Che Wants to See You

by Ciro Bustos

  In mid-morning, I saw them setting up that day’s tribunal: Debray and Roth were to be questioned together, instead of devoting a day to one person as they generally did. After that everyone disappeared, for the weekend, I supposed, and came back from La Paz with renewed gusto. But, despite Quintanilla’s tendencies, our treatment did not change. We were never tortured. After Debray’s initial kicking and my mashed wrists, they did not touch us again. A mantle of protection had suddenly fallen over one of the prisoners and extended to all of us. The Guardian Angel was General Charles de Gaulle, irrefutable hero of the Second World War, founder-president of the Fifth French Republic. We did not know it, but Debray could have expected it. His mother was a Gaullist member of parliament for Paris.

  General de Gaulle’s prestige stemmed from having granted independence to Algeria (an historic role), despite fierce opposition from the most reactionary sectors of his armed forces, who had been losing influence since Vietnam. Yet paradoxically it was this sector that had most influence over the Latin American armies. It is wrong to think that it was only the North Americans who were ethically ‘corrupt’. It was the ex-generals of the OAS (Secret Army Organization) who introduced anti-subversive methods – no holds barred violence, torture of prisoners and civilians – widely practised in those countries where they trained local armed forces, including the US. Years later, Argentine torturers were their model students; some of the generals recognized that the French techniques had been successfully applied in the Dirty War of the 1970s. In our day, the pro-US cupola of the Bolivian army, which included President Barrientos and generals Torres and Ovando, was being challenged by the pro-French sector, led by the Oruro garrison’s General Banzer, over its proposal to negotiate over the lives of us prisoners. And again paradoxically, the negotiations were with that very same French government.

  Meanwhile, I clung tenaciously to my story of the deceptive invitation. It was one thing, I argued, to participate in a legally organized Latin American conference in solidarity with peoples daring to fight oppression, and quite another to end up with a guerrilla group that had been forced into military action before we had time to leave. I had done nothing but refuse to participate and wait until I could leave. I had not seen the leader who, it was true, they called Ramón. I did not know if the men in charge were Cubans. I could not tell their accents from others, possibly Central Americans or Ecuadorians. We had only seen small groups of guerrillas, since they kept us foreigners away from military operations. There was, however, an iron rule in place: if you did not work, you did not eat, so we had to help collect firewood and water, and carried our own sleeping equipment and other general loads.

  The Argentine part was of special interest to them, and there I could let fly, based on what I remembered from all kinds of magazines and pamphlets in Buenos Aires endlessly analyzing details of politics, the unions and the clandestine struggle, and naturally I overdosed on reports from conferences on human rights, freedom of expression, and culture, until my interrogators got tired and changed the subject. I needed to remember my gradual introduction into those circles, quite normal in a more or less democratic Argentina in a permanent state of political ferment since the fall of Peronism, but without straying from what was common knowledge: union meetings, fashionable study centres and seminars, which in actual fact I had avoided like the plague. They wanted to find a link between those activities and the guerrillas in Bolivia; it was like playing cops and robbers.

  One morning, out of the blue, they took me and the Frenchman to a runway. A little Cessna landed and we were pushed into the seats behind the pilot, handcuffed together. The other front seat was occupied by Major Quintanilla, a Colt .38 in his hand. The plane took off towards the north, or so I thought, seeing the jungle-covered hills to the left and the desert plains to the right. We were flying directly over the area where the drama of armed ideology was being played out. Debray and I could not talk to each other, but some telepathic communication must have gone on. It was the first time we had been together since our arrest, although I had seen him almost daily through my crack in the door. We both sported the authentic prisoner look: a few scratches, a lot dirtier, but basically intact.

  The plane landed in Santa Cruz de la Sierra, probably at a military airfield, and truckloads of troops were deployed to accompany us to a barracks. We were still the responsibility of Major Quintanilla who finally introduced us, a tad theatrically, to the Eighth Army Division’s head of intelligence, Major Saucedo. Quintanilla was a police major and head of intelligence for the Ministry of the Interior. Only rivalry between the Commanders of Divisions Four and Eight explains this prisoner transfer operation. Instead of the chief of the interested section doing the interrogation – in this case Section Two (Intelligence) of the Eighth Division from a neighbouring military region where the guerrillas were expected to be heading – the individual sessions remained where we had finished the previous day. Here they merely took personal stock of the statements we had made so far. The prisoner interrogations were still in the hands of the team based in the Fourth Division barracks in Camiri, controlled by the CIA.

  Halfway through the afternoon, we got into the Cessna and returned to the Choreti barracks outside Camiri. We sat in the same seats for the hour’s flight and for the very first time a viable way of escaping occurred to me. Why not relieve Major Quintanilla of his revolver? The major, a typical example of the South American macho, freed from the critical eye of his boss Dr González, was keen to exercise his power. So, twisting round in his seat, instead of speaking – as if we did not understand Spanish – he used the barrel of his cocked gun to indicate he did not want us to move, speak or look at each other. But every now and again, his attention was distracted and he looked out of the front window at the scenery.

  With my hands together, I thought, I could lunge forward, wrest the gun from his hand, press it to the pilot’s neck, and get the flight plan altered, or rather, carry on down to the Argentine border. But this was not Hollywood, I was not the star of a film, and my impulses were subordinate to my reason. I tried to move my arm, but it was anchored to Debray’s and we had no visual contact. Any action that depended on being able to move freely – without being able to – was crazy. The imponderables were: a stray shot might hit me; he might have another gun for his right hand; he might be stronger than he looked; and most probably, the plane might not have enough petrol.

  One morning a third person appeared. Wearing a dark grey suit, a white shirt and a tie, he put a briefcase on the garden table and took out several things. From the few words I heard him say, I detected an unmistakeable Argentine accent. He was from the Argentine Federal Police’s special political brigade. He took ten fingerprints with professional expertise, like a manicurist, then handed me a petrol-soaked rag to wipe the ink off my fingers, which given their recent treatment were still like half-peeled bananas. He said goodbye to the interrogators and went off to get his plane without a word to me.

  Almost immediately I started on a new version of my story. The Buenos Aires police would clearly not tolerate being made fools of, and had sent an Identification Section expert to make absolutely certain. Now all I could do was wait for the results. The dry, threatening tone the interrogators used became ironic, insisting on family dates, details, ages; the questions were as fictional as the replies. We were all pretending. The weekend went by gloomily. In the next session, all hell broke loose.

  I was sitting in front of the interrogation table. The day was sunny, but cold. The interrogators came out of the office. Quintanilla stormed towards me, furious, hurling insults, kicking the air, and knocking over chairs. He was over-reacting, of course, but behind him Dr González seemed livid too. It was the only time I saw him lose his cool. While the major shouted for the firing squad – something he could not do – Dr González swore at me between his teeth: ‘Bastard! You little shit! You made me look like a fucking idiot! You tricked me like a kid.’ The racket they were making was ridiculous. They
must have already travelled from La Paz together knowing who I really was. Or maybe not. The telegram may have come straight to Camiri. I did not know. The point was that, while Quintanilla said ‘We have to shoot this fool!’, Dr González pointed out that while I had wasted their time, from now on it was plain sailing. ‘We’re going to listen to what Señor Bustos has to say to us!’ he said, and let slip a few signs of what they now knew.

  They knew my real identity down to the last detail: a painter, from Mendoza, well-known leftist, friend of communist artists and painters, travelled around Argentina making contacts in political and cultural circles dominated by international communism. ‘Let’s start again’, I said. And we started again: date of birth, parents, brothers and sisters, last address, education, jobs, political activities. It was easier. I could describe a concrete past, not at all subversive, full of famous people known for their pacifism and concern for human rights. Artists and poets, musicians and writers, actors and bohemians who had never held a gun or so much as a firework, committed to the struggle for peace and nuclear disarmament. That was my world, and they knew it.

  I exchanged the false history for my real life, more romantic than combative, or both things interrelated. However, I retained my basic reason for being in Bolivia. I was active in peace and human rights movements, and supported political prisoners fighting for justice and against exploitation. ‘Didn’t you do that in 1952?’ I asked.

  The false passport was normal political behaviour too. When I went to Buenos Aires to meet the person responsible for the invitation – a certain Isaac, a name given me in Córdoba by Elma – I discovered I was going to La Paz and needed a passport. I did not have one and getting all the proper documentation from the police would take too long, so I gave Isaac a photo and he got one for me. The newspapers were full of politicians and union leaders flying to Perón’s house in Madrid under false names, so I took the risk. The web I wove, a mixture of truth and lie, was unravelled daily, and my heart was in my mouth each time my secret came perilously near to being uncovered.

  Some (police) information cropped up about my trip to Cuba in 1961. I made it as far-fetched as I could, saying that I had planned a trip with my then wife Claudia, but that we had split up and wanted to hide the fact from her wealthy family, so we left Mendoza to keep up appearances and eventually parted company in Chile. I went south to Osorno, to manage a seaweed processing factory; a job offered me by a friend in Santiago. The story was true, except that it had happened ten years earlier, and never got past the project stage. The friend was called Maruja (María) Moragas and I met her at a Continental Culture Congress. I hoped Claudia’s family’s visceral loathing for revolutionary Cuba would prevent that lead being followed, and that was in fact what happened. But it was not all so dangerously easy. It did not make sense that an armed organization involving Cuba, and leaders of the status of Fidel and Che, would invite me by mistake.

  On the other hand, it was all so preposterous that it could be an error or overestimation by the Cubans of the level of commitment of the Argentine Left (this had happened in Bolivia, after all). There were too many false trails and Dr González was already suspicious. When he thought he had all the facts, they turned out to be false. ‘OK, how the fuck do I know any of it is true? Painter? How do I know you’re a painter? OK, draw something, damn it. Draw a guerrilla!’ I felt the parachute open. Instead of diving into the abyss, I could descend gently, and keep pulling the ropes until I finally landed.

  Dr González sent someone out to buy a small pad of drawing paper, and a thick pencil. I drew a ‘guerrilla’ who looked more like a tramp. The impact was as instantaneous as the image was useless; the power of the virtual was more real than the bloody actions they had taken part in. Things moved fast after that. I had the opportunity to reinforce my own story, probably at the cost of my own honour. I did not hesitate. The choice between my own image and the secrets of the Revolution was simple, and I made it. The public might be suspicious, but my compañeros would be safe. It all hinged on credibility; they had to accept that I was a genuinely neutral witness, willing to collaborate so as not to be linked in any way with the other side. Who had the soldiers seen? I asked myself. After the ambushes, the prisoners not only saw but talked to various guerrillas, they were treated by guerrilla doctors, they confessed to other guerrillas. Managing more than just a coincidental likeness would be a miracle anyway, and that boded well for me. A good draughtsman can repeat from memory a face he has drawn numerous times, but he cannot make a faithful copy of faces that rush in and out of his memory in chaotic situations. I drew what they might find recognizable: beards, a certain look, recognizable features, the order was not important. Deep inside I had a clear idea of where I was heading, I could almost guess what they would ask me to do next.

  In the days leading up to this watershed, it had become clear that they knew the composition and leadership of the guerrilla group. They made me listen to other interrogations, so I could not go on pleading ignorance. Subsequent speculation, for reasons of press or murky interest, about who did what when, did not change what the army knew. It did not matter what Debray or I said, nor when we said it: they already knew. To get a picture of the chronology, best examine the statements of the defectors: they had already established the presence of Che under the alias Ramón, a group of Cubans under his command, some Peruvians and, naturally, Bolivians led by members or ex-members of the Bolivian Communist Party. All of them were shielded by pseudonyms, which was their purpose. As for our being there, the reason fluctuated like a kaleidoscope. Debray, who had arrived with his own passport and cultural baggage, was in fact more illegitimate than the person who had arrived illegally, because his being ‘important’ was worth something, whereas mine was insignificant. When they found my suitcase in Tania’s jeep, it contained a few clothes, catalogues of Buenos Aires publishers, a photo of Cortázar and two Oruro devil masks bought in La Paz. When they opened the Debray file, they found Cuba, Fidel Castro, Masperó (French publisher), world famous philosophers and writers supporting the great journalistic adventure to find and interview Che Guevara.

  Shortly after my real identity was established, Debray wrote a letter to Dr González (signed by him on 14 May) in which he clarified and corrected details and dates of his previous statements, the circumstances under which Castro told him he could see Che: how, when and where. ‘I realize under these circumstances there is no point hiding today what will be headline news tomorrow’, he writes. Neither knowing the truth nor speculating about it would alter the drama of an isolated guerrilla army prepared to fight to the death.

  Or would it? When we said goodbye, Che had said: ‘but if you see that they know, blast off, spread the news, make as much noise as possible. Then I can be myself again and use my beret …’. That was not some throwaway phrase; he had hit the nail on the head, the importance of his presence. But my unconscious drive to self-preservation initially buried the possibility of making such pronouncements. When I began to see the need for them, I found the crucial element was missing – the press, the indispensible medium for ‘making a noise’, however great or small.

  This was consistent on the part of the army. In the almost four years I was a prisoner, I was not allowed a single contact with the press. And this applied exclusively to me. The only ‘article’ was written without my knowledge by the Argentine magazine Gente when we were taken to Camiri in July. But from our perspective in Argentina, our hopes of success were always based on Che leading the struggle, his ability to get the masses to join him. Without a base in the people, against a powerful army, in an immense country, the struggle was an illusion; more than risible, impossible. Our project could be saved by informing the people, and they would choose whether to accept or reject it, on the basis of their own yearning and the historic merit of the figure proposing it. Keeping his leadership a secret meant denying him support. That was the view taken years later by Bolivian journalist Humberto Vázquez Viaña, Loro’s brother, in
his book A Guerrilla for Che, and also intimated by General Gary Prado in his book How I Captured Che.

  The next step was difficult, because it meant a dual challenge. Drawing Che would be both risible (pretending the drawings were a weapon against the guerrilla is nothing more than that) and a commitment, not only of memory but also of emotion. If I had no voice with which to ‘make as much noise as possible’, I had to use my other talents, and I was prepared for Dr González to say: ‘And Ramón? Draw Ramón.’

  The drawing was a rough sketch. The important thing was not the outward appearance but the inner strength, which I was unable to capture. It looked more like a hungry poet and bore no resemblance to Ramón, or to what he represented. Yet he was considered the success of the guerrilla drawings. Nonetheless, Dr González was soon removed. Of all the drawings I had to do, those of Chino and Ñato were the best (as it happens they were the men I had most dealings with in the camp). Better too was the drawing of Papi, of whom I was especially fond. There still remained the strategic objective I had to carry out, to protect my network by drawing Argentine contacts that did not exist. But I had to let them force that out of me.

  I don’t think the drawings changed the interrogation process, but suddenly one night, we were dragged out and piled into a jeep that took off along a mountain track. In the middle of the night and the middle of nowhere, the jeep stopped behind an army truck and we were pushed out. I thought our final hour had come. But it was just a change of vehicle. We were hauled into the back of the truck carrying a load of soldiers and continued our journey to a mini barracks in the jungle. It was a camp where a Bolivian ranger unit were being trained by US instructors, an eventual Green Beret regiment. I was put in an empty store room, the sort used for harnesses or tools, where I could only stand or squat in the space between shelves, with my knees against the wall. The old wooden door was chained shut, but it had a few opportune slits at eye level.