hesitating. But others, like the
Times
, speak the truth on all inconsequential occasions, so they can deceive the public with the requisite authority when it becomes necessary.”
Van got up from his chair to gather the cast-off newspapers. Lev took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t mean to offend the journalists; they aren’t any different from other people. They’re merely the megaphones of the other people.”
“It’s true, sir. The newspapers are like the howlers on Isla Pixol.”
Lev seemed interested in the comparison, and changed from English to Spanish. “What are these howlers?” he asked.
“A kind of monkey, very terrifying. They howl every morning: first one starts, then a neighbor hears it and starts his own howl, as if he can’t help it. Soon the whole forest is bellowing, loud as thunder. It’s their nature, probably they have to do it, to hold their place in the forest. To tell the others no one has gotten the best of them.”
“You are a naturalist also,” Lev said. He struggled but was determined to continue the conversation in Spanish. Van left the office. “Where are these creatures?”
“Isla Pixol. It’s a coastal island, south of Veracruz.”
“A monkey does not swim. How did they become isolated?”
En isla
, he said. Probably he meant,
en una isla
, on an island.
“It wasn’t always an island, an isthmus of rocks connected it with the mainland, but they dredged it for a shipping channel. It was during Maximilian, I think. The monkeys that had gone out there couldn’t get back.”
22 February
The jacaranda in the courtyard has put on its bloom. This purple can’t be ignored, it’s like a tree singing. The walk down Londres Street to the market is a concert: the small jacaranda on the corner hums the tuning note, then all others in the lane join in. Even Perpetua has a light in her eye, holding one hand to her flat old bosom as she takes the cucumbers out of the market basket, one by one.
From Lev’s study, the view from the end window is a solid blaze of purple. Van sits there to take dictation from the Ediphone, with his square profile framed against the window like Poseidon in a purple sea. Or some Teutonic god who causes all he touches, and the air itself, to burst into purple flames. It is not a fiction or opinion to report that he is breathtaking. Perpetua is not the only one in this house thinking of cucumbers.
1 March
Octavio apprehended a man with a repeater, in the alley. After every fresh newspaper rant on the villain residing in Coyoacán, these men show up. So far it’s only citizen-desperados vowing to protect their wives. Lev fears more sophisticated men, Communist Party operatives working under command of Stalin’s GPU. But a bullet from a barefoot soldier is no less deadly than from a well-paid one. Lorenzo sleeps in the front dining room now. Those lovely windows will have to be closed with brick. The masons have made a mess, and Van had to move into the tiny cupboard with HS, close quarters for two. Though he left his multitude of serge jackets in a trunk in the other room.
This week is too hot for early spring. And this week the household staff are banned from the front of the house due to the government officials negotiating there, late into the night. The heat in this bricked-up cloister is unbearable. Van is dismayed at being held out of the meetings, but Diego says it’s sensitive. President Cárdenas is expected here himself, to help arrange the Commission of Inquiry for Lev.
After cooking and serving supper, washing up, tidying, and sweeping, nothing is left for the staff but to sit on cots in these tiny rooms in undershorts and gob shirts, smoking panatelas, telling exaggerated stories to pass the time. It’s like being at school. These are not brotherly feelings Van inspires. Mother would say: Van is plenty rugged.
March 3
The guards spend every long evening all in one small room, breathing the same exhaled air and drinking one another’s spit from one warm jug of pulque. Playing cards for pesos, boredom games. Earlier this evening, the usual one: name your one wish if you could have it, then die tomorrow. Boys at school played this, reliably coming round to getting hands on some celebrated pair of
tetas
. Van from his high place added to the earnest list, “success of the Commissar’s revolution.” He was on the cot and everyone else on the floor, passing the cigarette packet. “You, Shepherd. Name yours.”
“To make something beautiful, that people would find very moving.”
“Pendejo,
you do that every day in the kitchen.”
“I mean a work of art that isn’t in the toilet pot by the next day. A story, or something like that.”
“Like the murals of Rivera, commanding men to rise from their knees and fight!” Lorenzo said. Stewed or not, loyal to the cause.
“Or smaller, like the paintings she does. Something people would find…dear.”
“Querido.
That’s all you want, sheepdog!”
“Our shepherd,” Van said, leaning out to pat a shaggy head as if it belonged to his dog. In front of the other men. The small dog panted.
10 March
A wire from Mr. Novack, now back in New York: he has persuaded Professor John Dewey to chair the commission of inquiry. Some
American journalists will follow the story to Mexico. Diego and Lev are extremely happy, as it will give Lev opportunity to answer Stalin’s charges, for the world to hear.
Noted: That Sra. Frida, after inspecting last week’s record of events, repeats her request that it remain objective, especially with regard to the secretary Van.
April 6
Professor John Dewey of Columbia University arrived today by train from New York. He will preside over the joint Commission of Inquiry into the Charges Made Against Lev Davidovich Trotsky in the Moscow Trials. He and seven journalists will reside for the month at the San Angel Inn. The opening press conference will be there, honoring Professor Dewey’s wish for fairness and no contact with the defendant prior to hearings.
The proceedings will be held here, because of special needs for Lev’s security. The attorney for Lev’s defense, Mr. Goldman from Chicago, arrives by train tomorrow. Sandbags are being laid across Londres to close the neighborhood to traffic. Extreme publicity is expected during the trial. The Mexico City newspapers are already having a run of extras on the subject of the Villain in Our Midst.
April 10: First Session of the Joint Commission of Inquiry
Professor Dewey opened. Thanked Mexican government for its political democracy, stated no man should be condemned without a chance to defend himself. “I have devoted my life to the business of enlightening minds, in the interest of society. I accept my responsibilities in this commission for one reason: to do otherwise would be false to my life’s work.” The responsibility is to investigate charges of sabotage and sedition brought by Stalin against the defendant.
Defendant is Lev Davidovich Trotsky, b. 1879. Fought as anti-tsarist from age seventeen, led the Bolshevik Revolution, elected president of the Petrograd Soviet in 1917. Author of the manifesto of the Third
International Comintern, 1919. Expelled from the Soviet Communist Party in 1927. Forced into exile in Kazakhstan at that time.
At the table with the defendant are his wife, his lawyer, and Van, who has the job of producing requested documents. At a table near it, two Americans and HS, who are to translate and record all questions posed to Lev, and his answers. A man named Glotzer (American) is official court reporter and knows a language (shorthand) that allows writing everything very fast, but only if he understands the words. So all proceedings go to English for his sake, and of course for Professor Dewey’s. Therefore HS has the duty to record and translate any questions asked or answered in Spanish.
None today, only testimony. Cross-examination begins tomorrow.
12 April
One question in Spanish today, from Sr. Pontón of the Sociedad de Naciones, translated as follows: “Sir, for our Mexican correspondents I beg you the trouble of answering: your persistent charge against Stalin is a lack of democracy. Is that correct?”
Lev answered: “Correct. A rank of party workers has been created who enter the government and renounce their own opinions. Or at least any open expression of them. Every page on their desks comes from above. They behave as if the hierarchy had already created all party opinion and decisions. From this hierarchy, every decision affecting the country stands in the form of a command.”
When Lev isn’t speaking he puts his feet on the table and leans back in his chair. Today he reached such an extreme backward angle, it seemed the GPU might not be needed to crack the man’s head. But he was still listening. He looks down his Russian nose and his whole lower face crumples into his collar when he concentrates. He has no consciousness of how he must look to others, only aiming his mind with such a ferocious focus that it could set all those bureaucrats’ papers to flames. This must be the countenance of a revolutionary.
This daily record complete and submitted: 4/12/37.
13 April
Sr. Pontón’s question and Lev’s answer have gone on the front page of today’s
Washington Post
! Exactly as translated by HS, and quoted again on the editor’s page, in a discussion of the Moscow Trials and the commission. The article even used the description of Mr. Trotsky leaning in his chair, and the headline in very bold letters was:
THE COUNTENANCE OF A REVOLUTIONARY
.
These were only some notes and doodles submitted with the translation transcript, Sra. Frida. This is a shock, and a terror. The very first try at translation, and some notes jotted on a whim, now on display for the world to read? It was hard to think about breakfast this morning. Perpetua said, “Sit down and stop shaking,
mi’ijo
. It’s a bad start to the week for a man who’s hanged on Monday.”
Hanging is what it feels like! A twenty-year-old
galopino
who knows nothing about politics could have mistaken yes for no, a
renunciar
for a
renacer
, and then what? History could hang on it. Lives could be lost, for the sake of a wrong word. No wonder writers are pessimistic. Better to be a cook, where a mistake will only send someone away hungry, or at worst, to the WC.
But Van complimented the translation. He read the article to Lev and Natalya at breakfast, translating it back to Russian as he went. They listened to the words of a cook, while eating toasted bread for which the same nervous cook had already burned his knuckles.
14 April
After the day’s hearings closed today, Lev went to the front door to see the huge crowd gathered there. Not only newsmen but workers of all sorts, even laundrywomen. No barefoot soldiers want to kill him anymore, after hearing his fiery defense of the worker and peasant reported in the news. Now he’s afraid they’ll want to knock Jesus off the pallets of the Holy Week processions this week and put Trotsky up there instead. A group from the miners’ syndicate walked here all the way from Michoacán.