by Ciro Bustos
Masetti explained that was why we had taken up arms and that when the moment came, we would teach his tormenter a lesson, and others like him, starting with his landlord. To affirm our friendship, and thinking mostly of his family’s safety in case something unexpected happened, we agreed that, if the foreman or his gang appeared, Pedro would come down to the river to get water and tie a piece of red cloth in a secret place we chose together. After sharing breakfast, we left Pedro’s house and poverty-stricken family. We reiterated our concern for his safety and recommended he did the same for us, especially by making sure his children said nothing.
Meeting this family reduced to almost unimaginable poverty had more impact on us ideologically speaking than any Marxist seminar. We walked on with the image of the miserable family frozen in our minds like a film still, feeling a bit ashamed of our own woes, magnified by our egos, but which were minute and transitory compared to these people’s existence. It would not be long before I was back at Pedro’s house.
When I had returned to the camp from my last city trip, I’d felt a certain tension in the air. Henry had asked to speak to me alone. He said his relations with Masetti were very bad, not because of anything he had done, but because he felt he was being increasingly marginalized. Henry had not been given any responsibilities, was not asked to do important tasks or to go exploring. He had begun to doubt his own abilities, and worse still, started thinking Masetti was discriminating against him because he was Jewish. I rejected this possiblity – and still do today. Masetti was aware of the marked percentage of Jews in our urban network. In fact, the Argentine Left as a whole were either Jewish themselves or married to Jews. Half the EGP national leadership was Jewish. Masetti knew this but he had never said anything to me, although it was my responsibility. Besides, it was impossible to imagine Masetti being anti-Semitic given his relationship with Che. Pupi was not a good example because it was obvious his fate had nothing at all to do with his being Jewish. I assured Henry I would talk to Masetti because I found the atmosphere intolerable, and I did.
Masetti’s view was that we were about to embark on operations that were vital to honouring his commitment (to Che), and although he wasn’t worried about anyone in particular, Henry had not shown much enthusiasm. However, he would bear him in mind if, as I said, he had promise. No sooner said than done, Henry was to come with me on an assignment. It consisted of going back to Pedro’s house and, assuming his first task had gone well, get him to establish a constant supply line of a few basic products – charqui, flour, sugar, coffee, cereals – that he could buy in the area and bring up by mule. The only snag was that this plan was potentially even more dangerous for us than the repeated trips of our pick-up: Pedro was desperately poor and could not be a big spender in anyone’s eyes. Masetti wanted me to resolve this problem. Our trip would take one day there and one back, so we could do it without heavy backpacks.
Henry was estatic but I was worried. We had to find a trail we had walked only once. Tracking skills were not my forte, and I never developed them because I was always bringing up the rear. We left next morning, going west beside the stream. Halfway to the river the rain bucketed down and the gentle stream turned torrential, its muddy banks hard to negotiate. At nightfall, way behind schedule, we reached the river now flowing menacingly past, its stony teeth chattering. We could not risk crossing in the dark and spent the night huddled together like Siamese twins in a little hollow we dug for our torsos, the water running over our legs down the slope.
When we finally reached the slope to Pedro’s house, there was no red cloth warning of danger. Despite the weather, we were only a day late, thanks mainly to Henry; the storm had washed away all signs I thought I remembered, but not his. Pedro looked very pleased to see us, as if deeds not words confirmed our intentions. He had had no problem buying what we asked, and was ready to repeat it as many times as needed. We considered the risk of him turning up and buying an unusual amount and suggested he do it bit by bit in different places and only buy produce he would use himself. His income was at its lowest at this time of year, having only tree trunks to sell to charcoal burners, and maize and potatoes to barter for fat and flour. I left Pedro an unimaginable (for him) sum of money on condition he hide it somewhere safe, away from the house, and use it only when needed. He wanted to buy rope sandals for his family.
We set off back downriver again, hoping to reach the stream before nightfall. Finding it was a miracle. The torrent had altered the shape of the river banks; whereas before the jungle contour plunged down to a beach of stones and sand, now the water covered everything. A couple of trees, like an arch, showed us the entrance to the stream, but the stream itself was a swamp. The water came up to our chests, except when we stumbled and fell in up to our necks. But this was our path, we had to follow it or we would never find the camp. We struggled on, cursing and gargling mud, until at two in the morning we ran into Córdobes and the rest of my squad coming to look for us. After some high-fives, I shouted ‘I’m never going down that bloody stream again!’ Héctor said ‘Masetti is livid! He was expecting you last night …’. ‘What? Didn’t he hear the tempest?’ I asked sarcastically. ‘His only tempests are in his head’, replied Héctor.
Nonetheless, Masetti greeted us warmly. He handed me some dry clothes and said they had saved some stew for us. He added that we should try to get a few hours sleep because, as if remarking how chilly the dawn was, ‘In the morning you’re taking your squad to the River Bermejo to collect the weapons Furry is bringing.’ ‘Left speechless’ was hardly relevant since I could barely speak from exhaustion anyway. Henry and I had walked for forty hours in impossible conditions, our muscles were screaming with cramps, our feet were raw, yet here we were being ordered to return to the Bolivian border it had taken us two months to trek away from. (The plan actually included public transport to the outskirts of Aguas Blancas, but only after we trekked to Orán, bought clothes, and found a pension.) The fact of the matter was that, against my most fervent wishes, at dawn we were retracing our steps down ‘that bloody stream’.
That night in Orán, we attended to our feet, ate steak and slept in a bed, an unexpected and welcome gift. Early next morning a truck transporting labourers dropped us off at the bridge over the River Pescado. We found the old sand lorry road, where we had met up with the jeep on that oh so distant night, and struck off into the jungle. Only the special exploring talents of Córdobes (with whom Masetti had planned the details of my squad’s trip) led us on schedule, after two days’ march, to the same ford we had waded to enter Argentina. We were five: Córdobes, Henry, Jorgito, a fourth (I’m not sure if it was Enrique) and me. We spent that night and the following day hiding on the Argentine bank of the River Bermejo, waiting for the first nocturnal rendezvous with Furry. Like a precision stopwatch, his jeep arrived around three in the morning, flashing his headlights as usual. The lights extinguished and the jeep disappeared into the darkness, while we swam the river now swollen into an Olympic swimming pool.
The big surprise was seeing Papi Martínez Tamayo, the Cuban captain assigned to the project, who had come to help carry the consignment. Furry had filled backpacks with weapons, munitions, equipment, and some food for the trek. We had only to put them on. A heavy load no longer helped against the current since the seemingly calm surface of the Bermejo now hid treacherous undertows. The tallest among us could wade with water up to our necks, but Jorgito who was very short could not even breathe without swallowing water and his rucksack dragged him down. We crossed holding hands, but in the middle, Jorgito panicked and went under. He could only come up for air by pushing himself off stones on the bottom, while I tried to hold onto him. I shouted for help, because Jorgito was being swept away and me with him. Papi reached the bank, left his backpack and let the current bring him to us. He took charge of the submerged Jorgito, who was about to drown. Our only gun was my Browning pistol held against my abdomen by my leather belt but which started slipping down my right trouser leg a
nd finally tumbled out and lay, like an offering to the river furies, buried in its bosom. We were not, however, unarmed. We were bringing in more weapons than on any previous occasion, including automatic rifles and plenty of ammunition for all types and calibres of guns.
The march was calm but relentless. We were better fed and more relaxed than at other times, no conflict and no pressure except deadlines and the rendezvous with Gringo Canello and his pick-up for the final lap up. Our arrival at the camp was triumphant. Masetti was ecstatic and gave me his Browning to compensate for losing mine, choosing a recently arrived Luger for himself. The guerrilla army, now well armed with plenty in reserve, comprised about twenty men. We had covered an extensive area and were beginning to master its difficult geography, although the contacts we had made with the local population were poor and of not much use politically. We needed to move our zone of operations nearer the Tucumán sugar cane fields where the exploitation was inhuman, and conditions ripe for raising consciousness and beginning political work.
Lack of relations with our potential social base were not our only problem. Relations within the group were not good either. Papi was not there on the offchance. He had arrived at the finca with Miguel Angel Duque de Estrada, a personal envoy from Che, who had orders to wait and enter Argentina with him. Papi had not only come to lend a hand, but also to check the route, see how well things were functioning and ensure tight security. (He travelled throughout the zone and eventually went all the way to Buenos Aires where Ana María escorted him round – she played an important role for the EGP there developing contacts and chosing recruits.)
Masetti put on a show for Papi. He conferred the rank of lieutenant on Cordobés and I passed on to him responsibility for my squad (to which he belonged) so that, as personal delegate of the guerrilla command, I could concentrate permanently on strengthening ties with the cities. With my frequent trips away from the camp this was de facto already the case. Now that the network had a life of its own, my trips were used both for coordination purposes and to carry out special missions for Masetti. In this way, he commanded the whole organization. We created a permanent base in Salta so that new recruits rendezvousing with Canello’s pick-up did not have to register in a hotel. Responsibility for this was given to Enrique Bollini Roca, an architectural student from Córdoba, who always used to ask me if I needed company on my trips. This job, possibly rotating, would be an urban vanguard, prior to eventually forming local supply centres and ending the long-distance dependence on Córdoba and Buenos Aires.
Masetti wanted a series of meetings with the political cadres who supported us. He decided to start with the group in Córdoba, and on my next trip I passed on the invitation. The Pasado y Presente editorial board immediately accepted and chose Pancho Aricó and Armando Coria. We went up to Salta in two groups. I advised them on appropriate clothes and footwear and gave them some pointers, although for the uninitiated there are no valid tips for trekking in the jungle, except take lots of bandages. The pick-up took us as far as it could into the jungle, and from then on we started the usual trek upstream. Enthusiasm, however, is not waterproof. Armando’s strength gave out halfway. His feet in ribbons, he could not continue, and we had to evacuate him with Canello who luckily was climbing part of the way with us. Pancho, who was younger, adjusted to the rigours of the trek despite his professorial aspect. We reached the camp without further problems.
For Masetti, the conversation was a success in all respects, although the surrealist nature of the situation may not have made a strong enough impression on Pancho to mitigate the eventual disaster. Pancho shared the vicissitudes of the campaign and endured the daily hardships, but he also glimpsed the possibility of an integral revolutionary education, and discussed with Masetti the idea of creating in our camps some kind of Maoist ‘cadres’ school’ like the Yenan Forum. There were also discussions with the rest of the compañeros sitting round the fire. It was the high point of the Salta political debate.
16
Defections and an Execution: February 1964
Enthusiasm spread throughout the urban network. This was both exciting and a cause for concern, since we needed to absorb new recruits gradually, not overload our capacity to supply them. Otherwise our main task would soon be how to feed a troop of hungry exhausted men wandering aimlessly around the jungle. We also had to guarantee enough weapons to arm our column and to create a strategic stock. So Masetti planned to stop using – at least not exclusively – our rearguard border with Bolivia, thereby guaranteeing the security of the finca. He devised a new method of bringing in weapons and equipment through Uruguay, which would rely on the navigational skills of Pirincho, an atypical representative of the Buenos Aires bourgeoisie who had left his yacht anchored in the Tigre delta and embraced the revolutionary cause.
Pirincho had told us about his excursions to Punta del Este, Uruguay. He and his friends sailed to and fro, bringing back cigarettes and booze. He didn’t give it much thought, and it was certainly not a business. No one ever questioned him when he moored his sailing boat at the Yacht Club. We deduced that for the Coast Guard, a young playboy’s bit of fun and smuggling were two quite different things. In the light of this new focus on his favourite sport, Pirincho would have to study the possibilities in situ. He and I would then would meet up in Buenos Aires to plan the rest of the operation.
We moved with ease through an area from which we could expect nothing but solitude and increased knowledge of our environment. The exhausting treks posed no problem for the established explorers like Hermes, Héctor and Federico, but left new recruits ready to quit. The fateful experience with Pupi made us only too aware that physical aptitude was essential, in fact a priority. We could not keep carrying weights that might end up ‘dead’. A tacit consensus was rigorously imposed. Hence, a trio of young Córdoban lads from Héctor and Emilio’s home town of Bell Ville, who arrived overflowing with enthusiasm, were packed off home after three days when they proved useless. They swore to accept responsibility for not putting our safety at risk.
It happened again with a ‘top notch’ heart surgeon sent from Buenos Aires, the golden boy of the university contingent. Like Masetti, his name was Jorge, and like him, he was very cocksure. But it lasted only a day or two. Before the week was out, he had melted like a candle, and began showing signs of increasing disintegration, conjuring up the unbearable spectre we all wanted to leave behind. Nonetheless, he was ordered out to explore with me. ‘Take the surgeon’, barked Masetti. After a few hours trekking through the tangled and aggressive undergrowth, the surgeon’s desire to die turned to panic when he realized we were – I was – lost. His sobs, interspersed with convulsive hiccoughs in the best melodramatic fashion, kept on and on. I opened a couple of the tins of sardines I always carried in my uniform pockets, and made him eat while I talked about tomorrow being a new day, and that we would find the track again. To really encourage him, and get rid of his fear and stop his hiccoughs, I pointed my pistol in the air and fired between his head and mine. It must have sounded sweet to him because he calmed down, and even slept.
By next morning, his moaning, whining and complaining was back, and he refused to budge. To show I knew what his game was, I took out my pistol again and stuck it in my belt. I grabbed his collar, pulled him to his feet, and kicked his arse to get him walking. I promised to kick him all the way if need be, and ask for his immediate dismissal. The trail I had not been able to find the previous day was suddenly obvious. Halfway home, at about ten, we bumped into Hermes coming to look for us.
Masetti was hopping mad, but I played down the problem: getting to the river took longer than we thought and we would not have got back before dark anyway. I insisted, however, that we get rid of the heart surgeon without more ado, to avoid a new case of Pupi, something we could not justify to our urban base. The people who sent him had made a mistake and we had to reject him. I don’t think it was my debating skill that convinced Masetti to sack the surgeon. He had come to the s
ame conclusion but I had been tasked with the final test. The ‘golden boy’ left in the same inept bunch as the lads from Córdoba.*
Among the recruits, the sudden separation from their families, added to the hardship of camp life, caused depression which was not treated with much compassion, except perhaps from the compañero next to you. It could even produce hallucinations. One night about eight, a noise came up the slope to the camp. ‘People are coming up the stream!’ shouted the faltering voice of the recruit on guard duty. Federico and I stampeded down the bank. Our search exposed nothing but the sounds of the stream, the creaking of the jungle, and animals. Masetti punished us with eight hours of guard duty for acting off our own bat, after which we would all comb the area since any intruders would have fallen back to wait for dawn when they heard the sentry. Two patrols set out at four in the morning. Federico said a pair of tapirs could make more noise than a border police platoon and we would probably find their tracks. The only tracks found were those made by Federico and me earlier. No tapirs, no border police. Hallucinations.
When Héctor took over my squad, he inherited my duties of political commissar, psychologist and shoulder to cry on, and brought his considerable professional skill to the job. I became the ‘former squad leader with influence’ to whom recruits still turned with latent problems they wanted me to bring up with Masetti on my return to camp. As a result, I learned that another division between ‘the favourites’ and ‘the spurned’ was assuming dangerous proportions. A couple of recruits were confined to hammocks: Grillo was on a course of antibiotics after an infected spider bite but Nardo was under ‘house arrest’. Henry was in charge of them both. Nardo had deteriorated very quickly, and the understanding and solidarity that tried to save him from Masetti’s ‘sights’ was wearing thin. Masetti’s ‘liberal’ period was over and he had invented his own military codes of conduct. That dangerous mentality that spreads like a virus in exhausted organisms was already gnawing at our principles. We had to act before the crisis came to a head. We were all desperate to get Nardo out.