Che Wants to See You

by Ciro Bustos

  It was not all admiring the view and eating, however. An intensive training programme had been designed around weekly weapons drills, shooting practice, analysis of their recent war’s military strategy and combat operations. We would be examining how the combatants of the National Liberation Front (FLN) infiltrated the French border fortifications and their deployment in cellars and caves around the cities of Algiers, Oran and Constantine. A veteran of the war came to the house to talk about specific cases, and then accompanied us to the actual sites so we could see their strategic importance. We began with the fledgling FLN’s first ambush on the edge of the desert, led by Ben Bella, one of its founding leaders. Bajtik took us to a place called Aflud. Other trips followed, and each week we would go over the hills behind the Casbah to a former French army barracks where hi-tech weapons captured from the French during the war had been stored. Celebratory rounds from different calibre rifles, machine-gun salvos, and bomb blasts left our heads buzzing, but it got us accustomed to different types of weapons.

  Eventually we were taken on a tour of the French fortifications on the Tunisian and Moroccan borders; it was an incredible experience. The supposedly impregnable constructions were a wasteland of barbed wire, explosives and watch towers which had once been patrolled day and night, but had finally failed to prevent the FLN from breaching them. The fortifications extended in a straight line along both frontiers from the coast to beyond the mountains that descend into the Sahara. Seen from the sea, a cross section of the lines showed first a minefield about twenty metres wide, then a section of barbed wire wrapped round half-buried girders and crossheads, then metallic sheeting four metres high attached to solid iron posts draped with more barbed wire, in the middle a road patrolled by armoured cars, and on the other side the same metal sheeting, barb-covered girders, minefields, etc. Every five or six kilometres, a watch tower with high-powered spotlights lit up the centre road at the slightest sign of alarm and swept over the areas of barbed wire. Patrols from the watch towers would converge on any suspected breach of the fortifications.

  Relations between the Algerians and Masetti’s group, fraternal from the start, became almost organic, as if we were working on a common project. Although Masetti had re-established contact with Che through coded messages the Algerians sent and received for him, we were in the main isolated from Cuba and our whole stay was coordinated with Algerian staff officers. Not until February 1963, or perhaps March, did Papito Seguera appear, as if following in our footsteps, in his role as the brand new Cuban ambassador to the Socialist Republic of Algeria. There was upheaval while he got the embassy up and running. At first he came to the house every day, but his presentation to the diplomatic corps put an end to his free time and his visits. Papito had brought several belated messages, and reading them, and others he had received afterwards, sent Masetti into a fury all over again. Still no departure plans! Still calls for patience, even messages from Che saying just that. Masetti’s mistrust went into overdrive, and he sent Furry to Havana with orders to speak to Che, and only to Che.

  The messages clearly contradicted each other. In one that I helped decipher – the phrase is engraved on my memory – Che says: ‘Nuestra atalaya se hunde lenta pero inexorablemente’ (Our vantage point is slowly but inexorably sinking), and he added that by now we should be in our zone of operation in northern Argentina. The ‘vantage point’ referred to was the island of Cuba, the highest point, from where one could see most clearly. By ‘sinking’, he did not only mean ‘defeated’ or ‘invaded’ but also that something unique was ‘disappearing’, or ‘being submerged’. Compared to a message like this, the others – which spoke of waiting, being patient, practising, studying, eating well – did not make much sense. Furry played the diplomatic courier, taking the messages. He and Che examined the collected messages together, one by one. In a meeting I attended when Furry came back a week later, he said that Che had gone through the decoded originals saying: ‘This is mine’, ‘This isn’t’, ‘Nor is this’, ‘This one is mine’, etc. That is, as Masetti explained, ‘Colorado is conning us’. Colorado was Barbaroja Piñeiro.

  Furry brought precise instructions. Che would take care of finalizing the basic support infrastructure, i.e. buying the finca (farm) near the Argentine/Bolivian border, equipment, weapons. He authorized Masetti to draw up his own plans, with the help of our Algerian friends, to travel to the destination as soon as he said ‘Now!’ Coordination with the Cuban bureaucracy, still indispensable, should function impeccably from now on. Our group had to travel illegally, with Cuban officials making contacts that were problematic in unfriendly countries. A minimum of infrastructure was needed. So that ‘Ambassador’ Papito did not have to act as messenger, it was decided I would be the link to him, since I was the one with most freedom of movement. Bajtik lent me his car and I went often to the Cuban Embassy, where I was received in all seriousness as the Ambassador’s ‘Soviet’ friend, a good thing to be in those days. The ‘Soviet’ cover, for the benefit of Papito’s staff, was doubtless because of my yellow hair.

  Meanwhile, the group still had internal problems. Miguel showed signs of wanting to get out of his commitment. Since he probably could not find a legitimate way of doing so, he invented a kind of personal incompatibility with Masetti. The atmosphere between them soured and a general irritability infected us all. Stupid problems arose, like competitiveness in sport, which was where Miguel was the stronger. This latent machismo gradually led to open confrontation and an invitation to fight, which Masetti was happy to accept in an improvised boxing ring. Fortunately, a series of gastronomic commitments with the Algerian staff officers relaxed the tension for a couple of weeks.

  One day Bajtik announced that Boumedienne would be coming to our house for a traditional Algerian meal to celebrate fraternal links with the Cuban–Argentine group. An army truck arrived with field cookers, tables and chairs, firewood and food, including cases of that great Algerian wine Mascará, and a beautiful lamb which defended itself valiantly, kicking to left and right, until a pitiful moan indicated its throat had been cut. The following morning, the truck came back with some army personnel who put together a kind of mechanical grill and lit the flames under it. A metre and a half above the fire, they put the skinned lamb on the spit, stuffed with chestnuts, vegetables, fruit, sweet and hot peppers, and chillies. They opened a ten kilo tin of Argentine fat and began smearing the lamb with a wide brush, as the spit turned and screeched slowly over the flames.

  A few hours later, when all the fat was absorbed, an official car arrived with its escort, and out of it got the legendary victor of the bloodiest war ever won by humble peasants and shepherds against a colonial power. Boumedienne was dressed like a university professor in a black suit and overcoat, white shirt and dark tie. He was a very nice, natural man. We were introduced by Masetti, who sat beside him at table, and the banquet began. They removed the lamb from the spit (I thought they had put too much fat on it), placed it in an enormous wooden receptacle in the centre of a long table set up outside on the patio; it was covered with a white tablecloth, plates and bowls of vegetables, fruit and bread … but no cutlery. The filling was like nothing I had ever tasted. Perhaps it was the spirit of the desert, something primordial, like a ritual ceremony in which the fruit and the meat were transformed. There was no hierarchy; they were all men of the Sahara at the manna hour, when all are equal under the sheltering sky.

  With Bajtik’s help, we, the Argentines, organized the next barbecue. He took me to a butcher’s where I explained to the owner what cuts of beef I wanted, and showed him how to saw across a calf’s ribs, for asado de tira. A bed-frame with a squared metal grid served as a parrilla to grill the meat. I also asked the butcher to mince a few kilos of the best beef because I wanted to make empanadas, with boiled eggs, olives and cumin like the ones we eat in Mendoza; they are baked not fried and the kitchen had a magnificent oven so the empanadas turned out amazingly well. Masetti was happy and confident.

  Fres
h news from Havana precipitated events. Crucial stages of the project were ready. Someone was already travelling to the zone to make contacts to buy a finca, and to organize a minimum support network to receive equipment and provide temporary lodging for our group. Masetti, however, had already made arrangements with the Algerians to provide equipment (except weapons), campaign uniforms, boots, medicine packs, gifts of compasses and binoculars from Boumedienne and Ben Bella, and most important of all, as a sign of gratitude and fraternity from both leaders, diplomatic passports (authentic ones) from the newly independent nation. We were overjoyed. Euphoria descended on us like a state of grace … or of mind.

  Masetti asked me to design a symbolic image for our incipient army, both to save time and so our diplomatic status could protect the sketches we took with us. I went and bought paints, brushes, drawing paper, a geometry set, and pencils, and had a sudden strange sensation of contacting my past, my lost identity as an artist.

  I must digress a little. Even at this stage we saw something that became natural as the guerrilla army formed in the jungles of Salta. We were not motivated by patriotism, nationalist clichés, or chauvinist mythologies. For us, history showed how often and flagrantly the people’s rights had been usurped, despite some great historical figures. At night, around the radio, we would be more moved by a folksong than by the national anthem. We did not worship emblems. So when we discussed what symbols, flags, colours, we wanted for our image, it was obvious nobody was interested in historical icons. We wanted something distinctive that showed we belonged to our group, and that it represented a break with the past. Masetti said the colours red and black were constantly present throughout the Latin American struggles. Units of Bolívar’s liberating army used them, so did some of the national caudillos, Sandino’s troops in Nicaragua, and the 26th of July Movement in Cuba. Its meaning is so obvious and principled: ‘Fight or Die!’ After a few sketches, I produced a sun from the national military flag (the Argentine civil flag did not have it then), two light blue stripes, and a white central stripe with a red and black sun instead of a yellow one. The same sun for the uniform insignias, divided horizontally with the red on top and the black underneath.

  During one of the last sports sessions on our tennis court, the intensely competitive spirit of some of us, notably Masetti, meant we very unwisely had a long jump competition. People normally use mattresses, not a clay court. Masetti twisted his lumbar vertebrae as he landed, and lay there in terrible pain. Leonardo said he would be alright with complete bed rest and some form of treatment. We were supposed to be moving to another house in the centre of Algiers, from where it would be easier to make our final arrangements. Masetti made the move in silence, in a truss that immobilized him and put him in a foul mood. We installed him on the ground floor of a former French colonial home with a narrow garden round it and railings separating it from four streets, like a small block, in the flat, old part of the city, between the port and the chic French area. When Masetti was a bit better, we walked to the rue Amirouche, a street of luxury boutiques and cinemas.

  The house had bedrooms on the upper floor, and dining room and reception rooms on the ground floor, furnished in between-the-wars French style. This was the backdrop to a self-criticism session which I had requested because I was worried about the group’s security during our journey. The atmosphere of open animosity between Masetti and Miguel did not bode well; in fact it was a potential danger. The session blew up with no sign of any possible reconciliation. After a huge slanging match, Miguel announced he would not continue with Masetti as leader. Masetti ordered a trial on charges of desertion and operational insubordination which, in themselves, carried the maximum penalty. He named me prosecutor and Federico defence counsel. Furry would preside over the trial, and Leonardo would keep a record.

  Miguel was locked in his room until the following day, so he could distance himself emotionally, while Federico and I studied the situation. My position was clear: the fate of a project in which we were all vital elements but subordinate to a higher cause could not be put at risk for personal reasons. Being temperamental and touchy was not a valid argument. This was an army unit and rules had to be obeyed. Miguel did not appear to accept this and seemed to place feelings before duty. He had understood nothing. We all knew the price we had to pay. He did not. His presence put our safety at risk. Our security depended on mutual trust. I no longer trusted Miguel. He acted as if rules did not apply to him: sending postcards, disobeying orders from the trivial to the dangerous. He could not continue with us. He had to be dismissed and kept under some form of arrest, to be negotiated with the Algerians, until we had started our operations in Argentina. Federico said he could not fault these arguments because, although he thought Miguel was a good bloke, it was not a problem of discipline but the destruction of a whole fabric of commitment that was impossible to repair. He asked for the same verdict.

  But Masetti, who exercised his right as prosecution witness, argued at length for an exemplary punishment, not so much to punish Miguel, but because letting insubordination like this pass undermined the whole future of the struggle, which depends on us being strong and believing in ourselves. He wanted to set a precedent that would affect all of us, because losing a sixth of our force would be detrimental to our entire project. He insisted on his rights and demanded the death penalty, a decision to be referred to the group. The decision in favour was unanimous.

  Coronel Bajtik was informed. A copy of the court proceedings was given to the Algerian general staff, with a request to carry out the death sentence. They accepted the responsibility and a military detachment came to the house and took away the defendant, our compañero of seven months of physical effort, illusions and broken trust. That same April morning, I went up to the second floor, opened the door to Miguel’s bedroom door – his cell – and told him to prepare himself, it was time to say goodbye. He did not bat an eyelid. Immaculate as always, he asked if he had time to shave. The soldiers were waiting in the garden, and the rest of us were in the hallway. Miguel came downstairs carrying his bags. He passed through the double file, inclined his head slightly to Federico and me, and faced the Algerian officer who took his bag and opened the door for him. He climbed into the van parked in the garden without moving a muscle or looking back. Although he had been informed of the verdict and the result of the vote, he showed no sign of weakness, asked for nothing and said nothing. His bravery was moving.

  We had just taken a leap into the void, one that leaves invisibles traces. Objectively, the situation had forced hard choices on us. Possible traumatic alternatives had been studied. But just as abandoning a wounded comrade was unthinkable, so was putting the whole group in jeopardy because of egoism or cowardice. But the philosophy of the behaviour is one thing, the human reaction to that behaviour is quite another.

  We filled in the paperwork for our documents, as we had done in Cuba, except that this time the documents were legal. The official Algerian proposal was as follows. The Algerian Socialist Republic would send a delegation to various South American countries to present their credentials and make diplomatic contacts. The delegation would include our two officials, Abdel and Muhamed; two ‘assistant diplomats’, Masetti and Furry; and other administrative personnel, Hermes, Fabián, Basilio and me. The delegation would use its diplomatic baggage to bring in our military equipment (except for weapons), and protect us through the customs controls at the airport entering the continent, and at our final destination, Bolivia. It was an absolute gift from heaven, or rather, from Ben Bella, Boumedienne and the Algerian Revolution.

  On the 1st of May, we were invited to an official event in the National Stadium presided over by the two historic leaders. We watched a good football match between the Tunisian and Algerian national teams. Masetti took the opportunity to thank the two leaders and say goodbye. The departure of the official party was followed by a strident, unstoppable ululation by thousands of women saluting their leaders from the stands. Outside in the st
reets packed with people, the sound moved like a wave, propelling the procession of cars.

  11

  Onwards to Bolivia and Argentina: May–June 1963

  Our group left Algeria for Rome on 5 May 1963, minus our seventh member. Free of passport worries, I was bent on enjoying the journey. Our Alitalia plane to São Paulo, Brazil, was leaving in two or three days so we had time for walking and looking around Rome. With renewed good spirits, Masetti invited us to dinner in a trattoria not far from the Quirinale. We thought it looked a simple family restaurant, but it turned out to be smart. The six of us, without the Algerians, were seated at a large table and, in true Italian style, were waited on with a profusion of deferential compliments and titles. Masetti was addressed as Commendatore, a name that stuck with him until Bolivia.

  A few unexpected nerves took over as we waited to board the São Paulo plane. Phone calls and confabs behind the scenes between officials holding the pile of passports had us worried. Abdel and Mohamed argued in French. We, the additional personnel, kept our counsel. In the end, we all filed through, not quite sure whether to the plane or a police cell. We always had the nagging feeling our ‘diplomatic’ delegation was overlarge and drew attention because it was Algerian. Algeria was the hot topic of the day. All the crimes the Western press had been hiding were coming to light. The Organisation de l’Armée Secrète (OAS) was carrying out operations against De Gaulle for having given away France’s overseas paradise. And Algeria was leading Africa’s independence struggles, together with Egypt’s Colonel Nasser, and the black African countries of Nigeria, Kenya, Uganda, Tanganyika and the Congo, all the way to Cape Town. North to south, east to west, Africa was entering a new maelstrom of change which was to bring millions of deaths, vanquished hopes, and more hunger for its people. We desperately wanted to get to our zone of operation, and take responsibility for our own actions, without any more intermediaries (gratitude apart). In the end, everything went well.