I will quote in full my wife’s account of the exile to Central Asia:

“January 16, 1928; packing all morning. I have a temperature; my head is going round with fever and weakness in the midst of the things that have just been brought over from the Kremlin, and the things that are being packed to go with us. A medley of furniture, boxes, linen, books and endless visitors — friends coming to say good-by. F.A. Guetier, our doctor and friend, was naively advising us to put off the departure because of my cold. He did not realize what our journey meant, and what it would mean to postpone it now. We hoped that I would improve more readily on the train, because at home, under the conditions of the ‘last days’ before we left, there was little chance of an early recovery. New faces kept flashing before our eyes, many of whom I was seeing for the first time. Embraces, hand shaking, expressions of sympathy and good wishes.

“The chaos is being increased by people bringing flowers, books, candy, warm clothing, etc. The last day of bustle, strain, and excitement is nearing its end. The things have been taken to the station. Our friends have gone there too. We are sitting — the entire family — in the dining-room, ready to leave, waiting for the agents of the GPU. We watch the time; nine o’clock, half past . . . No one comes. Ten o’clock — the hour of the train’s departure. What has happened? Rescinded? The telephone rings. The GPU informs us that our departure has been put off, for reasons not stated. For how long? asks L.D. For two days, comes the answer — you will have to leave the day after tomorrow.

“Half an hour later friends from the station rushed in — first young people, then Rakovsky and others. There had been a tremendous demonstration at the station. People waited, shouting ‘Long live Trotsky.’ But Trotsky was nowhere to be seen. Where was he? Around the car reserved for us, there was a stormy crowd. Young friends set up a large portrait of L.D. on the roof of the car. It was greeted with jubilant ‘hurrahs.’ The train started, first one jerk, than another; it moved forward a little and then stopped suddenly. The demonstrants had run in front of the engine; they clung to the cars and stopped the train, demanding Trotsky. A rumor had run through the crowd that the GPU agents had conducted L.D. secretly into the car and were preventing him from showing himself to those who had come to see him off. The excitement at the station was indescribable. There were clashes with the police and the agents of the GPU, with casualties on both sides. Arrests were made. The train was detained for about an hour and a half. Some time later our baggage came back from the station. For a long time after ward, friends kept telephoning to find out if we were at home and to tell us what had happened at the station. It was long after midnight when we went to bed.

“After the worries of the last few days, we slept until eleven the next day. There were no telephone calls. Everything was quiet. The wife of our older boy went to her work, — there were still two days ahead of us. But we had hardly finished breakfast when the bell rang; it was Byeloborodov’s wife; next came Joffe’s wife. Another ring — and the whole apartment filled with agents of the GPU in civilian clothes and uniforms. An order was handed to L.D. declaring him under arrest for immediate conveyance under escort to Alma-Ata. And the two days of which the GPU had spoken the day before? Another deception — a ruse to avoid a new demonstration at the send-off. The telephone rang continually, but an agent stood beside it and good-humoredly prevented us from answering. It was only by chance that we managed to let Byeloborodov know that our house had been occupied and that we were being carried away by force. Later on, we were informed that the ?political direction’ of the send-off had been Bukharin’s. This was quite in the spirit of the Stalin machinations.

“The agents were noticeably excited. L.D. refused to leave of his own accord. He took advantage of the occasion to make the situation perfectly. clear. The Politbureau was trying to make his exile, as well as that of at least the most prominent oppositionists, seem like a voluntary affair. It was in this light that the exile was being represented to the workers. Now it was necessary to explode this legend, and to show the reality in such a way that the facts could be neither suppressed nor distorted.

“Hence L.D.’s decision to compel his opponents to an open use of force. We locked ourselves in one of the rooms with our two guests. Parleys with the agents of the GPU were carried on through locked doors. The agents did not know what to do; they hesitated, consulted with their chiefs by telephone, and when they had received instructions, announced that they were going to force the door, since they must carry out their orders. Meantime, L.D. was dictating instructions for the future conduct of the opposition. The door remained locked. We heard a hammer-blow, the glass crashed, and a uniformed arm was thrust inside. ‘Shoot me, Comrade Trotsky, shoot me,’ Kishkin, a former officer who had often accompanied L.D. on his trips to the front, kept saying excitedly. ‘Don’t talk nonsense, Kishkin,’ L.D. replied calmly. ‘No one is going to shoot you. Go ahead with your job.’ The agents opened the door and entered the room confused and agitated. Seeing L D. in his slippers, they found his shoes and put them on him. Then they found his fur coat and cap and put them on him. L.D. refused to go. They lifted him in their arms and started away. We hurried after. I slipped on my snow-boots and my fur coat . . . The door slammed be hind me. On the other side of it, I heard a commotion. I shouted to the men who were carrying L.D. down the stairs and demanded that they let out my sons, the elder of whom was to accompany us into exile. The door was flung open, and my sons burst out, followed by our women guests, Byeloborodova and Joffe. They all forced their way through with the aid of athletic measures on Seryozha’s part. On the way down the stairs, Lyova rang all the door-bells, shouting: ‘They’re carrying Comrade Trotsky away’ Frightened faces flashed by us at the doors and on the staircase; in this house, only prominent Soviet workers were living. We were all crammed into one automobile; Seryozha could hardly get his legs in. Byeloborodova was also with us.

“We drove along the streets of Moscow. It was freezing cold. Seryozha had no cap; he had not had time to take it; everybody was without galoshes and gloves; there was not a travelling-bag among us, not even a hand-bag, and we were all empty-handed. We were not being taken to the Kazan station, but in another direction — as it developed, to the Yaroslav station. Seryozha made an attempt to jump out of the automobile, intending to run into the place where his brother’s wife was working and tell her that we were being taken away. The agents seized his arms and appealed to L.D. to persuade him not to jump out of the automobile. We arrived at the empty station. The agents bore L.D. in their arms, as they had from the house. Lyova shouted to various railway-workers: ’Comrades, see how they are carrying Comrade Trotsky away!’ An agent of the GPU who had at one time accompanied L. D. on hunting trips caught him by the collar. ‘You wriggler!’ he exclaimed insolently. Seryozha answered him with a trained athlete’s blow in the face. We were in the car. The men of the escort were at the windows and doors of our compartment. The other compartments were occupied by the agents of the GPU. Where were we going? We didn’t know. Our baggage had not been brought in when the locomotive started off with our solitary car. It was two o’clock in the afternoon. We found that we were going by a circuitous route to a small station where our car was to be attached to the mail-train that had left Moscow from the Kazan station for Tashkent. At five o’clock, we said good-by to Seryozha and Byeloborodova, who had to return to Moscow.

“We continued on our way. I had a fever. L.D. was brisk and almost gay. The situation had taken definite shape; the general atmosphere had cleared. The escort was considerate and civil. We were told that our baggage was coming by the next train, and that it would overtake us at Frunze (the end of our journey by rail) — that is, on the ninth day. We had no change of linen, and no books. And with what love and care Syermuks and Poznansky had packed those books, sorting them so care fully — these for the journey, and those for early studies! And with what solicitude Syermuks, who knew L.D.’s tastes and habits so well, had packed his writing materials. He had made so many trips with L.D. during the revolution in the capacity of stenographer and secretary. L.D. always worked with triple energy while he was travelling, taking advantage of the absence of telephone and visitors, and the chief burden of this work fell first on Glazman and later on Syermuks. And now we found ourselves launched on a long journey without a single book, pencil, or sheet of paper. Before we left Moscow, Seryozha had got us Semyonov-Tyanshansky’s book on Turkestan, a scientific work, and we were planning to acquaint ourselves while on the train with our future place of residence, of which we had but a vague conception. But Semyonov-Tyanshansky remained in the travelling-bag along with the rest of the luggage in Moscow. We sat in the car empty-handed, as if we were driving from one part of the city to another. In the evening, we stretched out on the benches and leaned our heads against the elbow rests. A sentry stood on duty at the half-opened door of the compartment.

“What was in store for us? What would our journey be like? And the exile? What would our condition be there? The start had not been very promising. Nevertheless we were calm. The car rolled along smoothiy. We lay stretched on the benches. The half-opened door reminded us that we were prisoners. We were tired out by the surprises, uncertainties and the tension of those last days, and now we were resting. Everything was quiet; the guard was silent. I was a little indisposed. L.D. tried every thing he could think of to make things easier for me, but he had nothing but his gay and tender mood to transmit to me. We had stopped being aware of our surroundings and were enjoying the rest. Lyova was in the adjoining compartment. In Moscow, he had been completely absorbed in the work of the opposition; now he was accompanying us into exile to lighten our lot — he had not even had time to say good-by to his wife. From that moment, he became our only means of contact with the outside world. It was almost dark in the car; the candies were burning dimly over the door. We were moving steadily eastward.

“The farther we left Moscow behind, the more considerate the escort became. At Samara they bought us a change of under wear, soap, tooth-powder, brushes, etc. Our meals and the escort’s camp from the station-restaurants. L.D., who was always obliged to follow a strict diet, now gaily ate everything that was served and kept cheering Lyova and me. I watched him with astonishment and apprehension. The things they bought for us in Samara were given special names — the towel was named ’Menzhinsky 1 the socks, ’Yagoda’ (Menzhinsky’s deputy) and so forth. Articles by such names were much gayer. The progress of the train was considerably delayed by snowdrifts. But every day we went deeper into Asia.

“Before he left Moscow, L.D. had asked for his two old assistants, but his request was refused. And so Syermuks and Poznansky decided to make the trip independently, travelling in the same train with us. At the false start, they took seats in an other car, saw the demonstration, but did not leave their seats, thinking that we were on the same train. A little later they discovered our absence, left the train at Arys, and waited for us to come on the next train. It was there we found them. Lyova, who was allowed a certain freedom, was the only one who saw them, but it made us all very happy. Here is my son’s account, written at the time:

“’In the morning I set out for the station on the chance that I might find the comrades whose fate we had constantly been talking and worrying about. And I did; there the two of them were, sitting at a table in the buffet and playing chess. It would be hard to describe my joy. I made signs to them not to come near me; my appearance in the buffet, as usual, had increased the activity of the agents. I hastened to the car to tell of my discovery. There was general rejoicing. Even L.D. found it hard to be cross with them, although they had disobeyed instructions, and instead of continuing their journey were waiting there in the face of everyone — an unnecessary risk. After talking the matter over with L.D., I wrote a note which I intended to hand to them after dark. The instructions were as follows: Poznansky was to separate from us and proceed immediately to Tashkent, and wait there for a summons. Syermuks was to go to Alma-Ata without meeting us. I managed in passing to tell Syermuks to meet me behind the station in an inconspicuous corner where there were no lamps. Poznansky came there; at first we couldn’t find each other, and began to get disturbed; when we did meet we talked rapidly, continually interrupting each other. I said to him: “Smashed the doors, carried out in arms I” He did not understand who did the smashing or the reason for the carrying. There was no time to explain; we were fearful of discovery. The meeting yielded no results.’

“After my son’s discovery at Arys, we went on our way feeling that we had a trusted friend on the train with us. It made us very happy. On the tenth day we received our baggage, and rushed to get at Semyonov-Tyanshansky. We read about the natural features, the population, the apple orchards; best of all, we found that the hunting was good. L.D. opened with delight the writing materials that Syermuks had packed. We arrived at Frunze (Pishpek) early in the morning. It was the last railway station. There was a biting frost. The sun’s rays pouring on the clean white snow blinded us. We were given felt boots and sheepskins. I could hardly breathe for the weight of my clothes, and yet it was cold on the road. The autobus moved slowly over the creaking snow packed down by vehicles; the wind lashed our faces. After making thirty kilometres, we stopped. It was dark; we seemed to be in the midst of a snow-covered desert. Two of the guards (the escort comprised from twelve to fifteen men) came up and told us with some embarrassment that the sleeping quarters were not very good. We got out of the bus with a little difficulty, and after groping about in the dark for the doorstep and the low door of the mail-station, walked inside and shed our sheepskins with relief. But the hut was cold, not having been heated. The tiny windows were frosted right through. In the corner there was a huge Russian stove, but alas! as cold as ice. We warmed ourselves with tea and ate something. We got into conversation with the hostess at the post, a Cossack woman. L.D. asked her many questions about her life and also about the hunting. Everything stirred our curiosity; the outstanding thing was that we didn’t know how it all would end. We began to get ready for the night. The guards had found shelter in the neighborhood. Lyova lay on a bench, L.D. and I on a big table on top of the sheepskins. When finally we all were lying quietly in a cold room with a low ceiling, I burst out laughing. ’Quite unlike the apartment in the Kremlin l’ I said. L.D. and Lyova laughed with me.

“At dawn, we set off again. Before us lay the most difficult part of the journey. We crossed the Kurday mountain range. Bitter cold. The weight of the clothes was unbearable — it was as if a wall had fallen down on one. At the next stop, for tea, we talked with the chauffeur and with the agent of the GPU who had come from Alma-Ata to meet us. Gradually the strange, unknown life ahead was being disclosed to us. The road was difficult for the automobile; snow had drifted over the glassy surface. The chauffeur handled the machine expertly; he knew the peculiarities of the road well, and kept himself warm with vodka. Toward night the frost grew sharper and sharper. Well aware that in this desert of snow everything depended on him, the chauffeur relieved his feelings by a most unceremonious criticism of the authorities and their general methods. The Alma-Ata representative, who was sitting beside him, spoke to him appeasingly — anything to get home safely! In the third hour after midnight, the car stopped in utter darkness. We had arrived. But where? We learned that it was Gogol Street, in front of the Hotel Dzhetysa — a hostelry unquestionably dating from Gogol’s time. We were given two little rooms. The adjoining rooms were taken by the escort and the local agents of the GPU Lyova checked up on our baggage — two cases of underwear and books were missing, lost somewhere in the snow. Alas! we were again without Semyonov-Tyanshansky, gone were L. .’s maps and books about China and India; gone were the writing materials. Fifteen pairs of eyes — and yet they failed to look after the luggage properly!

“In the morning, Lyova went out to reconnoitre. He became acquainted with the town, first of all with the post-and-telegraph office, which was to be the centre of our life. He found a chemist’s shop, too, and searched tirelessly for all the needed articles — pens, pencils, bread, butter, and candles . . . For the first few days, L.D. and I never left our room. Later on we began to go out for short walks in the evening. All our connections with the outside world were though our son.

“Dinner was brought in from an eating-place nearby. Lyova was busy all day long. We waited impatiently for him. He brought us papers and various bits of information about the people and the life of the town. We were anxious to know if Syermuks had reached Alma-Ata. Suddenly, on the morning of our fourth day there, we heard the familiar voice in the corridor. How dear it was to us! We listened tensely from behind the door to Syermuks’ words and footsteps. His coming opened new prospects before us. Syermuks was given a room just opposite ours. I stepped out into the corridor; he bowed to me from a distance. We still could not risk entering into conversation with him, but we rejoiced silently in his nearness. The next day, we stealthily let him into our room, told him hastily what had happened, and planned for our joint future. But that future proved to be very brief. That very night, at ten o’clock, came the finish. The hotel was quiet. L.D. and I were sitting in our room, with the door half open on the cold corridor because the iron stove made the room unbearably hot. Lyova was in his room. We heard the soft, cautious padding of felt boots in the hall, and listened intently.

(Lyova, as we learned later, was also listening; he had guessed what was happening.) They have come, flashed through our minds. We could hear some one enter Syermuks’ room without knocking, and say, “Hurry up, now!” and then Syermuks’ reply:

“May I at least put the felt boots on?” — evidently he was in his slippers. Again the soft, almost noiseless steps and then deep silence. Later the doorman came and locked Syermuks’ room. We never saw him again. He was kept on starvation rations for a few weeks in the basement of the GPU in Alma-Ata together with the criminals, and then was sent to Moscow with a daily allowance of 25 kopecks, which was not even enough to buy bread. Poznansky, as we learned later, was arrested at the same time in Tashkent and taken to Moscow. About three months later, we got news from them from their places of exile. By some happy chance, when they were being taken to the East, they were put in the same railway carriage in seats facing each other. Separated for a time, they met thus only to be separated again; they were exiled to different places.

“And so L.D. found himself without his assistants. His opponents revenged themselves on them for their faithful service with L.D. to the revolution. The gentle, modest Glazman had been driven to suicide as early as 1924. Syermuks and Poznansky were sent into exile. Butov, the quiet industrious Butov, was arrested, pressed for false evidence, and driven to a hunger-strike that ended in his death in the prison hospital. Thus was the ’secretariat’ which L.D. ’s enemies regarded with mystic hatred as the source of all evil finally wiped out. The enemies now considered L.D. completely disarmed in the far-away Alma-Ata. Voroshilov openly gloated: ’Even if he dies there, we won’t hear of it soon.’ But L.D. was not disarmed. We formed a co-operative of three. The work of establishing contact with the outside world fell on our son’s shoulders. He was in charge of the correspondence. L.D. sometimes called him minister of foreign affairs, and sometimes minister of posts and telegraph. Our correspondence soon grew to a huge volume, and the burden of it was Lyova’s. He was bodyguard as well. He also found for L.D. the material for his literary work, searched the bookshelves of the library, secured back numbers of newspapers, and copied excerpts. He conducted all negotiations with the local authorities, organized the hunting trips, took care of the dog and the guns.

“And on top of all that, he studied economic geography and languages assiduously.

“A few weeks after our arrival, L.D.’s scientific and political work was already in full swing. Later on, Lyova found a girl typist. The GPU did not molest her, but they evidently compelled her to report everything that she typed for us. It would have been amusing to hear the report of this young girl, so little experienced in the struggle against Trotskyism.

“A fine thing in Alma-Ata was the snow, white, clean, and dry. As there was very little walking or driving, it kept its freshness all winter long. In the spring, it yielded to red poppies. Such a lot of them — like gigantic carpets! The steppes glowed red for miles around. In the summer there were apples — the famous Alma-Ata variety, huge and also red. The town had no central waterworks, no lights, and no paved roads. In the bazaar in the centre of the town, the Kirghizes sat in the mud at the doorsteps of the............