Lenin's Red Lady Sings the Blues

Shortly after the death of V.I. Lenin in 1923, his widow, Nadezha Krupskaya, granted a rare interview to The London Times that revealed a glimpse into the Bolshevik icon's somewhat surprising sexual predilections. The interview, which follows in part, was never published for reasons that will become obvious.

"It was true that Ilyich was a man of great personal charm. The cute little goatee, the Tartar eyes. When we were still courting he used to thrill me to the marrow of my soul with his dreams for Russia. He often confided to me that his true dream was to rule a country in which only he and I existed; then he said we could really have a truly perfect society. He used to say, "You know, Nadenka, Russia would be a great place if it weren't for its people." He would go into raptures describing to me how he would eliminate all his friends. Only he used the word liquidate. He loved that word. He said that liquidate was the perfect word for killing the Russian people, since so many of them were drunkards. Liquidate. I still get goose bumps when I hear it.

But, you know, Ilyich had his romantic side. Yes, he was severe and no-nonsense in public, but when we got behind closed doors, it was "Katya hide the kishka!" He would chase me around the house snapping at my ample bottom with the Imperial flag while calling me his ninety-five kilo sugar beet. He knew how to please a woman, all right. Oh, what times we had! When I collapsed afterwards from exhaustion, Ilyich would write pornographic revolutionary slogans all over my body with lipstick. But, alas, these halcyon days did not last. After he seized power, Ilyich began to change. He ignored me. Then he avoided me. He lost all interest in flag snapping. Even my imitation of Rosa Luxembourg could not win him back. Little did I know that Ilyich had a secret passion that transcended even his love for liquidation.

One day I returned to our dacha early after delivering a speech on the proper attitude of Soviet women to replaceable machine parts. Ilyich was nowhere to be found. I called out to him. No answer. When I went into his study I got the shock of my life. There was Ilyich totally nude lying in a pile of luscious, nubile, buxom beet roots. Ilyich looked at me with those wolfhound eyes and mumbled something about the death of capitalism.

As a strong Soviet woman, trained in the ways of dialectic, I decided to give Ilyich a pass. I couldn't let outdated petty bourgeois notions about marital fidelity dull my revolutionary ardor. After all, sex is just a bunch of molecules getting together to make whoopee. Nothing personal. I resolved to redouble my efforts on behalf of October. Unfortunately, Ilyich redoubled his efforts on top of the sugar beets. They became an obsession with him until our entire dacha was bursting with these coarse hussies. Once, as a joke, Ilyich put one in my garrison cap. He began to mock me. Urged me to use more make up. To paint my face a deep violet. Well, fortunately for me, I never had to deface myself for Ilyich's sake. His passion brought him low. He did not die as the official history has it, but as the result of a fall. He snapped a towel at some juicy sugar beet he was chasing down the hall, lost his balance, and went headfirst down two flights of stairs. Serves him right, the bastard. By the way, did you know that sugar beets are bi-sexual?

(End of excerpt)