Somewhere in Bolivia, 1966.
My dearest Aliusha, Camilo, Celita and Tatico,
I write to you from far away and in great haste, which means I can't tell you about my latest adventures. It's a pity, because I've met some very interesting friends through Pepe the Crocodile [this was Che's playful reference to Uncle Sam!]. Another time...
Right now I want to tell you that I love you all very much and remember you always, along with mama, although the younger ones I almost only know through photos, as they were very tiny when I left. In a minute I'm going to get a photo taken so that you know how I look these days -- a little bit older and uglier.
This letter should arrive about the time Aliusha has her sixth birthday, so may it serve to congratulate her and hope that she has a very happy birthday.
Aliusha, you should study hard and help your mother in everything you can. Remember, you are the oldest.
Camilo, you should swear less as in school you shouldn't speak like that and you have to learn what is appropriate. Celita, help your grandmother around the house as much as you can and continue being as sweet as when we said goodbye -- do you remember? How could you not. Tatico, you should grow and become a man so that later we'll see what you make of yourself. If imperialism still exists, we'll set out to fight it. If it is finished, you, Camilo and I will take a vacation on the moon.
Give a kiss from me to your grandparents, to Miriam and her baby, to Estela and Carmita, and here's an elephant sized kiss from...
Note in the margin: To Hildita [Che's oldest daughter], another elephant sized kiss and tell her I'll write soon, but now I don't have time.