The Blue Line

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The Blue Line Page 5

by Ingrid Betancourt


  The news spread like wildfire. Theo’s father and mother listened to every report on the radio, consumed with anxiety. Gabriel didn’t show up at dinnertime. The atmosphere around the table was fraught; their plates remained untouched, and none of them dared comment on the affair. The previous evening Gabriel had quarreled with his father, who had upbraided him for his leftist views and accused him of being a bad influence on his younger brother. Theo felt terribly guilty, knowing how strongly Gabriel opposed the violence of the Montoneros and how unfair their father’s accusation was. But he had lacked the courage to stand up for his brother, both the previous day and during the long, silent wait with his parents at the dinner table.

  Overtaken by remorse, Theo waited up for his brother until dawn, sitting in the kitchen glued to the radio. When Gabriel finally appeared, Theo threw himself at his brother and hugged him, putting an end to the feud that had separated them for months.

  Neither of them wanted to admit it, but they each felt the other had been right. A gradual change in their feelings, coupled with the recent events, had led them to see the political situation from the other person’s point of view. Gabriel began to reconsider his categorical refusal of the armed struggle, while Theo pondered the possibility of joining the Peronist Youth instead of an underground organization like the Montoneros.

  Father Mugica officiated at Ramus’s funeral. A huge crowd had assembled near the church of San Francisco Solano, right in the middle of the bourgeois Mataderos neighborhood. Gabriel and Theo attended the ceremony, feeling part of their country’s history for the first time. Ramus’s death manifested a new reality to the d’Uccello brothers: it brought supporters of the Montoneros onto the streets, revealing the importance of the movement as a political force to be reckoned with and no longer merely an urban guerrilla group.

  —

  The day General Perón returned from exile for the first time, Gabriel and Theo went to welcome him with a group of about a hundred young people. They had gathered in the rain against the orders of the police, who had forbidden them to go anywhere near Ezeiza Airport. It was November 17, 1972, a few days before Anna’s eighteenth birthday. Perón was detained at the airport for hours before being released into a deserted Buenos Aires on a tight leash by the military, which had imposed a curfew.

  Seven months later, on June 20, 1973, Gabriel, Theo, and Julia found themselves among a huge crowd come to celebrate Perón’s definitive return. Following the democratic election of March 1973, the Peronist Héctor José Cámpora had been named president of the republic, since Perón himself was not allowed to run. Everyone knew it was merely a transition to pave the way for the general’s return to power.

  When Theo stopped by to pick up Julia on his way to join the welcome rally at Ezeiza Airport, Mama Fina’s desperate attempts to dissuade them were no match for their enthusiasm. After all, Julia had changed a lot too. In the space of just a few months she had become a young woman, keen to prove her independence.

  They arrived at Ezeiza under the thrust of the vast sea of humanity that had come to greet the general and was now fanning out around the platform that had been set up for him to deliver a speech. Hand in hand, Theo and Julia squeezed their way through to the pillar where activists representing the political arm of the Montoneros had gathered next to youths from the Justicialist Liberation Front and Peronist Armed Forces militants. They hoped they might find Gabriel there. Their mission proved completely impossible. There were more than two million people gathered there on that winter morning.

  The weather was cold with a biting wind, but the young people, dressed in thin clothes, seemed not to notice. True, it was a sunny day. But what was really keeping the crowd warm was their newfound freedom following the military junta’s departure. As the excitement grew to a fever pitch, so the temperature rose too. The Montoneros, who had recently formed a political wing, were chanting their overtly revolutionary slogans loud and clear. Despite knowing very little about politics, Julia could see that the Montoneros were the most numerous among the Peronist forces present and were in a position of strength. She could feel herself getting carried away by the collective emotion; she was part of this human mass whose heart was beating in unison with hers. There was a primitive feeling of power and victory in the air that she had never experienced before and that she found intoxicating.

  Giving up on the idea of trying to find Gabriel, Theo and Julia elbowed their way toward the platform, hoping to get a closer view of the man who stirred the hearts of all Argentines. A rumor began to spread that the general’s plane had been diverted to Morón Airport, and a ripple of anxiety spread through the crowd.

  That was when the shooting began. Bullets sprayed in all directions. The crowd panicked and began to crush and sway, swallowing Julia. Her hand slipped out of Theo’s and she lost sight of him. Summoning all her strength, she tried to fight against the tide in the direction in which he had disappeared. She was jostled and fell to the ground, narrowly escaping being trampled underfoot in the stampede. Someone collapsed at her feet, spattering her with blood. The crowd scattered, screaming, leaving Julia at the center of a wide circle next to a wounded young woman lying in a dark puddle. They immediately became a target for the snipers. Julia grabbed the young woman under her arms and began to drag her backward, trying to regain the shelter of the crowd.

  She managed to pull the woman to a spot where the ground sloped down. She stayed in her improvised trench until late afternoon, when the shooting finally came to an end. The girl had sustained a bullet wound to the leg and was still losing blood. Julia laid her down as best as she could and, as a last resort, used the belt of her dress as a tourniquet, tying it above the woman’s knee. She had to get her out of there right away.

  She followed the shadowy figures that rose up out of hiding places like her own and fled silently into the grayness. Julia and the wounded young woman reached the road. She begged Julia not to take her to the hospital, confessing that she was an active member of the Montoneros’ clandestine networks. Her name was Rosa.

  A shopkeeper on his way to Buenos Aires gave them a lift in his van in the dead of night. Julia asked him to drop them off outside Theo’s house. She prayed the whole way that the d’Uccello brothers had returned home and would be able to help them. Theo was already back and was keeping a close watch on the street from the window. He rushed out the minute he saw Julia, firing questions at her. He had been injured too. Gabriel, who’d been the first to come home, had quickly set up a makeshift infirmary in the living room and was tending to half a dozen wounded.

  Still in a state of shock and not yet aware of the scale of the incident, the young people were already calling it “the Ezeiza massacre.” They knew that hundreds of people had been wounded but still didn’t know how many were dead. Over the next few days, graffiti on the city’s walls accused some government ministers of the crime, and a rumor began that right-wing Peronists had given the order to fire on the crowd. As for Perón, he blamed his left-wing supporters for the massacre, calling them “beardless youth.” Some people claimed that Perón feared the revolutionary excesses of the Montoneros, others that it was a military tactic to pit the Peronist factions against each other.

  By October 1973, when Perón was elected president for the third time, Theo had hung the flag of the Montoneros next to the general’s photograph: a black rifle crossed with a spear on a red background, with the letter M in the middle. In his view, Perón was the natural leader of the Montoneros. Gabriel, for his part, could not forgive the general for having scorned the young Peronists by using the humiliating expression “beardless youth” when so many of them had given their lives to enable him to return to the presidency.

  Mama Fina warned Julia that hard times were ahead, but her granddaughter was defiant: if Mama Fina had had a vision, she only had to tell her about it. Julia was old enough now to take care of herself. Whatever Mama Fina might think, Julia remained op
timistic. Like Theo, she maintained that Perón had had nothing to do with the massacre; now that he was actually back in power, things could only get better.

  In fact, as far as Julia was concerned, things were getting better. She had grown in self-confidence and become popular at high school; she was closer to her father, and, above all, like Anna, she had found true love.

  Because of Theo, Julia began to take a genuine interest in politics. She participated in several of the meetings Gabriel organized at his home. Julia was happy to see Rosa at the meetings. She had recovered from her wounds and was now a regular. Julia and she were fast becoming friends.

  It was at one of these meetings that Julia met Father Mugica. She couldn’t take her eyes off him all evening. At forty-three Carlos Mugica was a very attractive man, even in his cassock. With his light-colored eyes, wry smile, and lock of blond hair falling across his forehead, he was simply irresistible. He spoke plainly, exuding an undeniable charisma. Julia listened to him, trying to understand his arguments and struggling not to allow herself to be influenced by his charm.

  7.

  FATHER MUGICA

  Austral Autumn

  1974

  The priest noticed Julia’s embarrassment and, believing her to be shy, took it upon himself to include her in the conversation. They were talking about the Ezeiza massacre. Each of them described their experience, because all the people in the living room had been at the rally. One of the young men standing near Father Mugica confirmed that the shots had been fired by snipers positioned on the roof of the airport. Ordinarily security would have fallen to Cámpora’s interior minister, Esteban Righi, himself a left-wing Peronist. But apparently Perón had insisted that security during his speech at Ezeiza be entrusted to a colonel with connections to José López Rega, who represented the Peronist far right and had become close to El Conductor.*

  Father Mugica explained that if Perón was elected, the government would have to make some painful choices. Peronism could unite the far right and the far left for as long as it was a case of confronting the dictatorship, but once they were in power, the internal divisions would become unmanageable.

  Theo insisted, as if trying to convince himself, that if Perón had to make a choice, he would come out in favor of the Montoneros. “Perón knows he owes us everything. He said so publicly when he was in exile. It was the Montoneros who destabilized the dictatorship. Perón even praised the ‘wonderful youth’ after the execution of General Aramburu!”

  “Yes, but that same ‘wonderful youth’ is now ‘beardless.’ Make no mistake, Theo, the general has already made his choice,” shot back Augusto, one of Gabriel’s friends.

  Julia had been listening attentively to the discussion from the start. She hesitated for a moment, then ventured: “Maybe Perón has changed since he remarried. If Evita were still alive . . .”

  “What are you talking about?” Theo interrupted, annoyed at being contradicted twice.

  His reaction threw Julia, who fell silent like a scolded child. Father Mugica intervened to encourage Julia and calm things down. It was true, he said, that Evita’s absence was a factor that had to be taken into account. Even though she had been dead for twenty years, her name continued to have genuine political significance.

  “Perón’s marriage to Isabel hasn’t simplified matters,” Augusto added. “You can’t really say he made a good choice! She can try all she likes to look like her and copy her hairstyle; she’s not fooling anyone. Evita was the idol of the descamisados, but Isabel’s sympathies lie with the right.”

  “Funny, I get the impression that in Argentina we talk more about the wives than the presidents themselves!” came a voice from the back of the room. Everyone laughed.

  “Maybe so, but it’s strange, to say the least, that Perón didn’t make any attempt to have Evita’s body brought home. . . .” Augusto continued.

  Theo returned to the fray. Given that Aramburu’s body had been found before the junta returned Evita’s remains, Perón could surely not be held accountable in this respect, he argued.

  Rosa, who was also at the meeting, asked to speak, cleared her throat, and said, “Didn’t General Lanusse return Evita’s body to Perón and Isabel two years ago, when they were in Madrid? Or if not, he at least told them how to get it back. I’ve heard the Vatican secretly helped bury her somewhere in Italy. . . .”

  Everyone turned to Mugica.

  “I don’t know, to be honest,” he said. “But it’s highly likely that was the case, or at any rate that the Vatican made sure Evita had a Christian burial.” Choosing his words carefully, he went on: “I too have wondered whether the general’s obvious shift to the right would have been possible if Evita were still alive. But, general speculation aside, it’s clear that the success of the Montoneros and the demonstrations of power by the youth since the Cordobazo* have unsettled Perón. . . .”

  He scratched his head, preoccupied. “Obviously, while Perón was in exile it was easy for him to encourage unrest. He knew it would weaken the putschists. But now that he’s back as head of state, it’s more alarming than anything else. Now, none of us knows who is really influencing the general. Has he made secret deals—with the USA, for example?”

  Gabriel interrupted him. “If, as you say, Perón’s government has shifted to the right, it’s possible that what we’re witnessing is the start of a civil war.”

  Everyone leaned forward to listen more closely.

  “Like you, Father Carlos, I’ve always been opposed to violence,” Gabriel continued. “But I’m convinced it takes a great deal of courage to give up swords for plowshares, as you’ve always told us. Aramburu’s assassination wasn’t just a despicable crime; it was a strategic mistake on the part of the Montoneros. Now people who don’t share our views think we’re monsters and that we have to be gunned down.

  “In my opinion, the Ezeiza massacre was the first step in an extermination plan. There were all kinds of innocent people in the crowd—lots of young people, but also pregnant women, children, elderly people. Where are the murderers? Where is the justice? My dear father, the question we should be asking ourselves is whether, in these circumstances, we should now turn the other cheek. To be honest, what’s worrying me most is this Triple A business.”

  “What’s Triple A?” asked Julia.

  Father Mugica bit his lip, then said slowly, “It’s little more than a rumor. At least for now. Apparently a group of men with close ties to Perón have set up death squadrons under the leadership of El Brujo.* They call themselves the Triple A: Argentine Anticommunist Alliance.”

  “And who is El Brujo?”

  “The minister for social welfare, José López Rega. It’s his nickname because he dabbles in the occult, that kind of thing. I’m sorry to say I’m well acquainted with him. I worked with him at the ministry when the Cámpora government was in power. I resigned because of him. He used to be a police corporal several years ago. He’s very close to Isabel. Maybe that’s why he’s one of the few people to have survived from one government to the next.”

  Then, as if holding back from saying more, he added with a frown: “You’d have to have a pretty dark sense of humor to appoint a man who’s supposed to be the head of a gang of killers minister for social welfare, don’t you think?”

  The conversation took a new turn. The minister for social welfare was doing absolutely nothing to improve the situation in the villas miserias. The layoffs following the worker strikes and the arrests of trade union leaders had not helped matters. Entire households were now living in the most degrading poverty.

  “How can we accept that right next to the wealthiest neighborhoods, entire families are dying of hunger!” protested Rosa.

  “We all live in ghettos, we just don’t realize it,” said Father Mugica. After a moment’s silence, he added: “Just off Plaza San Martín, a stone’s throw from Torre de los Ingleses, there are famili
es who do not eat every day. I’m worried the only reason López Rega has been appointed to the Ministry of Social Welfare is to get rid of them.”

  “Isn’t there something we can do?” asked Julia, visibly moved.

  “Something can always be done,” Rosa replied.

  Father Mugica continued: “López Rega thinks you can eradicate poverty and hunger by eradicating the poor. We think people who live in poverty are different, feel differently, because they are used to being destitute. They bother us because they mar the beauty of our capital city. Gradually we forget that they’re human beings. It’s not much of a stretch from there to putting them into concentration camps.”

  —

  Julia joined Father Mugica’s team working in Villa 31. She couldn’t believe it was so close to her own home. Just by turning a street corner she found herself plunged into a different world. There were still houses, cars, even electricity poles. But it all looked unfinished and rickety. Most of the buildings were made of big hollow concrete blocks stuck together with mortar that had dripped and dried down the sides, as if the urgent need to get them up had rendered unnecessary any thought of giving them a proper finish. Second, third, and even fourth stories were stacked haphazardly on the foundations. Where they existed at all, roofs were made of sheets of corrugated iron, plastic, or asbestos, never the right size, unattached, half balancing in midair. The noises were different too, as if the world of the millions of poor had gone to live on the streets. The aggressive odors betrayed the lack of basic amenities. And there was the human swarming, constant, desperate, peculiar to the hopeless, and the hordes of children in the streets, and the unspeakable chaos of a permanent construction site.

 

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