The Titans of the Pacific

by Robert Gammon

  Ezequiel had been lucky. The bullet had gone through his arm without hitting the bone. Teresa stopped the bleeding, bandaged his arm and got him to lie down and rest. As they closed the bedroom door on him they heard him sobbing and calling his dead friend’s name.

  The following day, La Nación reported that APRA fanatics had started a rebellion, not only in Trujillo but also in other northern towns. The police had quickly quelled the rebellion and four people had been killed.

  “A lie – a damn lie,” said Ezequiel. There had been no rebellion, just cold-blooded murder of unarmed civilians.

  John gritted his teeth and pulled out his notebook – the world must know the truth; he’d make sure his report got to The Washington Post.

  John remembered his last conversation with Carlos, “We’ll have no option but to implement special powers to prevent APRA starting a revolution.” And, surely enough, on 28th December, the government announced an Emergency Law to safeguard public order.

  Dr Flores came on the radio, asserting the law was essential after APRA fanatics had rebelled in Trujillo, shouting revolutionary slogans and attacking the police, who were forced to defend themselves.

  John shook his head. He’d been there and witnessed the unprovoked attack by police and soldiers. Not only that but the police had used the incidents as an excuse to round up APRA supporters – some were arrested at home as they enjoyed a Christmas Eve dinner with their family. They hadn’t even been out on the streets, for God’s sake.

  Carlos had been right, again: the new government was starting its clampdown on the opposition. On the radio, Dr Flores continued explaining dogmatically that the enemies of democracy threatened to take power and suppress the same freedom they demanded for themselves.

  Unexpectedly, John was gathering information for a scoop story for The Washington Post. Days later, he was aghast when Congress passed the Emergency Law without the necessary two-thirds majority required for what was, in effect, a change to the constitution. Opposition congressmen protested, scuffles broke out and Flores called the guards into the Congress building to restore order. The Emergency Law was passed anyway. Was this democracy Peruvian style? John scowled – he should have believed Yolanda.

  The Emergency Law empowered the government to forbid demonstrations and imprison or deport people abroad without trial. The independent lawyers’ association demanded the law be repealed immediately. University students protested in the streets. The CGTP Communist trade union tried to organise a strike. But all to no avail.

  John imagined Flores and his followers celebrating with champagne again. Not even a month had gone by since Sánchez-Cerro had become president and he’d moved swiftly to muzzle any opposition. In his draft report to The Washington Post, John wrote that Mussolini and Hitler would have congratulated Flores. Then, he scratched it out. It was true, but he knew The Post’s editors wouldn’t publish that.

  It had not been a merry Christmas and the New Year brought no joy either.

  There were no New Year’s festivities on Hacienda Chicama. Yolanda’s younger brother, Isaac, came around with a box – whispering in her ear, they glanced at John. Yolanda moaned and then nodded. Isaac held out the box to John – there were coins accumulating. John gave Yolanda a perplexed look.

  “It’s for Isaac’s friend. He’s been jailed” she explained. “Why?” asked John. Yolanda sighed:

  “A police chief is rounding up people – anybody. If they don’t pay, he says they’ll be charged with participating in the so-called rebellion on Christmas Eve. He swears they’ll go to prison if they don’t pay” said Yolanda.

  Open mouthed, John fumbled for some coins to put into Isaac’s box. He felt disgusted; absolutely disgusted.

  Much worse news soon arrived. Dr Flores, relishing his Emergency Law, denounced in Congress that, not only APRA, but also none other than Lieutenant Colonel Jiménez, were plotting to assassinate President Sánchez-Cerro. It was absolutely preposterous – only weeks before, Jiménez had agreed to the electoral results that had brought Sánchez-Cerro back to power. Nothing had been proved before a court of law. It didn’t matter. Flores drew up an extensive list of congressmen, from APRA and other opposition political parties, and journalists, all of whom were deported forthwith.

  John was shocked to see Flores completing his vile task: his Unión Revolucionaria had little opposition left in Congress and was free to pass almost any legislation. And no effective criticism of the government was left in the press – any journalists unfriendly to the new regime had been banished.

  No wonder Carlos Medelius had been so relaxed before the elections. UR was achieving complete power whilst pretending to be democratic. Yet John faced the same old question: what would The Washington Post be willing to publish?

  Meanwhile, APRA’s leader, Haya, went into hiding; rumoured to be in disguise, sheltered in a friend’s house near Lima. What would happen if he were caught? Would he be tried for rebellion, plotting the president’s assassination, treason or some other fabrication? What would Flores induce the courts to do? Only imprison him, or sentence him to death? They didn’t even need to do that: Haya could be shot in cold blood, with the police claiming he’d tried to escape, resisting arrest.

  Anything was possible under the new regime and John had to convey to The Post’s readers how Peru was sinking into totalitarianism. John shuddered at the thought that Flores could be modelling how fascist dictator Mussolini swiftly came to power in 1922 and placed Italy under his thumb.

  Chapter 22

  Then, another twist in Peru’s Shakespearean tragedy: old President Leguía died on 6th February, 1932.

  Ever since he’d been toppled by Sánchez-Cerro’s coup in September 1930, Leguía had been imprisoned without trial. When his health deteriorated, he’d been moved to the naval hospital in Callao.

  John reported to The Post that the Sánchez-Cerro regime didn’t want details of Leguía’s death made public. One Lima newspaper – La Crónica – was even fined for its report. The police occupied its offices to stop the paper being distributed for constituting ‘a crime against public order’ under Flores’ Emergency Law. What on earth did they want to hide?

  The Sánchez-Cerro regime wanted Leguía buried quickly and quietly. They wouldn’t allow Leguía to have a funeral in Lima – so the funeral Mass was held at the main church in Callao, near the hospital where he’d died. Flores ensured there were no trams or buses running from Lima, to dissuade people from attending the funeral.

  Even so, a crowd did make it to bid farewell to the man who’d led their country for fifteen years. Amongst them was John. He smiled when chants of “Viva Leguía” were heard.

  Throughout the country, Leguía’s name had been deleted from streets, squares and buildings; his statues removed; and, with the exception of short obituaries in the newspapers, the new regime obliterated reminders of the Titan of the Pacific.

  After the funeral, when John got back to Hostal Zapata, Tony was waiting for him.

  “You’ve had a strange telephone call,” said Tony and, as John frowned, continued, “he said his name was Roberto, but didn’t want to give his surname or a telephone number. He said he’d call back.”

  The telephone rang. “That must be him now,” said Tony as he picked up the receiver. Tony nodded and passed it to John.

  “Hello, this is John Fitzgerald. Who’s calling, please?”

  John heard a curt, hushed voice, probably distorted by a handkerchief covering his receiver at the other end, say, “Listen, my name is Roberto…”

  “Roberto who?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you. I know where you live. I’ll go there tomorrow afternoon but we mustn’t be seen speaking in public.”

  John quickly assessed the situation and allowed his journalistic curiosity to get the better of him, “Okay, come to see me at… Hello, hello…” as John was left on his own. Mys
terious Roberto had ended the call, or it had been cut off.

  Next day, John waited and waited. No sign of this Roberto, whoever he was. Then, as Tony was about to serve dinner, a well-dressed man in his thirties came into Hostal Zapata. He grimaced, clearly used to more classy surroundings. He didn’t take off his hat, hiding part of his face. His eyes darted around, as if someone might be following him. That must be Roberto, thought John walking towards the visitor.

  “Are you Roberto?” but John only got a nod for initial reply as they shook hands.

  “We can’t speak here. Do you have a room where we can speak privately?” said Roberto. John nodded and led him to the stairs up to his bedroom.

  Before mounting the stairs, Roberto grabbed Tony’s arm, pulled him close and whispered, “Don’t tell anyone Mr Fitzgerald has a visitor; and you’ve never seen me,” as he tucked a generous amount of money into Tony’s pocket. After smiling at an astonished Tony, Roberto followed John upstairs.

  As soon as they were in John’s room, Roberto took off his hat and relaxed into a spare chair. Now, let’s see what this is all about, thought John.

  “Mr Fitzgerald, my name is Roberto Swayne.”

  “Swayne?” asked John, raising his eyebrows – the surname sounded familiar.

  “My father was the brother of President Leguía’s wife. I am their nephew,” said Roberto, smiling as he saw ‘What the hell is going on’ written all over John’s face.

  “I apologise for not having introduced myself properly on the telephone but we cannot trust anyone. The police follow the Leguía family everywhere and they have devices that listen to telephone conversations.” John understood: the same police who, until a few months ago had spied on Leguía’s enemies, now spied on the Leguía. Would a dog bite his old master? No but, sadly, people were different.

  “We contacted the main newspapers in the USA,” said Roberto, “none of them had a correspondent in Peru. But a man from The Washington Post in Buenos Aires told us to contact you. As you know, the Peruvian press is not free to report the truth,” – yes, the same as under your Leguía regime, chuckled John to himself – “so we need to speak to the foreign press,” he explained before continuing. Surprise, scepticism and curiosity were John’s cocktail of feelings as he pulled out his notebook.

  “The world needs to know the truth about my uncle’s death,” said Roberto, before proceeding, “as you know, as soon as Sánchez-Cerro came to power he set up a so-called Commission of Enquiry and accused President Leguía of treason, receiving illegal commissions on public works contracts and embezzlement of government funds. But Sánchez-Cerro only wanted revenge. Everyone knew what the outcome of the enquiry would be. You know, people are jealous of great men and rejoice in their downfall.”

  John nodded as Roberto continued, “My uncle’s defence lawyer, Mr Benavides, tried to vindicate him, but the prosecutor refused him being present when President Leguía was interrogated and never allowed them to speak alone. Not only that, but they never showed Benavides the documents they’d taken from the president’s office and used against him. Benavides has been hounded like a criminal by Sánchez-Cerro’s lackeys and even jailed,” said Roberto, waving his arms in despair, but pausing to allow John to take notes.

  “And, do you know the inhumane conditions under which President Leguía was imprisoned? He was locked away in a small, filthy, damp prison cell, with no ventilation and a small window, boarded up to keep out any light. The prison guards tormented him and kept him awake at night. He wasn’t allowed visitors, although his son, my cousin Juan, was in prison with him. For weeks he pleaded for a doctor to see his father. When they finally operated on him, it was too late.”

  “Yes, I’d heard about that,” said John as he scribbled.

  “And not only that, but someone tried to kill him by throwing a grenade into the room next to him in hospital. Mr Fitzgerald, after all he did for our country, my uncle was tortured to death,” said Roberto, trying to control his anger.

  John had no reason to doubt Roberto’s account of Leguía’s death – rumours had been rife. As he scribbled his notes, John couldn’t help reflecting how Peru’s strongman for fifteen years, and a favourite of American diplomats and businessmen, adulated by all, pleading for his favours and benefiting from his patronage, was quickly forgotten by everyone once he’d fallen from grace and had died alone in the midst of his countrymen’s indifference. Yes, he’d get The Post to publish that too.

  After an hour of outpouring, Roberto asked if John had any questions. Many, thought John, but all he could expect from a nephew of President Leguía was denial: the undemocratic ways in which he’d extended his presidency; the imprisonment, deportation and maybe even murder of political opponents; or the misappropriation of government funds by, apparently, Leguía’s own sons. Roberto would deny it all. Better let it be – John was a journalist, not a political opponent or morality crusader.

  Anyway, the views of Roberto Swayne and the Leguía must be reported to The Washington Post’s readers, which included Peruvians used to reading or hearing only the point of view of those in power.

  As he got up, Roberto turned to John:

  “By the way, be careful with the friends you choose.”

  “What do you mean?” said John, whose surprised look led Roberto to elaborate, “Carlos Medelius.”

  “What about him?” asked John.

  “Did you know he used to be a close friend of my cousin, Juan Leguía? It was Juan who got him his job at La Nación. But now… I guess Medelius will say he never knew Juan,” said Roberto, pursing his lips and frowning.

  John closed his mouth, concealing his surprise and knowing that, really, he shouldn’t be surprised to hear this about Carlos Medelius.

  When they got downstairs, Tony was waiting for them:

  “Two mean-looking guys I’d never seen before came in, sat down, ordered coffee but didn’t even drink it. They asked strange questions.”

  “Secret police,” said Roberto. “Don’t worry – they won’t come back. Thank you,” he said, smiling at Tony, and bid farewell to John,

  “Mr Fitzgerald, you can contact me on this telephone,” as he handed John a note, “the police won’t know this one.”

  After shaking hands, Roberto pulled his hat down over his face, checked who was outside on the street and disappeared.

  The regime didn’t only suppress opposition using the police and the army, now subservient to Sánchez-Cerro, but there was also the growing black-shirt militia.

  They were young – some looked like schoolboys – disciplined and neatly dressed in their black shirts, black trousers and metal-tipped boots. John recalled the incident with Tony at the Sánchez-Cerro rally before the elections. Nobody knew how many there were – hundreds, maybe a thousand. They could be seen on the outskirts of Lima, at a secluded beach, surrounded by mountains and only accessible by a narrow coastal road hugging a cliff side. When they were training, a couple of cars blocked the access road, to keep intruders out. What were they doing? They were marching, singing nationalist songs and training – training for what?

  They showed up at demonstrations against the government – so-called ‘counter demonstrations’, which increasingly ended in violence. They also appeared if there was a strike – helping keep the peace, it was said, but looked more like intimidating strikers. They were also seen outside the university and even some schools, bullying students. Who sent them? Who controlled them? Everyone knew the truth – they were like a private army, reporting to Dr Luis Flores.

  Lately, John had noticed a couple of black-shirts hanging around outside Hostal Zapata. When he went out, they followed him at a distance. One day, John challenged them:

  “Why are you following me? What do you want?”

  “Following you? Are you crazy? We’re just checking there is no trouble in your neighbourhood; that you’re safe.”

>   “Safe? Safe from who?”

  “You know, these days there are many troublemakers, many communists – we need to be vigilant,” they said.

  John reported the black-shirts to a police station. A surly policeman pretended to take notes, “What have these men done to you, sir?”

  “They follow me everywhere,” said John.

  “Well, sir, if they only follow you but have done nothing, then, there’s nothing we can do.” As John left cursing, the policeman smiled, put his blank notebook away and shook his head.

  John heard that Carlos Medelius’ cousin, Oscar, was in charge of the black shirts. So John decided it was time to visit Carlos again. If the police would do nothing, maybe he could get some satisfaction from Carlos.

  John walked into the cold marble entrance hall of La Nación. The neatly uniformed security guards gave him a stiff smile.

  He looked up, beyond the elegant stone columns, to the floors above. Although he couldn’t see anyone, he imagined his every move being scrutinised. He didn’t feel at all welcome in the bowels of this venerable centennial institution.

  The cold surroundings foreboded the chilly reception John expected from his sometime friend Carlos. John couldn’t really make him out: was he a journalist or merely propagandist for President Sánchez-Cerro, or his beloved leader, Dr Flores?

  They had known each other for more than two years. John remembered how Carlos had courted his friendship when he’d first arrived in Peru, which was really only selfish interest in getting fresh news from a member of Professor Kemmerer’s mission. Now that Kemmerer was gone, the value of John’s friendship diminished in Carlos’ eyes.

  At one time, John had enjoyed Carlos’ company and even found him charming. He remembered the invitations to Carlos’ never ending parties, his seaside club, and into his home – feted by his family. The spicy, yet delicate, Peruvian cuisine, courtesy of Carlos’ marvellous family cook – that raw, marinated fish called ceviche, was his favourite. Lately, he hadn’t received any invitations and Carlos had complained about the company John kept – communists, in his view