(2 of 4)
Jackson asked Trotsky for criticism of a manuscript. Amiable Host Trotsky invited him into the house. They entered, Jackson in the lead, carrying a topcoat over his arm. In the dining room Natalie Sedova Trotsky met them, and, Russian-fashion, offered the guest a glass of tea. Jackson asked for water, drank it without disturbing the topcoat slung over his left arm. Then Trotsky and Jackson passed into the study. Jackson did not put down the topcoat.
The study was a barren room with uncovered floors and cream-colored walls hung only with a large map of Mexico. In its centre was a long wooden table stacked with books and manuscripts. Trotsky sat down there, began to read the manuscript his friend had brought. Jackson leaned over his shoulder. From under his coat, where he had hidden a pistol, a dagger and an Alpine pick, he chose the heaviest instrument. If he succeeded with this, he would make no sound, do his work with one quick blow.
"This Time. . . ." But Frank Jackson bungled. Like Trotsky, he had lived in the twilight world of conspiracy. A peasant or a worker would have known that to knock a man out, you have to put your weight behind a blow. The pick was sharp. It cut through Trotsky's skull, but the blow was not hard enough. Trotsky did not slump, did not even realize that he had been hit on the head. He thought he had been shot. He leaped from his chair, grappled with his assailant, bit his hand. Even with a knife and a pistol and a mattock, young Jackson did not know how to cope with the old man. Trotsky screamed, staggered into the dining room. Faithful Natalie Sedova met Jackson at the door, threw herself on him. Then came Bodyguards Jake Cooper and Joseph Hansen. Cooper clubbed Jackson, knocked him down, kicked his head and body. Hansen lowered Trotsky to the floor. Leon Trotsky, blood streaming from his broken skull, called to Cooper: "Don't kill him. This man has a story to tell."
Trotsky the historian remembered, even in the face of death, that history must record his end. To Natalie Sedova, who hovered over him, he told what had happened in the study. "I feel here," said Trotsky, pointing to his heart, "that this time they have succeeded."
Although his skull was fractured and his brain pierced, although paralysis was already creeping down his left side, Leon Trotsky clung to consciousness. In a Green Cross hospital he dictated to Hansen a clear-minded statement:
I am close to death from the blow of a political assassin, who struck me in my room. I struggled with him. He had entered the room to talk about French statistics. He struck me. Please say to our friends: I am sure of the victory of the Fourth International. Go Forward!