Bear with the history nerd. l l Trotsky’s home, Prince’s Island: Lev Davidovich Bronstein wasn’t a particularly good man. In Mexico, he cheated on his wife with Frida Kahlo, painter and wife of his savior and friend, Diego Rivera. For that, he lost a buddy and gained an archenemy. Lev was also not a very good father. But he was devoted to one thing: world socialist revolution. No one is surprised that an oldish man who spent a third of his life in exile being chased by KGB killers has high blood pressure, right? If you are, you wouldn’t be if you knew he survived several assassination attempts, dodging a few hundred semi-automatic rounds when 20 killers opened fire at his bedroom window with Thompson sub-machine guns. He lived for his dream of a socialist world, and to spite Stalin besides. Before the old man finally died in Mexico City with an ice axe in the back of his head, placed there by his trusted friend who turned out to be Stalin’s bff, Lev lived in Turkey. He spent four years of exile in a beautiful house overlooking the Marmara Sea on Prince’s Island, a short boat ride from Istanbul. It is a bit hard to find, down a street that seemed to end prematurely with a patch of wilderness. A white cat wearing brown pants was the only occupant out and about on Hamlaci Sokagi (street). I would soon find the other cat, his or her brother or mother or spouse, sleeping cozily in the middle of Lev’s living room. I had to push myself over a wall to get to the ruins of the old Bolshevik’s house. But the wall was short and even had footholds cut out in between bricks. I swiftly decided that it was meant to be climbed. The soil on the other side is soft to the touch. A guardhouse stood to my right, empty I hope. The house is very spacious, like a giant box without a lid. The bedroom appears to be inaccessible; the basement half buried; the kitchen functional and sunny. The wooden stairs must have rotted away, unless the Bronsteins were extremely fond of climbing ladders. Overall, it needs a paintjob, some stairs, two floors, and three ceilings. Could be done without a doubt, with Lev’s dedication. Only one way is clear of debris: straight across the living room, through a pair of rusty iron doors there lay the ocean. How strange, the founder of the Red Army once stood on this balcony, looking at the same stuff. Was he thinking of punching Stalin in the mustache or what to grow in his less overgrown garden? Someone has been planting roses below the balcony. They are just starting to sprout. A skinny path shaded by grape vines and tall trees leads down to a private dock. Maybe he had a small boat. Maybe he liked to swim. One of the trees had big, green plums that were so sour I feared my teeth would pop out. The floor creaked behind me. I dare not go further. I turn around and find the cat, the not white one, slipping through a window just out of sight. Near the wall, I find my pa. He took my victory photo, I climbed back over, and we returned to the busy island street, away from the struggles of Lev Davidovich Bronstein, a.k.a. Leon Trotsky.
Posted on: Thu, 28 Aug 2014 05:05:15 +0000
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