Of Joseph Stalin and the Lovely Zinaida

by Sandro Francisco Piedrahita

Maybe the reason the fifteen-year-old Esteban Volkov fell hopelessly in love with Zinaida Gonzalez was because she had the same first name as his deceased mother. Or perhaps it was because she was spirited, intelligent, and pretty. Zinaida did not look anything like Esteban’s mother, a victim of politics and suicide. The Mexican Zinaida was olive-skinned and dark-haired while the Russian Zinaida—to the extent he could remember anything at all—was blonde-haired and deathly pale, with frantic blue eyes which spoke of her despair. When her suicide happened, Esteban was seven years old and could understand nothing. Eventually he learned her fate in whispers in the mouth of his uncle Lev Sedov—the man who took care of him in Paris after his mother’s unexpected death. Esteban heard that she had put her head in an oven and let the gasses kill her. He eventually found out that she had done so because she could not manage her depression under the constant fear of a man named Joseph Stalin. Esteban also learned that the reason he did not have a father like other boys was because his father, Platon Volkov, had been murdered by that selfsame Joseph Stalin. And at some point, Esteban learned his uncle Lev had also died at Stalin’s orders. Esteban was to find out—again and again—that Stalin was the implacable enemy of his entire family.

Zinaida was the only full-blooded Zapotec Indian in Esteban’s classroom at the Lincoln Academy and the only one from a poor family. Had she not been a brilliant student, she would have found it impossible to enroll at the academy. Her parents, former peasants from Oaxaca who ran a small tienda de abarrotes near the Plaza Centenario, could not afford such an expensive school, particularly given that they had three other mouths to feed and substantial debts. But Zinaida received the highest scores on the entrance exam and a secret benefactress agreed to pay her tuition during all of Zinaida’s years at the academy. By the time Esteban appeared on the scene after having spent five years with his doomed uncle in Paris, Zinaida was perfectly fluent in the English language and had begun to learn French as well. From his first day in the classroom, Esteban was taken by her uncommon beauty—so different from the girls he had known in France—and that attraction would only increase as he discovered her great intelligence. He had the good fortune (or the misfortune as it were) of being seated right behind her where he could smell the aroma of henna in her hair and touch her twin black braids as they fell on the top of his desk. Good fortune because it satisfied his adolescent passions, misfortune because it made it impossible for him to focus on his studies. Instead of listening to Miss Evans, he spent hours doodling on his notebook, drawing hearts with the name Zinaida in the middle, or writing clumsy poems written in her honor. Once he took a pair of scissors to school and without her knowledge, he clipped a lock of her jet black hair, which he kept in his wallet forever.

At some point it became clear that Esteban was failing at mathematics, not only because he spent so much of his time writing poems for Zinaida, but also because he found fractions inherently inscrutable. He could understand how to multiply one fraction by another, but not how to divide a fraction by another, nor how to convert a fraction into a percentage. Miss Evans suggested that he do his homework with Zinaida, the best math student in the class. And so one day he found himself walking to his home on the Avenida Viena with the fifteen-year-old math whiz at his side. Before they left their school, he gave her a cluster of white and yellow lilies as an expression of thanks. She playfully put them on her hair. In exchange for her tutoring him in math, Esteban promised to help her with her French. She spoke French as she did English and Spanish, with the barest trace of the sonorous Zapotec tongue. And Esteban loved her for it, that lush voice which was only hers, so different from all the others.

When they arrived at Esteban’s home for their initial lesson, Zinaida was immediately surprised. There were five or six Mexican policemen in front of the main door smoking cigarettes with a group of blonde, foreign-looking men. As soon as she approached, one of the blonde men asked Esteban who she was.

“She’s a friend from school,” replied Esteban in English. “Her name is Zinaida Gonzalez.”

“So you’ve found a girlfriend,” the blonde man said. “You’re so clumsy and so shy, one never would believe it.”

Then he turned to Zinaida and spoke to her in broken Spanish.

“And what are your politics?” he asked.

 “I suppose I’m a priista just like everybody else,” Zinaida responded in perfect English. “What does that have to do with anything?” 

“Are you a member of the Communist Party of Mexico?” the blonde man pressed, knowing the party supported Stalin.

“I’m a Catholic. Why would I ever be a Communist?”

“Call Sylvia,” the blonde man said. Soon a very short woman with cat eye glasses appeared.

“Frisk her,” the man ordered. Zinaida was forced to lift her arms in the air as Sylvia patted her down.

“She’s fine,” shouted Sylvia. “No problem here.”

“Well, all right,” the blonde man said. “Go right ahead. By the way, all of us are Communists here. We’re just not aligned with the Communist Party of Mexico, which supports Joseph Stalin. We’re American Trotskyites, loyal only to the old man, Leon Trotsky.”

“What was that all about?” Zinaida asked Esteban as she entered the home. “Who are those men?”

“Those are my grandfather’s guards,” Esteban replied simply.

“I don’t understand why I was frisked,” Zinaida said.”

“So that a man called Joseph Stalin will not kill my grandfather Leon.”

“Kill your grandfather?”

“Yes, my grandfather. Stalin wants my dedushka dead because he’s afraid my grandfather will take power from him. He’s already murdered more than fifteen of my relatives in Russia and a bunch of my grandfather’s friends. I had to move to Mexico from France because Stalin ordered the assassination of my uncle Lev. And my uncle Sergei has recently disappeared and is presumed dead by my grandfather. My dedushka thinks that Sergei was killed by Stalin too, as was Trotsky’s first wife Aleksandra, my actual grandmother. Natalia is my dedushka’s second wife.”

“Who is this evil Stalin?”

 “Well, the Russians used to have a king. They called him the tsar. The people overthrew him and a civil war started. My grandfather and Stalin were on the same side. But after the war was over, Stalin decided to take power for himself and saw my grandfather as a threat. Stalin was afraid my grandfather would oust him from power. So the first thing Stalin did was throw my dedushka out of the country. Afterward, Stalin swore to murder my grandfather no matter where he was. The old man says Stalin is afraid of him because my grandfather will not shut up. We need the guards to defend my grandfather if the assassins appear.”

“So Stalin is the President of Russia?”

“Something like that, except he has much more power than President Cardenas. He is basically president for life. If anyone challenges him, Stalin promptly orders his assassination. The people call them purges. Most of the men who fought with my grandfather during the civil war have been purged by Stalin.” 

* * *

Esteban liked to project an air of invulnerability, just like his grandfather. Some would think Esteban was impervious to spiritual pain. At the age of fifteen he had suffered through more tragedies than most people suffer in a lifetime. He seldom spoke to anyone of his emotional scars, however. He preferred to act and speak in a jovial manner at all times, but sometimes at night he would cry into his pillow. He wept for those he had already lost to violence—his father, his mother, his grandmother, his beloved uncle Lev—but mostly he cried because he was terrified about the fate of the old man.

One day with Zinaida he confessed everything. He had not planned to do so, but in the midst of an ordinary conversation suddenly he found himself expressing all his pain. 

They were practicing French words as they walked to Esteban’s house on the Avenida Viena. 

“Chicken,” said Esteban.

“Poulet,” responded Zinaida.

“Dog,” said Esteban.

“Chien,” replied Zinaida.

“Love,” said Esteban.

“Amour,” responded Zinaida. 

“I love you,” said Esteban.

“Je t’aime,” replied Zinaida.

“Je t’aime,” Esteban repeated with laughter. “Je t’aime! Je t’aime! Je t’aime!”

Zinaida smiled knowingly.

“Je t’aime as well,” she whispered, with a voice that combined tenderness and embarrassment.

“I promise you,” said Esteban, pressing her hand with his, “that I will take you to France. I shall make a gift of all of Paris for you. Every boulevard will be my bouquet of roses. The loveliest girl in Mexico shall know the loveliest city in the world.”  

“How long did you live in France?” she asked. “You said you lived with your uncle, right?”

Suddenly Esteban’s eyes were somber, for what he most remembered about Paris was the death of his ill-fated uncle Lev.

“I lived in Paris for about seven years, a period bookended by two horrors: the suicide of my mother Zinaida and the poisoning of my uncle Lev.”

Esteban was amazed at his own candor, but somehow Zinaida invited him to be frank. There was real sympathy in her eyes and she seemed to share his sadness, to partake of his deep melancholy. 

“I’m not sure which hurt me the most. When my mom died, I was only seven but I understood the gist of what had happened. My mother had disappeared from my life and I would never see her. With my uncle Lev, I was already thirteen and I loved the man like a father. His death was gut-wrenching and brutal, completely unexpected. I felt a limitless anguish. Twice an orphan, I hated the universe and above all else I hated Joseph Stalin. Is he now going to make me an orphan a third time?”

Then Esteban broke into sobs. 

“I hate him! I hate him! Now he’s coming after my dedushka and there is nothing I can do about it.”     

“Why don’t you pray to God?” asked Zinaida in an effort to console him. 

“God?” echoed Esteban. “No one in my family has ever spoken to me about God. I think my grandfather is what people call an ethnic Jew, meaning he is Jewish by race and identity, but he doesn’t believe in the Jewish God.”

“So he’s an atheist? I find it hard to understand those who don’t believe in God. How could you not recognize the multiple blessings provided by Him?”

“Like my friendship with you?” 

“Yes, that’s right. That’s an example. Our true and simple friendship is a gift.”

“Do you think that if I pray hard enough God will protect my dedushka from Stalin’s assassins?”

“I can’t guarantee it. But what I can assure you of is that no matter what happens in your life if you place your trust in God He will get you through it.”

“Well, that’s not good enough!” Esteban exploded. And then he started to sob again. Zinaida wrapped her soft brown arms around him and let him cry. Esteban suddenly felt a frisson of excitement despite his desolation. He had never been so close to her physically and it was sheer delight.

* * *

“I have written a song about you,” said Esteban. “Nacho has been teaching me how to play the guitar.”

Nacho had shown Esteban how to strike a few melancholy chords but Esteban felt that such music would be utterly inappropriate in a song dedicated to Zinaida. She represented joy, love, companionship, and a song dedicated to her had to represent that joyous reality. So he took one of the celebratory poems he had written about her and put them to music. It was clearly the work of a neophyte but Esteban hoped that Zinaida would cherish it nonetheless. In Esteban’s song, he told Zinaida that he loved her. 

Zinaida was surprised, not so much for the sentiment but for the fact that Esteban had had the courage to express it. Esteban was awkward and shy and that made for a clumsy lover. But this time he acted boldly. After finishing the song, he looked at her fixedly in the eyes and asked if she would become his girlfriend.

“I don’t know, Esteban. Let’s take it slowly. You haven’t even met my family. And we’re so young.”

“So let me meet them,” replied Esteban. “As far as our age, what does it matter? Did you know Romeo and Juliet were just fourteen? And I heard the Zapotec people marry young at any event.”

“I want you to meet my mother. She always gives me the best advice. But be forewarned that even if I become your girlfriend we shall never be—what is the word?—intimate.”

“I don’t expect that,” he said to Zinaida. “I shall respect your chastity. I haven’t been with a woman myself. I know some of the other boys go to brothels with their older brothers, but I never have.”

“Good!” replied Zinaida. “Be prepared to meet la Señora Guadalupe de Ruiz, my mother and a fierce Zapotec.”

“You do love me, don’t you, Zinaida?”

“Slow down, slow down. Time will tell.”  

On the next Sunday, Esteban appeared at Señora Guadalupe’s small store next to the Plaza Centenario. The woman had white flour on her hands, as she had been making tortillas all morning. She was dressed in the typical raiment of the Zapotec: a skirt with plaid patterns wrapped around her torso, a red sash, a sleeveless tunic called a huipil, an embroidered apron, a shawl, and sandals. 

When Esteban first entered the tienda de abarrotes, she mistook him for a customer.

“How can I help you?” she asked. “What do you want to buy?”

“I’m not here to purchase anything. I need to talk to you about Zinaida. I was hoping you could call her so that she could be present during our conversation.”

“What do you have to do with Zinaida?”

“I think it would be best if you call her. She can explain everything to you better than I can.”

“Zinaida!” cried out la Señora Guadalupe. “There is somebody here to see you.”

“I guess you’ve already met,” said Zinaida when she appeared, “This is Esteban, the boy to whom I give math lessons every day.”

“I know about the classes, but what is he doing here?”

“Do you want to explain?” Zinaida asked Esteban.

Esteban hesitated.

“I’m here because I want to court your daughter. I don’t want to jump the gun, but once we finish at the academy, I’d like to ask you for her hand in marriage.”

“Ha!” laughed la Señora Guadalupe derisively. “A white boy like you only wants one thing from a woman like Zinaida. And I won’t have it.”

“But mother,” began Zinaida. 

 “The only thing you’ll get from this blue-eyed boy is a bloated belly. The white man has exploited the native women for centuries and that isn’t going to change any time soon. It has been that way from the beginning. Don’t forget the story of la Malinche, who fell in love with the conquistador Hernán Cortés. He took her as his own and when he was tired of her, he banished her from his sight. It’s no different with the white men of today.”  

“But I love him too,” Zinaida objected.

“Don’t press me,” said la Señora Guadalupe. “I am an Indian woman with a viper’s tongue. Stop thinking of this blonde-haired runt. Some day you’ll find a good Zapotec man with whom to raise a family.”

“I’m a proud Zapotec woman,” cried Zinaida, “but that shouldn’t affect whether or not I can love Esteban.”

“And one more thing,” said la Señora Guadalupe as she walked back to the supply room. “From now on, the math classes are over.”

* * *

Since there was no other place to meet, Esteban and Zinaida began to see each other every Saturday at the Plaza Centenario. There were benches everywhere, full of enamored couples holding hands and sometimes giving each other a furtive kiss. It was not a place with a lot of privacy for Esteban and Zinaida since a policeman now had to accompany Esteban every time he got out of the house. The old man had warned that Esteban might be kidnapped or killed by the Stalinists and so every precaution was necessary. Sergeant Jesús Rodríguez tried to accommodate Esteban as best he could, trying to allow the boy to enjoy his meetings with Zinaida, but the truth was Rodríguez could not venture far away. So it was very hard for the shy Esteban to muster the courage of even giving Zinaida a simple kiss, for he was constantly being spied upon by prying eyes.

One day, as soon as Esteban arrived at the bench where Zinaida was sitting in the plaza, he exploded in tears and confided to her that he was desperate. A tribunal in Moscow had found his grandfather guilty of attempting to assassinate Joseph Stalin and the court had issued a death sentence against him. 

“The news is all over Excelsior. I have brought the newspaper with me. The Stalinists say anybody in the world can mete out the punishment of death to my grandfather given his conviction for attempted assassination.”

“How can they find him guilty if he’s not even in Russia?”

“They’ve confessed! Zinaida, they’ve confessed! My grandfather’s former allies have confessed that they plotted the assassination of Stalin at my grandfather’s direction.”

Zinaida took him by the hand and pressed it to her lips.

“Stalin is thousands of kilometers away. He doesn’t have an army in Mexico. Just pray. Pray without cease.”

“Stalin has it out for my entire family. I haven’t bothered you with all the details but my half-sister Aleksandra has been rotting in prison for years and the children of my mother’s sister Nina have simply disappeared. My dedushka and I are all that remains of the family. Don’t be surprised if your beloved Esteban is also disappeared.”

It was then that Zinaida began to gently weep and pulled his face toward hers. They were both crying as they began to kiss.

“Oh, my Zinaida,” he cried out. “How I wish that you were all there is to life! No threats of assassination, no armed guards, no dictators issuing death sentences from afar.”

And then amid his crying, he kissed her hard. She didn’t resist and responded in kind, all the while feeling the hot tears running down their faces. It was the first time she had ever kissed a man and she suddenly felt a frisson of desire.

“We can’t even love each other in peace,” said Esteban with more anger than sorrow. “We need to have a guard watching us at all times. We must be afraid because Stalin can reach us even in the Plaza Centenario.” 

“Our love is stronger than his evil,” responded Zinaida. “And our love shall last, Esteban. The feelings we have for each other are only strengthened by adversity. I am going to give you a picture of me, which you can put on your nightstand. Whenever you feel afraid or dejected, think of me.” 

* * *

Esteban continued to see Zinaida every Saturday at the Plaza Centenario and that gave him a great solace. Next to his bed, on the nightstand, was a photograph encased in glass of Zinaida in Zapotec garb with her thick black braids. She had written something on the photograph which would give him peace on many restless nights. If you feel afraid or dejected, think of me. Every night, before turning on his pillow to fall asleep, he took the framed photograph and gave it a kiss. His veneration of Zinaida was the closest thing to a prayer in his life.

One hot summer night, Trotsky appeared in Esteban’s bedroom to have a talk. The first thing he did upon entering the room was to take the picture of Zinaida.

“She truly is a beautiful girl,” said Trotsky. “If I were young and unmarried, I would also fall in love with a Mexican woman. And I’m not talking of a society lady. Like you, I would seek an indigenous native.”

 “I love her with everything in me,” said Esteban. “It is only her existence in my life that makes it bearable. Zinaida’s love takes away the sting of fear.”

“Listen, I don’t want to be impertinent, but now you’ve been seeing each other for several months. I know the policeman is present at all times, but I was wondering whether you’ve found the place to take your relationship to the next level.”

“Are you asking me if we have sex?”

“In blunt terms, yes.”

“I’ve thought about it also, but I don’t want to force my wishes upon her. I think if I pushed her, she would do it. But I know that it would come at a price for her. She’s deeply Catholic and she’s a Zapotec. The Zapotecs are very rigid in sexual matters and the Catholic Church demands chastity before marriage for both men and women.”

“All right, then,” said Trotsky. “But if you ever feel like taking it to the next step, please make sure you’re protected.”

“What is it like?” inquired Esteban. “I mean—to make love to a woman?”

“I suppose for some men it’s no more than an animal act, a quick exchange of bodily fluids. That’s why some men pay for sex with prostitutes. But in my impression, sex without love will never satiate you. Whereas sex with a woman you love is one of the grand experiences of life.”

“Do you still have intimate relations with Natalia? Have you ever sought love elsewhere?” 

“Since I’m asking you about your own private life, I should talk about mine as well. The truth is Natalia and I have not shared a bed for years. And I have sought love in the arms of another woman. You know her very well. Her name is Frida Kahlo. We shared a brief romance, as fleeting as an adolescent passion.”

“An adolescent passion need not be fleeting,” Esteban objected. 

“You’re right,” replied Trotsky. “I didn’t mean to question your passion for Zinaida. But lifelong loves are rare indeed.”

“Why do you stay with Natalia if you don’t love her?”

“I didn’t say that I don’t love her. I said that I feel no sexual desire for her. But we share a deep bond which can only be called love. It is a stubborn bond which has allowed us to escape the ravening wolf for years, always at each others’ side. It is a bond which was only strengthened as we learned our two sons had been devoured by the wolf. It is a bond that has deepened as we sought refuge from Istanbul to Oslo, from Paris to Mexico City, all in an effort to flee the wolf. There is no woman in the world that I love as much as Natalia, for she alone has helped me to survive and given me the strength not to give up. No matter what threats come from the wolf, Natalia is always with me, ready to sacrifice her life. How could I not love her?” 

 “The wolf?” echoed Esteban. “You’re talking about Joseph Stalin.”

“Yes, for some reason that vile man has had an outsized role in my life. We’re talking about twenty-five years of relentless persecution. And on some desperate nights, Natalia was the only light that shone in the deepest darkness.”

“During such dark nights, did you ever seek refuge in God? Zinaida has told me that in the Bible God tells people constantly not to fear.”

“I believe atheism is the only scientific truth so I never pray. I remain opposed to religious propaganda and agitation. In my youth, I participated in the persecution of certain Orthodox Christian priests and bishops. Many religious were killed by the Bolsheviks and I tended to look the other way.”
“Are you telling me you were like Stalin, that you engaged in purges of Christians too?”

“I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this. You’re going to think your grandfather has feet of clay. I should tell you that now I believe in some moderation in terms of how Communist regimes should treat religious persons.”

“That makes me wonder,” said Esteban, “whether what Stalin says about you might be true. I know you detest the man given all he has done to our family. Tell me the truth, dedushka. Did you order his assassination? Was his death verdict against you justified?”

“I think the assassination of Stalin would be moral and principled, just like it was necessary to eliminate Tsar Nicholas II and his family. You have to understand all I did was in the context of a war for the people.”

“Then how are you different from Joseph Stalin?”

“If I ever consented to violence, it was always in defense of the proletariat. Stalin, on the other hand, kills to preserve his own power.” 

“I’m going to start going to Mass,” said Esteban. “After losing so much to Stalin’s death squads—the loss of my father and mother, the death of my grandmother and uncle Lev—I can never accept violence as a political weapon.”

“So you don’t think Stalin’s death would be a boon to humanity?” 

“So you’re not denying it. You’re not saying you weren’t involved in a plot against the man. That’s one more reason for me to seek solace in prayer.”

“All the confessions incriminating me were obtained through torture. I never plotted his murder though perhaps I should have. As far as going to Mass, you’re free to do what you will. You’re no longer a child and I won’t get in your way. But don’t blind yourself to the gross inequities of Mexican society. I have spent my life fighting against such injustice. That is my simple apologia.”

Esteban never knew for sure whether or not his dedushka had plotted the death of Joseph Stalin. 

* * *

One night, after playing a game of chess with his grandfather, Esteban decided to retire early. As always, before he went to bed he took Zinaida’s photograph and kissed it gently. He read its inscription, If you feel afraid or dejected, think of me. Having read it, he felt he could sleep without worry, but not without first saying a prayer to La Guadalupana. Zinaida had given him a small statuette of the Virgin of Guadalupe, the protector of all Mexicans, and had told him she could be his adoptive mother. Nobody can be a true Mexican, she had stated, if he does not believe in Our Lady of Guadalupe. That night, for some reason, he felt he had to pray the entire Rosary.

 At some point in the night (he guessed it must have been around four o’clock in the morning) Esteban was suddenly awakened by a volley of machine gun fire. At first, still groggy, he thought it was the sound of distant firecrackers but soon he realized it was Stalin’s assassins finally making their long-feared attack. Knowing the attackers could easily enter his room, Esteban had the presence of mind to unplug the lamp next to his bed. Then he threw himself on the floor and managed to hide beneath the bed. At some point a man entered and began to fire indiscriminately while Esteban prayed for his life and that of his grandfather and Natalia.

Esteban felt the shots fired into his bed, at least fifty of them, and suddenly he realized he had been shot. Two incendiary bombs then exploded and the floor, the door and a small cabinet were left burning. Esteban was certain that his attacker thought he had been killed and so left the room without further incident. Esteban’s left foot was bleeding profusely and he wondered whether he might bleed to death. But he had to stay hidden, for the machine gun volley did not stop. Esteban guessed that the attackers were trying to shoot their way into Trotsky’s room, which was always locked during the night. “Virgin of Guadalupe,” he prayed silently, “please preserve the life of the old man and Natalia too.” Esteban didn’t see any possibility that his grandfather could live through such a barrage, not with all the weapons the Stalinists had apparently brought with them. And yet he thought, against all probability, that perhaps his dedushka could survive.

The machine gun fire ceased after a period of thirty minutes, although to Esteban it seemed like it had lasted for hours. He didn’t move from his place under the bed until he heard familiar voices, that of Trotsky’s bodyguards Otto and Charles, and knew the worst was over. He rose from the floor and plugged in the lamp next to his bed to find his room in ruins. The bombs had singed his wooden desk as well as his nightstand and the clothes in his closet. It was clear that their failed purpose had been to burn down the entire house. The photograph of Zinaida had been shattered by machine gun fire and the only thing left were the words think of me. Once he figured out Otto and Charles were in charge of the situation, he ventured timidly outside. He was terrified by the thought he would find his dedushka dead but was overjoyed when he heard the old man’s gravelly voice giving instructions to his guards. Then he realized the old man had been looking for him too. 

“Seva!” cried out Trotsky. “I looked into your room and couldn’t see you there. I was sure the Stalinists had taken you as a hostage or had killed you.”

“I was hiding under my bed,” explained Esteban before he hugged his grandfather and began to weep. “I was also so afraid—so certain—that you were dead. How could you have lived through such an attack?”

“What is the Mexican saying?” the old man laughed. “Old weeds never die!” 

“Mala hierba nunca muere,” repeated Esteban in a triumphant voice.

“Uno muere en el día y no en la víspera,” said Trotsky, repeating another old Mexican proverb. One dies on the day and not the night before.

The Stalinists hadn’t been able to kill their target because they were shooting through a locked door and their three-hundred bullets missed their mark. Esteban attributed the miracle to la Guadalupana’s intercession.

* * *

Zinaida—his rock, his fortress—appeared at the house on the Avenida Viena around nine o’clock in the morning. Her mother had objected, but she didn’t want Esteban to face his perils alone. The news had been all over the morning papers as well as on the radio: attack on Trotsky’s Coyoacan estate, one person kidnapped. The newspapers didn’t say who was kidnapped and Zinaida feared the worst. So when her mother Guadalupe blocked the front door to prevent her exit, she rushed to a window and escaped. A half hour later, Esteban was crying tears of joy in Zinaida’s arms. 

By then, what had happened the prior night was becoming clearer. The five policemen had been asleep and had promptly been tied up by the small Stalinist platoon. Bobby—Robert Sheldon Harte—had let them enter the house and then disappeared with them once the deed was done. The old man staunchly refused to believe Bobby was a spy who had collaborated with the enemy, but Esteban wasn’t so sure. Through so many years of fleeing Stalin, Esteban had learned to trust no one (no one, that is, except Zinaida) and he put nothing beyond the Soviet wolf. What better way to breach a fortress than to have someone inside? His grandfather had to be even more cautious than he already was. Stalin would not give up because of a single failed episode. Esteban, despite the giddiness of having survived such an attack, was sure the next time would be worse.

By the time Zinaida arrived, there were about thirty persons at the house on the Avenida Viena: bodyguards, police detectives, secretaries, and one member of the press who was Trotsky’s longtime friend. The man was a fierce Trotskyite and directed a newspaper well-known for its diatribes against Joseph Stalin. For the moment, the policeman in charge, a certain General Leandro Sánchez Salazar, had decreed that no other reporters should be allowed inside the house. Trotsky was allowed to have one journalist present in order to offset the rumors already being spread by the Communist press that the attack was a put-on job orchestrated by Trotsky himself. When Esteban told Zinaida the story upon arriving, she simply laughed. 

“Yeah,” said Zinaida derisively. “Leon Trotsky tried to assassinate himself.”

Then Esteban pointed to his bandaged foot. 

“And he tried to kill his grandson in the process. It’s laughable, but it will be eaten up by the Communist press and the stalwart Stalinists. Their monster god can do no wrong.”

“Well,” said Zinaida, “maybe it’s time for a little Sazón Oaxaqueña. The food of Oaxaca is the best in all of Mexico. We’ll feed all your hungry guests. After all, today is a day of celebration. We can celebrate the defeat of Joseph Stalin.”

“Not a defeat,” replied Esteban. “At most, a reprieve.”

“Don’t think that way. Delight in the fact that a great calamity has been avoided.”

“You don’t understand Stalin. He’s been trailing my family ever since I was born. The worldwide press is going to report on the raid as a failure, laughing at the gang who couldn’t shoot straight. That will infuriate Stalin. He’s not the type to let it go. He will redouble his efforts to kill my grandfather. Don’t doubt it for a minute.” 

“Don’t worry about tomorrow, for today has enough troubles of its own. That comes from the Gospel so let it sink in. The same everlasting God who cared for you yesterday shall take care of you tomorrow and every day. You can’t spend your whole life worrying all the time.”

“And what would you tell me, my dear Zinaida, if it had gone the other way? What if God hadn’t intervened? What if my grandfather had been killed just like my mother and my uncle Lev?”

“I would tell you that everything in life, the triumphs as well as the disasters, are all an invitation to God’s grace. Instead of thanking God for what He did for you last night, you’re worrying about future events which may or may not happen.”

“If my grandfather had been assassinated yesterday, I’m not quite sure my faith would be as strong as it is today. My newfound faith has not been tested.”

After the dinner was over, around ten in the evening, Otto the bodyguard drove Zinaida to her home, with Esteban sitting in the back. They found Zinaida’s furious mother sitting on the front porch.

“¡Hija malnacida!” she cried out. “I’m going to send you to Oaxaca so you can never again see your blonde enamorado!”

* * *

Early, before class, Esteban went to the pharmacy on Avenida Buenos Aires and timidly asked for a prophylactic. He didn’t use the word “condom,” for he was too embarrassed. The woman at the counter noticed his nervousness and laughed, saying, “I hope you enjoy it in good company.” 

Esteban had finally made the decision to bed Zinaida, although he wasn’t quite sure she would consent. But after her mother had told her she would be banished to Oaxaca, Zinaida had become bolder and bolder. She openly defied her mother and spent the hours after class walking hand-in-hand with Esteban on the cobblestone streets of Coyoacan. Esteban was sure that Zinaida felt the same passion for him that he felt for her and couldn’t think of any reason why they should not consummate their love. 

He decided to invite her to his home in order to play a game of chess. Zinaida was the better player, but she always used the Ruy López opening and Esteban was beginning to figure out how to counter it. They had spent many afternoons in his bedroom practicing chess moves they each studied in books or, in the case of Esteban, moves taught to him by his grandfather. Esteban had never used those chess games as an opportunity to seduce her, even though they were alone in his locked room for hours, but now felt it was the right time for the bullfighter’s estocada. He didn’t think sex with Zinaida would be something dirty and shameful, but rather a profound expression of their love. And if they were going to be separated forever, all the more reason not to hesitate. 

When they arrived at his home on Vienna Street, however, all thoughts of lovemaking quickly disappeared. It was sheer pandemonium. There were four police cars in front of the home, their sirens blasting, and police motorcycles everywhere. A military truck was parked close to the front door and a Green Cross ambulance not much farther. There were huge crowds trying to get inside, including reporters with their film crews as well as curious bystanders. Esteban didn’t need to ask anyone what was going on. “They got to the old man!” he cried out in pain as Zinaida clutched his hand. So they made their way through the crowds with difficulty, at times having to shove their way through until they reached Otto at the front door who let them in. Inside there was a crowd of people loudly speaking and Esteban realized most of the noise came from his grandfather’s study. He and Zinaida went to the study and she made a quick sign of the cross upon seeing the state of the old man. Trotsky was being held up by his shoulders by two bodyguards, his entire face and chest covered in blood. He cried out, “Don’t let Esteban see me!” But Esteban had already seen him and exploded in desperation. “No, don’t die, my dedushka! Please don’t die!” Although he was still standing, it was obvious that someone had plunged a knife into his head.

The two bodyguards holding Trotsky, Charles and Joe, were about to put the old man in a stretcher, but before they could do so Esteban rushed to hug the old man. It was impossible for the fifteen-year-old to hold back his tears. The old man tried to be stoic in front of his grandson and even joked, “I guess I needed a haircut, didn’t I?” But there was nothing funny about the situation. Seeing all of his grandfather’s American guards in the study, Esteban wondered how such a monstrosity could have happened. Then he saw Trotsky’s assailant on the floor, with Harold with his knee on the neck of the assassin and Hansen holding down his legs. It was clear that the attacker—Esteban recognized him as Frank Jacson, a frequent visitor to the home—was also in danger of losing his life. Trotsky’s bodyguards had furiously attacked him and he could soon suffocate as a result of Harold’s knee. The old man managed to cry out, once he was already on the stretcher, “Don’t kill him! That’s what Stalin wants. We need him alive to prove this was the work of the Soviet NKVD.” 

As Trotsky was being carried to the ambulance that would take him to the hospital, Esteban managed to say a few parting words to his grandfather.

“Pray!” commanded the adolescent. “Pray with all your heart!”

The old man responded, still with a powerful, defiant voice. “You pray for me, Esteban. You’re so much closer to God than I am.”

At the time of his dedushka’s death, Esteban temporarily reneged of God. The old man had lived for twenty-four hours after the assassin’s attack and the teenager had held out hope for a miracle. When it didn’t happen, he buried himself in Zinaida’s chest and told her Stalin was mightier than God Himself. Despite Esteban’s prayers, Stalin’s long arm had still managed to kill his grandfather in a country so far away from Moscow. What benefit, then, was there in prayer? If he had to face life completely alone as a result of the orders of a distant madman, why pray at all?

“But you’re not completely alone,” Zinaida had gently scolded the inconsolable Esteban. “Don’t you remember?  If you feel afraid or dejected, think of me. The Lord has put me in your life for a purpose. I am here to suffer with you, to alleviate your suffering. Our love is a manifestation of God’s grace, a miracle not everyone is given.”

“You’re leaving too. Your mother is taking you to Oaxaca.”

“Oaxaca is a lot closer than Moscow. If an act of hatred can cross ten thousand kilometers, don’t you think our love can survive a distance of a mere three-hundred-and-fifty? You can take a bus and see me in five hours. Or you can fly to Oaxaca and arrive in an hour. And you can always write. Believe me, Esteban, I will not forget you. Just keep praying that the day will come when we can be together.”  

* * *

Near midnight, still awake, Esteban and Zinaida continued to bask in each other’s beauty. His left arm was beneath her flowing hair, now no longer in braids, and his right arm embraced her waist. The choice fruits which he had never touched were now sweets to his palate. The years of mourning were long gone and the time of lovemaking and singing had arrived, a return to the days of the wedding at Cana. 

It was the night of the happiness of their hearts, when Esteban could finally say to Zinaida’s mother, “See, I didn’t mean to deceive. You tore us apart for years, hiding her in Oaxaca, but my letters never ceased nor did my fidelity to your daughter.” The day of their marriage had been long and he was tired, but he didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to place his head between Zinaida’s breasts, two fawns, twins of a doe. He wanted to remain inside her heart and her body forever. Yes, her body was no longer forbidden, for their union had been sanctified by God. In the silence, Esteban thanked the Christ for their love with irrepressible gratitude. It was a singular gift from the Lord and Esteban did not forget it. 

“I wish my grandfather had been at the wedding,” said Esteban as he sat upright on the bed. “You know he loved you. He loved everything Mexican.”

“Then our firstborn shall be named Leon,” said Zinaida. “Every time you call your son, you shall be reminded of the old man. And he shall be in your heart forever, not the grand Communist philosopher but the old man tending to his rabbits and teaching you how to play chess on sunny afternoons.”

Zinaida fell asleep in Esteban’s arms and Esteban looked at her sleeping body with passion and delight.

About the author

Sandro Francisco Piedrahita is a writer of Ecuadorian and Peruvian descent, with a degree in Comparative Literature from Yale College. His stories usually revolve around Latin American mythical or historic themes. Mr. Piedrahita's work has been accepted for publication  by The Acentos Review, The Ganga Review, Carmina Magazine, Hive Avenue Literary Journal, Faultline Journal, Synchronized Chaos, Peauxdunque Review, The Write Launch, Limit Experience Journal and Foreshadow Magazine. 

About the illustration

The illustration is "Leon Trotsky on a cactus hunt, winter 1939-1940." Provenance unknown.