Operation Massacre

by Rodolfo Walsh

  Not a word has been uttered about the subversive events of the night. Not even the slightest allusion has been made to martial law, which, like any law, must be declared and publicly announced before coming into effect.

  Therefore, at midnight on June 9, 1956, nowhere in the Nation’s territory is martial law in effect.

  But it has already been applied. And it will be applied later to men who were arrested before it was instated, and without the excuse—like the one they had in Avellaneda—that they had been caught with weapons in hand.

  Footnotes:

  13DG: Década Infame (The Infamous Decade) refers to the thirteen years between the military coups that ousted President Hipólito Yrigoyen in 1930 and President Ramón Castillo in 1943, respectively. The term was coined by Argentine historian and writer José Luis Torres, who characterized the period as plagued by state corruption, corporatization and privatization, popular flight from rural areas, and an ever-increasing national deficit. Walsh considers the possibility here of a second década infame.

  14A detailed account of the operations and the repression that followed can be found in the book Martyrs and Executioners by Salvador Ferla, published in 1964.

  16. “Watch Out, They Could Execute You . . .”

  Meanwhile, the bus filled with prisoners picked up in Florida has headed southwest. It leaves the district of Vicente López and enters that of San Martín. The behavior of the guards escorting them is proper, which is to say indifferent. Some of the prisoners talk to each other.

  —Why do you think they’ve taken us? —one asks.

  —What do I know . . . —another answers.— Probably for playing cards.

  —Something doesn’t smell right. The big guy said something about a revolution.

  Mr. Horacio and Giunta are the most baffled of all. Because they weren’t even playing cards. Gavino, who doesn’t know them but could enlighten them, keeps quiet. Dazed and disheveled, wiping the blood away from his lip, he does know why they have been taken.

  They arrive in San Martín and, leaving behind the station and the main square, stop in front of a building on Nueve de Julio Street with armed guards at the door. Some have already figured out where they are. They are at the District Police Department. The trip has lasted less than twenty minutes.

  They stay seated in the bus for twenty minutes, maybe even half an hour more before they are told to get off. They see people leaving the nearest movie theater. Passersby look at them curiously. There are no signs of unrest anywhere.

  At 12:11 a.m. on June 10, 1956, State Radio surprisingly resumes its broadcast on the official station, airing a selection of light music for the next twenty-one minutes. It is the first official sign that something serious is happening in the country.

  In the meantime, the fateful house in Florida comes to claim two unexpected victims. Julio Troxler and Reinaldo Benavídez stop by looking for a friend who they think is there. They do nothing more than walk down the corridor and ring the bell at the back apartment—which is strangely silent and dark—before the door suddenly opens and a sergeant and two guards appear, pointing their guns at them.

  Though surprised, Julio Troxler hardly bats an eye. He is a tall, athletic man who will demonstrate an extraordinary calm at every turn that night.

  Troxler is twenty-nine years old. Two of his brothers are in the Army, one of whom carries the rank of major. He himself might feel a certain military calling, which he channels poorly, seeing how he ends up joining the Police Department of the Province of Buenos Aires. He is strict and austere, but still, he does not tolerate the “methods”—the brutality—that he is expected to employ, so he resigns when Peronism is in full bloom. From then on, he throws his discipline and his ability to work into technical studies. He reads as many books and magazines as he can find on specializations that interest him—motors, electricity, refrigeration. He actually begins to do quite well for himself with a refrigerator repair shop that he sets up in Munro.

  Troxler is a Peronist, but he doesn’t talk much politics. Those who tried to describe him suggested that he is an extremely laconic and pensive man who resists arguments at all costs. One thing’s for sure: he is familiar with the police and knows how to deal with them.

  The description we can give of Reinaldo Benavídez is even more superficial. Average height, around thirty years old, he has an honest and pleasant face. At that time he is co-running a grocery store in Belgrano and living with his parents. Something incredible is going to happen to Benavídez, something that, even on this night of extraordinary events and experiences, seems as though it was taken from some outrageous novel. But we’ll come back to that.

  By an extraordinary coincidence—which will come up again later—Julio Troxler knows the sergeant who is facing him and pointing his gun at him. That may be why they have both stood still for a moment, observing each other.

  —What happened? —Troxler asks.

  —I don’t know. I’ve got to take you both with me.

  —What do you mean you’ve got to take me with you? Don’t you remember me?

  —Yes, sir. But I’ve got to take you with me. I have my orders.

  The sergeant steps away for a moment. He goes to the apartment in front to ask for instructions over the phone. The two detained men are left alone with the guards. It’s true that they are unarmed, but if they set themselves to the task, they may be able to overpower them and escape. Hours later, in more difficult, nearly impossible circumstances, both of them will act with exceptional decisiveness and sangfroid. At the moment, they are calm. Clearly they don’t suspect anything too serious.

  And they let themselves be taken away, just like that.

  All police stations have been in a state of alarm since earlier in the day. In his office at Florida’s Second Precinct, Captain Pena has tuned in the receiver.

  At precisely 12:32 a.m., State Radio interrupts the chamber music to announce, across all the stations in the country, that a communiqué from the Presidential Press Secretary’s Office will be read, declaring two decrees.

  The dramatic announcement is as follows:

  “Since the situation caused by elements that are disruptive of public order is forcing the provisional government to adopt appropriate measures with calm energy to ensure public tranquility in the whole territory of the Nation and to continue to meet the goals of the Liberating Revolution,15 it is decided that the provisional President of the Argentine Nation, exercising his Legislative Power, declares as law:

  “Article Number 1 – Let martial law be in effect throughout the entire territory of the Nation.

  “Article Number 2 – The current decree-law will be endorsed by his Excellency the Provisional Vice President of the Nation and by the ministers: secretaries of the State, the Airforce, the Army, the Navy, and the Interior.

  “Article Number 3 – Pro forma.

  “Signed: Aramburu, Rojas, Hartung, Krause, Ossorio Arana and Landaburu.”16

  The second decree, taking into account the fact that martial law “constitutes a measure whose application the public must be made aware of,” lays out the rules and circumstances according to which the law will be put into practice.

  The captain has just finished listening to the announcement when they bring him the two prisoners. Just like the sergeant, the captain is surprised to see Troxler, whom he knows and likes.

  —What are you doing here?

  Troxler smiles, shrugging his shoulders, and explains what happened without making a big deal of it. It must have been a mistake . . . They talk for a few minutes. Then the captain gets a phone call.

  —They want you at the Department —then he adds:— Hey, watch out, they could execute you . . . They declared martial law just a minute ago.

  The two of them laugh.

  But the captain is worried.

  Footnotes:


  15DG: The Liberating Revolution began as a movement run by General Lonardi (see Note 5), who wanted to rid Argentina of Peronism’s corruption and economic policies while also reconciling with the traditionally Peronist unions. Less than two months after assuming power, Lonardi was forced to resign because his policies were considered insufficiently anti-Peronist. A more staunchly anti-Peronist General Aramburu took control of the Liberating Revolution in November 1955. The regime came to an end in 1958, when elections were held and Arturo Frondizi, of the Radical Civil Union party, triumphed (see Note 10).

  16DG: Teodoro Hartung, Julio César Krause, Arturo Ossorio Arana, and Laureano Landaburu were all ministers in President Aramburu’s cabinet. For Aramburu and Rojas, see Note 5.

  17. “Cheer Up”

  12:45 a.m. They have let the prisoners off the bus at the District Police Department. They take them down a long corridor and lead them into an office on the left where there are a number of park benches, green ones, that the men start to sit on. The building appears to be under renovation. The walls of the room have been recently painted, and some of the painting materials are still around.

  At first they don’t pay attention to the prisoners, who are tossing around all kinds of speculations. Livraga sits down next to his friend Rodríguez and the first thing he does is ask:

  —Big Guy, are you involved in anything?

  Rodríguez shrugs his shoulders.

  —I know just as much as you do.

  Giunta and Mr. Horacio are perplexed. What intrigues them the most is that question they’ve heard repeated several times: Where is Tanco?

  The three who were picked up on the streets, not at home, are falling to pieces in their explanations and regrets. One tirelessly repeats that he went to have dinner with some friends and on his way home, they grabbed him. Another was standing at the door of his girlfriend’s house saying goodnight . . . The night watchman at the piping plant, an elderly man who still has his rubber boots on, is mumbling in an unintelligible Italian.

  Mario Brión is thinking about his wife, who doesn’t know anything and must be waiting for him: he has never come home so late.

  Does Carlitos Lizaso remember that message he left for his girlfriend? “If all goes well tonight . . .”

  Garibotti is sorry he listened to his friend Carranza, who is sitting next to him, quiet and dejected. Who knows now when they are going to let them go, maybe at daybreak or at noon the next day . . . Carranza himself is remembering Berta’s words: “Turn yourself in, turn yourself in . . .” Well, now he has been turned in. They might let the other guys go, but him . . . As soon as they look at his record, he’ll be done for. Maybe he’s thinking of that day he ran away from the officers in Tucumán. No one is watching the door and, even though the corridor is long, there is no one in sight. Maybe with a little bit of luck . . . But no, Berta’s right. It’s time for him to turn himself in and for them to do whatever they want with him. They’re not going to kill him, that’s for sure, not for some pamphlets and some conversations . . .

  Gavino’s worried. They’re not going to let him go, either, now that they’ve got him. And he knows very well why they’ve got him. He’ll get a year or two in jail until a new government comes to power and he is granted amnesty. Perhaps they’ll send him to the south. Well, maybe it’s better this way . . . maybe now they’ll let his wife go . . . and not kill him on a night like this. He wonders if the rebellion . . .

  Just then an officer appears and, addressing the two or three closest to him, asks:

  —Fellas, are you political prisoners?

  When he is met with hesitation in response, he adds:

  —Cheer up. The rebellion broke out and we don’t have contact with La Plata anymore.

  La Plata is the only place where the fighting is going according to plan. The leader of the uprising, Colonel Cogorno, launches an attack on the Second Division Command and the Police Headquarters throughout the night. The attacking forces include the Seventh Regiment’s company, three tanks under Major Pratt’s command, and two or three hundred civilians.

  The tanks position themselves to face Police Headquarters, but for some inexplicable reason only manage to blast the building two times. There are twenty-three men inside: afterward there will be thirty-five.

  The shootout—which involves everything from small arms to heavy machine guns—is extremely violent, but the attackers can’t manage to organize a proper assault. Maybe they’re waiting for something that never actually happens. What we know for sure is that Colonel Piñeiro, fighting on the inside, makes it through the whole night.

  The Second Division Command, two blocks away from Headquarters, is comparatively much more protected: it has about fifty men and a heavy machine gun set up in a dominant strategic position—on Fifty-Fourth Street, between Third and Fourth—so that they can stave off the advancing troops of the Seventh Regiment.

  Among the men who are defending the Government with weapons in hand, we will mention one who did not make the papers.

  His name is Juan Carlos Longoni. He is (was) a police inspector, a thin, stone-faced guy with a tough look in his eyes, a man of few words. He is laid off during the time of Peronism, but they take him back in 1955. He comes to be assistant to the head of the Judicial Division, Doglia, Esq. . . .

  That night Longoni is asleep at home when he hears the first shots. He gets up and, still dressing himself, steps out to the street. He hails a cab and asks to be taken to the war zone. In the thick of the shooting, the cab driver is so frightened that he faints. Longoni leaves him in Medical Care, goes on alone, and manages to join the Commando Unit. He asks for a gun and a combat position. They hand him a Falcon and let him choose whatever position he wants. He fights all night long.

  That is the man that the Chief of Police of the Province will lay off—laid off again!—seven months later for supporting Doglia in his complaints regarding this case—the case of the prisoners who were still awaiting their uncertain fates in the San Martín District Police Department.

  18. “Calm and Confident”

  1:45 a.m. The radio is also on in the office of Chief Inspector Rodolfo Rodríguez Moreno, chief of the San Martín District Police Department. The declaration of martial law has been replayed at 12:45 a.m., 12:50 a.m., 1:15 a.m., 1:35 a.m. Now they are broadcasting it again.

  About fifteen minutes ago, the Office of the Vice President of the Nation released the Communiqué No. 1, which, for the first time, lets the country know some details about what is happening.

  On behalf of the provisional president —the text reads— let it be known to the people of the Republic that at 11:00 p.m. on Saturday, uprisings erupted among some military units in the Province of Buenos Aires.

  The Army, the Navy, and the Airforce, with support from the National Gendarmerie, the Coast Guard, and the Police immediately commenced operations to subdue the attempt at rebellion.

  The rule of martial law has been decreed in the entire territory of the Republic.

  We suggest that the people remain calm and confident in the power and strength of the Liberating Revolution.

  Signed: Isaac F. Rojas, Rear-Admiral, Provisional Vice President.

  One of the prisoners has asked permission to go to the bathroom; on the way, the guard escorting him lets him in on what’s happening.

  There is anxiety among the group when this man comes back with news that definitively confirms all the signs, suspicions, and fears that have been accumulating since eleven o’clock the previous night, when they heard the word “revolution” uttered for the first time from the mouth of the Police Chief himself. Gavino looks pale.

  —When? —he insists.— When?

  —Just now, it sounds like —they reply.

  Gavino lets out a sigh of relief. He knows they can’t do anything to him. He was arrested before martial law was instated so he couldn�
��t have violated it.

  Mario Brión has a terrible feeling.

  —Who knows, they could kill us anyway . . .

  Everyone looks at him askance. There is a pause. Then several of them talk at once:

  —I went to have dinner at some friends’ house, and on my way back . . . on my way back . . .

  —Is saying goodnight to your girlfriend against the law? I didn’t do anything, I don’t know anything, they have to let me go . . .

  In the impenetrable Italian of the old night watchman, a word stands out now, punctuating his speech at regular intervals, “revoluzione . . . revoluzione . . .”

  Suddenly two policemen armed with carbines tell everyone to be silent. A change has come over the entire enormous building—it is hardly noticeable, but sinister. The guards’ attitude, which until now has been carefree, has turned sour and surly. Voices that were ringing out in the corridor on and off dissolve into occasional echoes. Then, prolonged silences.

  Unaware of everything, spilled over a bench, like some great black Neptune, Sergeant Díaz is snoring loudly. His wide thorax expands and collapses at an easy rhythm. Sleep coats his face with an expressionless mask.

  The rest begin to look at him with annoyance, then horror.

  19. Make No Mistake . . .

  2:45 a.m. Rodríguez Moreno’s got a bad feeling. Why did these poor bastards have to come to him, of all people? And yet, there is some mysterious justification, some nod to destiny in the fact that this particular mission is going to fall to him.

  Rodríguez Moreno is an imposing, difficult man with a rocky and troublesome history. Tragedy follows him like a doting dog. Even before 1943, he was apparently involved in a horrifying event as chief of the Mar del Plata precinct, according to a number of sources. A hobo is brutally beaten in a cell one night and then thrown on a beach, completely naked in the dead of winter. He dies from the cold. They end up prosecuting Rodríguez Moreno and even send him to jail in Dolores. But then he is released. Because he was innocent, say his defenders. Because of political reasons, say his critics. The episode remains murky and forgotten.