by Peter Corris
"I have friends there," she said. "From the old days. You must come when you are released, Juan."
At an earlier time Juan would have told her that she should not leave Bolivia because a new age was about to dawn, a revolutionary time that would bring justice for all. But he could see that his mother was beyond thoughts of justice. And perhaps the wives of former government ministers would not fare so well. It was better that she should leave. He would then be unhampered in the work he had to do. "Yes, Mama," he said.
Yolanda was not deceived; she could see the hard set of his face and the fanatical light in his eyes. She cared, but grief had eroded her will. She put her hand to the grille; Juan did the same and their palms touched through the gaps. "Take care, my boy," she said.
As Juan had expected, Dr Paz overplayed his hand. Late in the year his attempts to continue in office and to court the favour of the army backfired. His deputy, Rene Barrientos, joined other army officers in a coup that sent Paz into exile once more. Political ferment in the country reached a new pitch and touched all institutions, schools, colleges, the army and the trades unions. The penitentiary at Santa Cruz was also affected. Political groups of varying persuasions formed among the inmates, many of whom were highly educated. Others saw personal advantage in political alignment; still others conspired secretly and reported their discoveries to the authorities. Some reported accurately, some did not.
The military regime offered no amnesties to prisoners and the new administrators of justice granted few paroles. Discipline within the prison tightened to the point of harshness. Juan offended often, was beaten and served periods of solitary confinement. He revelled in the atmosphere. He continued to work hard on the farm, proud of the callouses he built on his hands and the muscles in his arms and shoulders. He affected rough speech punctuated with frequent obscenities. Yolanda was correct in her assumption that her son had made contact with Cuban revolutionaries. Certain elements in Castro's new state made no secret of their intention to export revolution throughout Latin America. The prisons were seen as fertile soil and Juan stood out among the inmates of Santa Cruz as a possible recruit. He was approached, and he listened.
"Ramirez," he said one night, "can I trust you?"
"No," Ramirez said. "You cannot. I am utterly untrustworthy. I was a dishonest official. I betrayed my trust. I cannot keep a secret. I cannot withstand torture. Even the threat of it makes me spill my guts."
Juan smiled in the darkness. "I think I could trust you, but I will not."
"Thank you," Ramirez said. "If you must trust someone, you can probably trust your mother."
"She has gone to Paraguay."
"Then you cannot trust anyone. Goodnight, chico."
The next night Juan made his first entry in his 'revolutionary diary'. In microscopic letters on a leaf of toilet paper, he wrote:
20 February 1967: The plan is made. I have the pistol. Tomorrow I perform my first revolutionary act. I call on all the heroes of the socialist cause to help me. I want to set the plan down now as an exercise. I want to see how reality matches theory. If they are too far apart I will die. If they can be made to coincide exactly I will be free and with my brothers fighting for the great cause. He is here! He has been seen! It is like a religious moment! A disturbance in the eating hall; solitary confinement; I subdue the guard with the pistol; take his uniform and walk out. So simple. This paper will be in my hand. Tomorrow it will be in my pocket or in my shit.
At two minutes past midday on 21 February Juan La Vita stood in his place in the eating hall. He hurled his plate against the wall and shouted: "Viva la revolucion! Bolivia libre! Vive Che Guevara!"
39
Extracts from The Revolutionary Diary of 'El Chico' (Juan La Vita) translated from the Spanish by Roget Valdez; Free Press, San Francisco, 1981
25 March: We are regrouping after the recent fight with the army. Some of our weapons did not perform properly and we are spending much time on them. To talk while working is wonderful; to talk freely to comrades after the years in prison is like making love, being bathed and having a bad tooth fixed all at the same time.
E. [Ernesto 'Che' Guevara] is much troubled by his asthma but as long as he can get the medicine for it he will be all right. He should not smoke and I told him so. He laughed and said, 'Comrade, we are making a new Vietnam here. Uncle Ho does not expect to survive his war and I do not expect to survive mine.' I must have looked alarmed at these words for he laughed and patted me on the shoulder. 'But if I do survive it,' he said, I' promise you that I will stop smoking. You can hold me to that when we are in triumph in La Paz.' We then spoke about the victory in Cuba. I never tire of hearing those stories.
Morale is good. J. ['Joaquin'—Juan Acuna Nunez] is a fine leader when E. is indisposed. On a patrol today he was able to re-create for us the entire agenda of a meeting of the central committee of the party in Cuba, of which he is a member. Inspirational! I long for the day when such councils will be held in this country.
11 April: We have defeated the reactionary forces again. We were on our way to G. [utierrez], proceeding up the N. [ancahuazi River], when the scout saw a party of soldiers coming downriver. E. established a perfect guerrilla ambush. We caught them in a crossfire and killed the lieutenant and two of his men. Six soldiers were wounded and we have taken six prisoners. Our only casualty was the Cuban, El Rubio, who was shot through the head. His rifle had jammed. There will be more weapon maintenance drill.
The prisoners tell us that there is a company of soldiers established at our old camp near E. [1 Pincal]. E. organized another ambush and this time we repulsed more than fifty soldiers who were at the head of the column. We took twenty-two prisoners, including the commanding officer, a Major R.[uben] S.[anchez] and several junior officers. The rearguard and some newspaper reporters escaped. We suffered no losses. A great victory!
We demonstrate the difference between a just and an unjust cause by giving medical care to their wounded. In this way, so the leader tells us, their morale is worn down and doubts arise in the minds of the ordinary soldiers.
I.[nti Peredo] interrogated the prisoners and we learned their plans. Then we helped them to construct stretchers for their wounded and set them free. They have ten kilometres to walk on bare feet which will give them time to contemplate their mistakes.
15 April: E. has decided to split the band. I had hoped to stay with him but I have been assigned to Joaquin's group. Orders are not to be questioned and the reasons are good. We are fourteen and many of us are too ill to march. M. [oises Guevara] has suffered a severe gall bladder attack T.[ania] has a high fever. The group needs some able-bodied fighters for its protection and I am one such.
I have not been afraid in the fighting, even when bullets have hit the trees and rocks quite close to me. I do not feel as if I can be killed fighting in this cause. This is irrational, but if it helps me to remain brave and cool I welcome it.
E. wishes us to remain in this area to harass the soldiers and protect the base camp. He has learned from the prisoners that G. is fortified, so he marches on M.[uyupampa] in the south. We will join forces again after this operation.
30 April: Two weeks without action. We see no signs of soldiers in this area, so it is difficult to carry out the leader's orders. The sick are recovering and we patrol daily but the routine is dull. This, J. tells us, is an essential part of guerrilla training. There were many dull times in the Sierra Maestra.
Some of my comrades have criticized me for keeping this journal. They say it could betray us if I am captured. I explained that it is in code but they say I could be tortured and made to reveal the code. I showed them the poison capsule I carry at all times. If I am captured I will betray nothing.
10 May: Still no activity and no news of the leader. We debate tactics and ideology among ourselves at every opportunity. J. is an orthodox communist. E.'s views would be welcome.
Relations with the peasants are worrying. There appears to be little support for u
s and we cannot gain access to the towns, where there is much sympathy for us. The militia is strong around the towns, too strong for us to enter.
Morale is declining among some of my countrymen, I am ashamed to say. J. and A. [lejandro], the Cubans, provide backbone. I attempt to do the same, but C. [ingolo], in particular, is becoming sceptical about our prospects. 'Without the miners and the peasants we are lost,' he said. 'Is any of you a miner or a peasant?' I have the hands of a peasant now but I remained silent.
30 May: Life is uncomfortable, as it should be at this stage of a revolution. We have caches of ammunition, medicine and supplies in two places along the N.[ancahuazu] and we move between them, with no fixed base camp. This is a good tactic to avoid betrayal and ambush.
Betrayal is much on our minds. We have bought pigs and other food from the peasants (paying them well in American dollars), but they continue to be indifferent or even hostile. Yesterday, near the southern supply base, a group of peasants shared their food and drink with us and appeared friendly. But P.[aco—Jose Carrillo] overheard them talking about informing on us to the soldiers. Naturally, one thinks of punishing such people but one cannot. They are ignorant men and not to blame for their ignorance.
15 June: Everyone is fit again now and ready for action. Our weapons are in good order and discipline is tight. The men all wear fatigues and boots; we keep the clothes clean to avoid skin irritations and sickness. Tania wears civilian clothes for comfort and to allow her to approach people on the roads and farms.
J. has proposed that we establish a camp and attempt to make contact with the leader with a view to reuniting with our comrades. We are heavily armed and carry documents and papers with us which are becoming burdensome. A clear majority favours the idea of a camp.
8 July: We had word of a great propaganda victory for E. at Samaipata. A truck was commandeered and two policemen in the town subdued. Then an army post surrendered and the commander and his men were left naked in the countryside.
Many people witnessed this action, which took place so close to the city of Santa Cruz, and we can expect a boost in our stocks as a result of it. Our informant tells us that the leader is suffering badly from his asthma and lacks medicine for it. We have supplies of the medicine and must make contact with our comrades.
11 July: We have been fighting and moving for three days. Our camp was discovered by the troops who seem to have entered the area in force. Possibly we were betrayed. We managed to escape encirclement but we were forced to leave behind many documents and supplies.
A.[?], one of my countrymen, was killed. I have a slight shoulder wound. In the flesh only—it is nothing.
30 July: We have been informed that the army has mounted an operation named 'Cynthia' against us, in reprisal for E.'s victory at Samaipata. They are in great strength, hampering our movements. We travel at night to avoid detection, but the soldiers also despatch night patrols which are aided by the local people. It should be the other way around.
My shoulder is sore but healing.
15 August: This is the low point of our campaign, J. assures us. From this point we will build strength towards victory The army has been pressing us hard, forcing us to march when tired and anticipating some of our movements. My countryman and close comrade P.[edro] has been killed. We had many long talks about politics and life. He died bravely, covering our escape from a near ambush,
Two days later a further disaster. E.[usebio] and C. [hingolo] were captured. They led the soldiers to the caves where we had hidden documents, photographs and E.'s medicine.
These reverses have lowered morale, but the Cubans urge us on. My wound opened in one of the fights and is very painful.
28 August: We must cross the Rio Grande and rejoin the leader. In unity is strength. We must make a serious demonstration if we are to rouse the peasants and we cannot do it with such a small band. We need food and information, and the time has come to act vigorously. We took two peasants captive and compelled them to act as guides, but we are not familiar with techniques of oppression and they escaped. It is worrying that they may have deduced our destination, although they were very stupid and frightened for the time they were with us.
We have bought a cow from a peasant named Rojas who expresses sympathy with us. He tells us that the best place to cross the river is at a ford called E.[1] V. [ado] d. [el] Y. [eso], where we may wade across the river.
I dreamed of my father last night. I dreamed I was with him in Australia as a small boy. Everything he had told me about Sydney and how Tio and he escaped from the ship happened to me. A strange dream.
The peasants knelt with their knees in the dust. Each felt a pistol barrel press in behind his right ear.
"Tell me," the captain said.
The older man vomited and fell forward into his own mess. The other squared his soldiers.
"I hope you are not going to be a hero," the captain said.
The man trembled. "No, captain. I was drawing breath to speak."
"Good. You have seen Joaquin?"
"Sí, captain."
"And how many others?"
"Difficult to be sure, captain. Seven, perhaps eight."
"In what condition?"
"Armed, captain."
"Imbecil! In what physical condition?"
"Very tired, captain. And one of the young men, the one they call El Chico, is wounded here." The peasant touched the shoulder of his faded workshirt.
The captain moved the pistol several inches away. "Good. And now, where are they going?"
The peasant hesitated. He had no respect for the guerrillas who had treated him well but seemed not to understand anything about the country or the life working people led. They had offered to pay him with American dollars. How could he spend American dollars with every soldier in the Nancahuazzu area asking questions about Yanqui money? Still, if the guerrillas should win and learn that he had informed on them . . . he felt the pistol bite his neck again. "To cross the river."
"Where?"
"The best place is El Vado del Yeso."
"Congratulations, you have just saved your own life." The captain was content: two sources of information—one, the peasant who had sold a cow to the guerrillas, and now another. Confirmation. He planted his foot in the ribs of the man who still lay snuffling on the ground.
"Get up, peon. You will lead us to this place."
The captain deployed his men in the bushes across from the point where the guerrillas were expected to cross the river. They waited, cursing the insects and the heat until the afternoon began to cool and a slight breeze stirred the leaves and the surface of the water. The captain checked his position again: good cover for his men and a clear view of the rocky edge to the water; the fording place was narrow. They will move in single file and for a time they will all be in the water and concentrating on the crossing, he thought. That will be the time.
He beckoned for one of his men, a soldier who had once been a prisoner of the guerrillas, to come forward. The soldier had been left on a road without any clothes in broad daylight. He said he hated the guerrillas like a whore hates a virgin, and he had been one of the best prepared and most efficient soldiers in his unit since his humiliation. Now without speaking he crouched beside the captain and peered at the break in the brush where the path led to the edge of the river.
The time passed slowly. They waited through the tepid afternoon rain and in the heat that followed it. Steam rose from the ground like a low, warm mist. The captain's skin, inside the damp, drying-out army clothing, began to itch. He frequently had to gesture angrily to silence his impatient men. He was sweating and impatient himself. He checked his watch—almost six o'clock.
He wiped sweat from his eyes and felt a tug at his sleeve. He looked. A man wearing fatigues and carrying a knapsack on his back had stepped from the brush. He had an automatic rifle with a short barrel in his hands. He swivelled slowly, looking upstream and down. "Braulio," the soldier said. "Cuban bastard."
The captain nodded and signalled for his men to hold their fire. One by one the guerrillas followed Braulio into the water. They stepped carefully on the rocky stream bed, maintaining their balance. All were heavily laden with packs, weapons and ammunition. The soldier's breath stank of garlic close to the captain's ear as he whispered the names: "Gueva . . . Joaquin . . . El Negro . . . Paco . . . El Chico . . . Tania."
When they were all in the water, the captain sighted his carbine on the white blouse of the woman. He held his weapon steady to his shoulder, took his finger from the trigger, held up his fist and suddenly splayed out the fingers.
The crashing volley of shots sent birds screaming into the sky; hot lead hissed into the water and thudded into the bodies of the guerrillas. Tania's arms flew up and she collapsed face down into the river; Joaquin fired once and fell; the others crouched, shed their packs and splashed downstream. The shots became ragged as the excited soldiers ran along the bank firing at the figures wading and flailing through the water. A bullet passed through Paco's shoulder and Juan felt a spume of blood on his face. Paco groaned and threw down his rifle. The water around him was turning red; Juan sprayed bullets at the river bank. He felt a blow to his chest as if he had been hit by a giant floating log, and then the world tilted and he slid off it. The soldier who could identify the guerrillas moved slowly along the line of bodies laid out on the river bank. Paco was sitting under a tree; blood oozed from his shoulder into his sodden shirt. The soldier bent and pushed hair away from one of the faces. He nodded. "Joaquin," he said.
He bent again and wiped mud from another still, upturned face. "El Chico," he said. "Hey, he's still alive!" He unslung his rifle and pointed the muzzle down.
The captain struck him viciously on the ear with the butt of his pistol. The soldier's long, greasy hair cushioned the blow, but. he reeled away and stared at the officer with frightened eyes. "Leave him. Well need one of these bastards for interrogation. We've got two. Let us see which one of them makes it."