The Blue Line

by Ingrid Betancourt

  The moaning stopped. Then a man’s voice said from the other side of the wall: “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Julia. Who are you?”

  “They call me the Ant.”

  “Oh.”

  “Did you get here today?”

  “I think so,” Julia said. “Do you know where we are?”

  “Yes. The police station in Haedo.”

  “Do they interrogate us here?”

  “No, don’t worry. There’s no more torture here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Obviously, because I’m telling you!”

  “So why were you crying?”

  “I’m alive because I’m a degenerate, a traitor.”

  “They’re the degenerates!” Julia practically shouted, choking back sobs.

  After a lengthy silence, the voice said: “Did they torture you?”

  “. . . It’s better now.”

  “It’s going to get even better. We’re allowed visits here. We’re being held under PEN.”*

  “How do you know?!” Julia exclaimed.

  For Julia, being detained under PEN was nothing short of a miracle. Prisoners who were handed over to the National Executive Power were “legalized.” They were no longer “at the disposition of” the military authorities, and their files were converted into criminal records. They would, of course, have to stand trial, but they escaped the torturers.

  “That’s the procedure,” the Ant replied. “It takes a while, but once they bring you under PEN, things start to change. First they authorize you to receive letters. Then, if all goes well, they agree to let your family bring you food.”

  “My family doesn’t know where I am.”

  “Give me a name and a telephone number to memorize. I’ll give them to my family. They’ll tell yours.”

  Julia spent two weeks in Haedo. She suffered from terrible cramps and had no choice but to urinate in her cell. She believed she was still pregnant and would stay very still listening to her body, incubating her hopes.

  —

  A guard came to let her out for a few minutes once a day. She never saw him, because she was always blindfolded. She was forced to relieve herself in front of him while he hurled obscenities at her. She didn’t wash for the entire two weeks she was detained in Haedo. Her body stank of excrement and of the fear she couldn’t shake off. Being alone in that black hole, feeling the rats scurrying across the floor, the cockroaches crawling over her skin and becoming tangled in her hair, terrified her.

  Julia’s only moments of respite came when her neighbor broke his silence. He was riddled with remorse. He had been selling out his friends, one of which, he told Julia one day, was seized while trying to flee Argentina disguised as a priest. He knew his friend had been brought to Haedo immediately after his capture. “It was one of the d’Uccello brothers,” he said. He explained he had gotten the information from the torturer with whom he’d made his deal, and who made a point of updating him on the results of his collaboration to feed his guilt.

  Julia wished she could hate him.

  She consoled herself with the thought that if Gabriel had passed through Haedo he must have been automatically transferred to PEN custody, which could only be a lesser evil.

  —

  One cold morning Julia was finally taken out of her cell. She saw natural light for the first time in weeks. It was particularly cold, and even though she didn’t know where she was being taken, the idea of never coming back was a relief. She was coughing, each spasm a frightening reminder of her swollen belly.

  Julia didn’t see the entrance because, as usual, she was transported in the trunk of a car. The khaki pants and boots that she glimpsed by peeking under her blindfold disappeared once she was inside the building. The footsteps grew fainter, not a word, then silence. She stayed standing at attention, paralyzed by panic, not knowing whether she was alone or facing an execution squad. After what seemed like an eternity, a woman’s voice asked her for her name, birth date, and place of birth. Julia answered hesitatingly. The voice ordered her to take off her blindfold and step forward. Julia found herself in a huge room with a ceiling so high that the echo of her voice came back to her. A chair and table sat redundantly in a corner; she got the impression they had been placed there temporarily. Behind the table sat a stout, stern-looking woman with a fixed expression, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a spotless gray uniform, her shiny hair pulled back into a bun. She was busy tapping rapidly with two fingers on a prewar typewriter.

  “Profession, address, telephone number,” the woman continued in a monotone.

  For the first time since her arrest, Julia felt like a human being. She had a name, she had a life. She fought back tears. This uniformed woman was “legalizing” her.

  Julia tried to maintain her composure, but her voice kept cracking, and she had to blow her nose on her sleeve.

  “Why are you here?” the woman went on coldly.

  Julia couldn’t answer.

  “What are you accused of? What did you do? Why are you under arrest?”

  Nothing. Julia knew nothing. She didn’t know what she was accused of, and she was crying with joy because at last she was under arrest.

  The woman raised her head, took off her glasses, and looked at Julia.

  “You’re in Villa Devoto prison, my girl,” she said in a tired voice. “It’s Tuesday, June 22, 1976, and the time is 1:35 P.M.”

  24.

  VILLA DEVOTO

  Austral Spring

  1976

  There were three other inmates in the cell Julia was placed in. They were all serving long prison sentences. Coco was an active member of the Communist Party. Her real name was Claudia, but her cell mates used her activist nickname. The oldest woman, whom they referred to as La Veterana, was a Montonera like Julia, and Maby, the shiest of the three, had been active in a far-left organization called Revolución del Pueblo.

  As far as Julia was concerned, it was sheer luxury: a sink, lights, a proper bed, a mattress. But best of all, a big jug of maté every morning, along with a ration of fresh bread for each of them. The height of indulgence: every other day the guard distributed food that the common-law prisoners shared with the political detainees. Sometimes there was even chocolate.

  The prison building had six floors. It was made up of three large wings in a U shape. Julia’s wing was reserved for political prisoners, the one opposite for common-law prisoners. Julia’s cell was on the fifth floor, which housed women who had been sentenced to more than ten years in prison. The floor below was allocated to men serving a similar sentence. Lower down, on the second and third floors, were prisoners awaiting trial. On the top floor, above the women’s floor, were the punishment cells. This infamous uppermost floor was known as the chancha.

  One night they were awakened by screams coming from above. The screaming continued for at least two days, during which they found it impossible to do anything at all. Then, one night, there was a heavy silence.

  “Maybe they’ve brought him downstairs,” Coco said the next morning.

  “Maybe he’s dead.”

  “No, I can hear the guard delivering his tray.”

  Maby climbed on one of the bunks and thumped hard twice on the ceiling. They were surprised to receive two knocks in reply. Eagerly the women set about inventing a basic alphabet. The number of knocks corresponded to each letter’s position in the alphabet. The man must have had the same idea, because in no time at all they had devised a system of communication. Information trickled down slowly, one knock at a time, stopping whenever a guard approached, and this was how Julia learned, to her astonishment, that the man communicating with them from the punishment cell was none other than Augusto, Gabriel’s friend and her neighbor at Castelar. When he realized Julia was part of the group below, he informed her that Rosa was apparently also at Villa Dev
oto and might even be on the same floor as her.

  Another equally simple and effective secret communication network had been operating in the prison for a long time. The women would climb onto the top bunk to reach the window. From this vantage point they had an unobstructed view of the neighborhood rooftops, the street, and the windows of the common-law prisoners’ wing. These prisoners could communicate with their families and were therefore constantly in touch with the outside world. Julia’s cell mates used them as a post house to send and receive news. The prisoners had invented a sign language of their own for the purpose.

  This means of communication became vital for Julia. She had no way of knowing whether Mama Fina was aware of her predicament, but the common-law prisoners could let her know via their relatives. This was how Julia was given the first piece of good news: informed of Julia’s reappearance at Villa Devoto, Mama Fina and Julia’s mother had begun the procedures to come and visit her.

  But the women were unable to obtain any information about Theo or Adriana. All of Julia’s attempts led to a dead end. One evening, though, when her companions were sleeping, Julia witnessed a strange sight. La Veterana, the longest-held political prisoner in Villa Devoto, was on all fours with her arm stuck down the toilet up to the elbow. She was flushing the toilet while holding on to the end of a rope leading into the sewage pipe.

  Maby explained it to her the next morning. La Veterana had been communicating with her Montonero superiors on the floor below. Maby described in detail the way messages were sent and received through the plumbing system. It might be a way for Julia to get some news. But persuading La Veterana to act as an intermediary would not be easy.

  Julia had struck up a friendship with young Maby quite naturally, since they were both pregnant. She knew that some prisoners on the lower floors got information straight from Montonero headquarters. She had heard that the organization had put together a file on each of its disappeared members and wanted to know who was being detained and legalized in Villa Devoto.

  La Veterana was a hard-bitten, solitary woman. She didn’t take part in discussions, ate by herself, and never complained. Julia could sense the other woman watching her constantly but had never managed to catch her eye. Whenever Julia turned around, La Veterana seemed to have her head in a book. She was a great reader with a huge collection of books under her bunk.

  A few days after the nighttime incident with the plumbing, La Veterana began to read a book entitled Teología de la liberación,* which piqued Julia’s curiosity. She had heard Father Mugica talk about it. He had even mentioned meeting one of the leaders of the movement during his visit to Europe. Intrigued, Julia took advantage of the arrival of the maté to approach La Veterana. She asked if she could take a look at the book. They were surprised to discover that they had both known Father Mugica and attended the prayer vigil on the night of his assassination. Julia found out from La Veterana that Father Mugica had taken part in the May 1968 protests in France. Julia knew nothing about France, and even less about its recent history, but she had found a good avenue. La Veterana was delighted to find a serious pupil.

  In a rare show of confidence, she lent Julia some more books, and Julia devoured them. La Veterana then undertook to broaden Julia’s cultural horizons and scheduled discussions on subjects of her choice. In the course of their conversations, Julia had plenty of time to talk to her about the d’Uccello brothers. La Veterana had no trouble alerting her network. A few weeks later she called Julia over: she had had a response from her superiors.

  “Listen, I think I know what happened to the elder d’Uccello.”

  “Gabriel?”

  “Yes. You told me he got himself arrested when he was trying to escape disguised as a priest, right?”

  “Yes, it was the Ant who told me about it. . . . Have you heard anything about Theo?”

  “Not so fast. For the moment I’ve only been given information about Gabriel d’Uccello.”

  “And?”

  “The leaders have confirmed the specifics with various sources.”

  “Well?”

  “He was arrested and taken to Haedo.”

  “I knew that.”

  “From there he was transferred to Mansión Seré.”

  “Oh, God!”

  “We know they sent him to ESMA* after that.”

  Julia felt her legs give way and sat down on her bunk.

  “Go on, I’m ready. Tell me everything,” she mumbled.

  “They threw him out of a plane alive.”

  —

  Julia was so shaken by the news that her cell mates asked for her to be transferred urgently to the prison hospital, for fear she was going to miscarry. But nobody came for her.

  Julia lay prostrate, refusing to get up, eat, or speak. She felt she was responsible. She was the one who had brought Rosa into Gabriel’s life, and Rosa was a member of the clandestine military wing of the Montoneros. She knew only too well how strongly Gabriel had disapproved of their violence, but he had agreed to treat their wounded, especially after the Ezeiza massacre. And particularly because of his feelings for Rosa. The organization had given the order to avoid the emergency services because the military was drawing up lists of suspects based on the information obtained in hospitals, and he was determined to protect her.

  In retrospect, Julia felt she had lacked common sense when Gabriel had turned up at their flat after the police raid at the hospital. She should have sent Gabriel to the port straightaway to make contact with Mama Fina’s connections. Why hadn’t she thought of it? He had seemed so decided, so confident of his plan to escape via the convent! It had all seemed so simple. She had stupidly believed their luck would hold, when in fact the vise had already closed around them.

  And then there were Theo and Adriana. No one could give her any news of them. Maybe Gabriel’s death was just the beginning of the horror. Julia didn’t know if he had died before or after their escape from Castelar. If Adriana and Theo had been recaptured, they had probably ended up in El Diablo’s hands and been dropped into empty space over the estuary, like Gabriel.

  The thought drove her crazy.

  Dismayed at the impact the news had on Julia, La Veterana surmised that the dead man must be the father of the child. She was distressed too, but in a different way, as if her convictions had not been strong enough to help curb the debasement.

  At least she had managed to get word to Mama Fina, who was now pestering the authorities incessantly. A visit was authorized for the end of September. This was the only thing that seemed to get through to Julia.

  The day eventually arrived. A middle-aged woman with a bleach-blond crew cut, rigged out in a gray uniform that was too tight for her, barked for Julia to follow her. Julia walked with difficulty through the maze of corridors, up and down staircases, through gates and doors that were opened and closed. Her stomach was huge and she held on to the walls for support as she walked, her head spinning. Unable to make sense of the route they were taking, she was taken aback when she suddenly found herself in the visitors’ area.

  The room intimidated her. It was filled with a crowd of prisoners she had never seen. There was a row of narrow booths, open on the side of the guards’ corridor and cut down the middle by a thick glass partition that prevented any physical contact with visitors.

  The uniformed woman pointed to a booth. The allocated space was minimal and offered absolutely no privacy. Julia stared straight ahead, making an effort not to eavesdrop on the other conversations. On the other side of the glass partition was a chair identical to hers. A tube through the middle of the glass functioned as an intercom. Prisoners and visitors had to take turns speaking into the tube and listening. Julia wiped her hands nervously on her pants and patted her hair. What if Mama Fina didn’t come?

  She smoothed out the creases in her uniform again to keep her hands from trembling as the guard looked on impassively
. Finally a door opened. But it wasn’t Mama Fina. Julia tried to hide her disappointment and conjured up a bright smile to greet her mother.

  “Mother . . .”

  “Mi Julia mia, it’s good to see you. You can’t imagine what we’ve gone through.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  Her mother stared at her as if to make sure it really was her daughter. Her expression twitched slightly as she noticed Julia’s belly.

  “Your grandmother wanted to come, but she wasn’t given permission. They kept promising until the last minute that she would get it.”

  “Oh.”

  “But the whole family’s behind you. Your father sends his love. And Anna and Pablo, and the twins.”

  “Thank you, Mom.”

  “Mama Fina asked me to tell you she’s claiming your dual citizenship. We hope you’ll be allowed to leave Argentina with your Uruguayan passport. She thinks we can obtain refugee status for you in a European country. She’s in contact with a French organization called France Terre d’Asile.”

  For some reason Julia found she was crying.

  “And Mama Fina also wants you to know that she’s looking for the father of your child.”

  A sudden tension accentuated the lines that were beginning to form at the corners of her mouth. “You know your grandmother. She didn’t give me any details.”

  “Oh, Mom!”

  Julia clung to the tube, but the guard had already taken her by the shoulder to lead her away.

  25.

  RUBENS

  Austral Summer

  1976

  When you have the baby, make sure you don’t register it under the father’s name,” Maby had advised her.

  She had explained to Julia that under Argentine law, fathers were granted full rights over children, including custody. In the event of Theo’s continued absence, Theo’s parents would receive rights over the child. In practice, this meant not only that the child would be taken from her six months after its birth and given to Theo’s family but also that Julia wouldn’t be able to take her baby with her if her asylum application was accepted.