The first one to die had been their union leader, Rosendo García Maismann, a brave, charismatic man who had been fighting for higher wages and better working conditions. The other leaders who had miraculously survived the massacre had been taken captive never to be seen again.
“You think this has any relation to Che?” I asked mother, surprised that she had brought it up.
“Of course it does, Vicky. Rosendo was well aware of Che’s plans to conquer the hearts and minds of the miners, and that may have given him the impetus to fight, he didn’t know he was dealing with a murderous tyrant like Barrientos who would kill women and children with impunity. The massacre of Siglo XX is one of the darkest days in Bolivia’s history; the cowardly killing of Che is the other. I knew this repressive government of ours would never allow Che to leave Bolivia alive. I also knew he would never succeed here; our people are too timid, too afraid, they have always accepted their fate with passivity, that’s the mistake he made, thinking he could rally everyone to his cause. He must have felt totally alone here, poor man, may God give him peace at last.”
“Oh, ma, I love the way you explain things to me,” I said hugging her. “I always learn so much from you. I was so caught up in my visa problems that I really didn’t follow that whole tragedy, even when you kept talking about it. What happened after the massacre of the miners?”
“The country was inflamed and came out onto the streets in condemnation and outrage but the government cracked down claiming “self defense” against the influence of the foreign guerillas who had wanted to make another Cuba out of Bolivia, and nobody was ever prosecuted for the crimes, even when the miners declared a forty eight hour strike in protest and mourning
“So they blamed Che for the tragedy?”
“Absolutely and they sent a clear message of what will happen if anyone else dares to sympathize with the “bearded ones” the way Rosendo and his colleagues did. Che saw a real need here, in the poorest country of South America. He was never a man to look away from misery; you know he worked with lepers as a young man? That’s right; he worked in a leprosarium in Peru, helping the most unfortunate people on earth, looking them in the eye and seeing beyond the horrible illness. He was a restless soul who traveled all over the world but his heart was always with the destitute, the underprivileged. He was brilliant, a true intellectual, the savage, ignorant people who murdered him here don’t know the kind of brain they killed. They never even gave him a chance to defend himself, he was tied down and helpless and they killed him like a rabid dog.”
“I know, ma. It was horrible, but they say he killed a lot of people that way too.”
“He made history, darling, and history is written in blood.”
“But you said nothing justifies killing anybody except to save your own life,” I insisted, puzzled that she was exonerating him.
“It’s complicated, Vicky,” she said with weariness. “Let’s just pray for his soul and not stand in judgment, shall we? He suffered enough already.”
“When I grow up I want to be like Che,” said Oscar grabbing a broom and pretending it was a riffle.
“Your brother may be clowning around now but they don’t know what they’ve done,” said ma, vehemently. “By destroying him so ignominously, they have made sure he goes on forever. All over the world, every man, woman or child with a social conscience will want to be like Che, will want to stand for injustice - love or hate him, admire or despise him; he will always be a symbol of total commitment and sacrifice in the world.”
“The government wanted to make believe he died in battle, ma, but somebody squealed at the little school where he was shot and that’s how we know the whole truth today, “ I told her repeating what I heard at my aunt’s house.
“He was assassinated in cold blood, darling,” said mother impassionedly. “Because they were afraid of him, but he won and he won in ways we can’t even predict now. Did you see how handsome he looked at the end? That was the most haunting, heartbreaking picture I ever saw. His eyes were semi-open and angelical, and he seemed to be smiling, almost as if forgiving his killers.”
~~~
The papers printed his story for two whole weeks incessantly, for there had never been a more iconic and controversial figure killed in our country. They painted his death as a great victory for Bolivia, but secretly everyone had a different opinion about him - to some he was the devil himself - to others a hero - a martyr for the revolution. Some said he left a legacy of death and destruction, others said he changed the world. What was certain was that he had led a terrible life, often going hungry, thirsty and without bathing in the jungles of Cuba, Congo, Guinea, Ghana and Angola in pursuit of his vision. They said the inner fever that drove him didn’t allow for distractions for he was a man in a hurry.
My aunt admired his passion and said he was a great man who should have gotten a fair trial. My uncle said he was a delusional fool who had nonetheless managed to earn immortality. My cousin Carlos thought he was the most heroic man in the world, and he said everyone at the university felt that way but nobody was able to express those sentiments publicly because they were afraid of our president and his vicious military junta who had given the order to kill Che and would not tolerate any dissension, accusing anyone who sympathized with Che, even in death, as a criminal and a communist.
In Cuba, after a three-day mourning period, Castro publicly honored him on October 18 before a million people. He had become a hero, a martyr for the revolution just as mother had predicted.
~~~
Days later I come back from the market from an errand for my uncle, and Aunt Sonia is on the phone with Aunt Eli discussing my future. I know I should make my presence known but I’m glued to the door eavesdropping, and while she is doing her waist exercises she is discussing the big expense my uncle is taking on, acting as a surrogate father to me practically since I was five years old, when the most reasonable thing in the world would have been to send me back to Uyuni now that everything has failed. Listening to the conversation from the kitchen I feel hurt and embarrassed to be such a burden, and long to show them one day that their investment has paid off with dividends. Will I ever get the chance now? It seems doubtful, even if I’m fortunate enough to get a good job when I graduate. I swallow my pride and go back downstairs, returning a few minutes later with a great deal of noise, so she can change her conversation. She hangs up the phone and greets me with a smile.
“The nurse from the embassy called. The results of your test are ready.”
“Oh?” I say, looking at her with dread.
“There is nothing to be afraid of, we already know the outcome, but I guess we should finish what we started and thank the doctor at the same time.”
We take a cab and I follow her quietly into the embassy wishing the nurse had just thrown the report into the garbage. This place brings back terrible memories and I can’t wait to turn my back on it forever.
“The doctor wants to see you,” says the nurse ushering us into his office. “He has the report; he will read it to you.”
“Good,” says my aunt, cheerfully. “We want to thank him for everything anyway.”
I know I no longer care, I have told that to myself a million times a day, but sitting there waiting for him, the old pain and anxiety comes to the fore, and I find myself clinging to a shred of hope. What if I still have a chance? What if all isn’t lost yet? I struggle to act nonchalant but my heart is threatening to come out of my chest.
“I wish he would hurry,” I say after a few minutes. “What’s taking him so long?”
“He’s a busy man,” says my aunt powdering her nose. “An oily skin is a great thing to have, Vicky, but these are the drawbacks, your nose is always shiny.”
“I’m surprised he wants to see us,” I say nervously. “He should just let the nurse give us the report and get it over with.”
“Well, he’s a gentleman, that’s why I always liked him.”
I cross and uncross my legs,
I twist my long hair and pull my knuckles till they make a noise, while my aunt is admiring herself in the mirror and reapplying her lipstick. She is calm and content; tomorrow she is having lunch in Sopocachi, at one of her rich friend’s houses, and has been looking forward to it all week.
At last he walks in with a swagger, greets us warmly, and hands my aunt the envelope.
“Here, see for yourself.”
“She puts on her glasses to read and exclaims. “But….it’s all negative, doctor, how can that be?”
“She gives a false positive,” he says, sharply. “She never had the illness. I suppose we could have run this special test from the beginning, but I had to follow proper medical procedure, you understand. I had to show that I tried to treat this, at the very least.”
“Then it’s good news?”
“It’s great news. The visa will be granted now.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I am too stunned to react. I feel a mixture of sadness and happiness sweeping over me. I feel strange, awkward and fearful, like an exhausted mountain climber finally reaching the top after many rock slides and avalanches.
“Isn’t this fantastic?” yells my aunt, hugging the doctor. “Thank you, thank you.”
“Then I’m not sick?” I ask the doctor, numbly.
“No, you never were, that’s why the penicillin had no effect, but we needed to make sure.”
I’m in shock, the world I thought lost to me forever is reopening, but my heart is afraid to dance. I won’t get happy till I board the plane; I’m not taking any chances. Too much has happened to thwart my dreams and I won’t set myself up again, not this time, it would be too cruel if something went wrong again.
“You look depressed,” says my aunt, while we wait for a cab. “What a weird reaction when this should be the happiest moment of your life, not only are you going to America but you’re not sick.”
“I guess I’m just too stunned.”
“That’s pretty obvious. But what’s there to be stunned about? I would be dancing in the streets if I were you.”
“It hasn’t hit her yet,” says my uncle, at home, when she complaints. “Give her time; people celebrate in different ways, Sonia.”
“Thank God I’m not like that,” she says getting on the phone and calling Aunt Eli. “I want everyone to hear the happy news, I want to throw a party and get drunk after all we’ve been through.”
~~~
Mother cries and rages against the doctor incessantly when I tell her, telling me he should be sued for malpractice. She has been vindicated but nobody will give her credit, especially not my aunt, who doesn’t want to admit she was right all along.
“One single special test could have avoided this whole nightmare,” she says in disbelief. “But he wouldn’t order it, he had to put the whole family through hell and back first. I don’t know how that man is allowed to practice medicine; something should be done about him.”
“Oh, ma,” I say hugging her. “Be happy for me, let it go already.”
“Oh, the nights I spent crying, wondering how you could have gotten this illness…. The guilt, shame and despair, and all the time you were healthy, there was nothing wrong with you. When I think they had to take liquid out of your spine,” she says with her voice breaking. “I like to go and give him a peace of my mind.”
“Please, don’t, maybe he had to follow procedure.”
“A positive VDRL should never be used to treat syphilis,” she cries reading the report I brought her. “That’s why they have this FTA test but he was too stupid or too lazy to order it from the beginning.”
“He kept arguing that I must have been exposed to the illness sometime in my life, because there is no such a thing as a false positive.”
She opens her enormous eyes wide. “He is an imbecile, and he’s just trying to cover himself. He knows he butchered the whole thing, but he also knows we have no money to sue him. What he did to you was criminal, you’re too young to realize it now, but I hope to God you never pay the consequences later on in life.”
I know she is right but I don’t feel anger, just enormous gratitude and a huge sense of relief. It’s a double gift, I’m not sick and I’m going to America, how can I be angry at life? The reaffirmation of my good health is the sweetest, most precious gift of all, and I will never take it for granted as long as I live.
~~~
Laura and her husband come to visit mother while I’m there one afternoon, and she hugs me affectionately. She is pale, frail and out of breath, but was determined to visit mother before relocating to Cochabamba permanently; and with her husband’s help, has bravely tackled the make shift stairs to mother’s rooms.
“You should have called me,” says mother with concern. “I would have come down. Those stairs are treacherous, what if you had fallen down?”
“Nothing would have prevented me from saying goodbye to you, María,” says Laura softly. “Not even this damn illness or the treacherous stairs.”
They hug each other and mother tells her she is going to make it, that she mustn’t give up hope and Laura assents sadly, and takes the chair offered to her quietly. She is wearing a white sweater, black pants and minimum make up but her face still glows with its own, special light. There is defeat and resignation in her demeanor now, all the fight has been knocked out of her, and the intensity and passion which had always characterized her has given way to detachment, as if she were already looking at her life slowly ebbing away from her from a distance.
“I heard the good news,” she says turning to me and grabbing my hands. “I knew you were going to be fine. I knew it had to be a mistake, thank God.”
I’m stunned she knows. I had begged my aunt not to tell anybody other than Aunt Eli, but I know now she has told all her friends regardless of my feelings.
Mother makes her tea and she drinks it slowly, her husband sits beside her solicitously but I can see her illness has taken a big toll on him as well. Carlo’s face looks drawn and there are enormous bags under his eyes.
“I want you to come to Cochabamba to see me, María,” says Laura, hoarsely. “My parents have a big house and there is plenty of room for you and your kids.”
“Oh, that would be lovely,” says mother. “I have never been to Cochabamba.”
“Ma dreams of retiring there some day,” I say, impulsively. “That’s all she talks about.”
“Don’t wait for retirement, though,” says Laura. “I won’t be around that long.”
“God is great, Laura, he won’t let you down. You mustn’t give up hope,” says mother, holding her hand.
In that moment little Daisy wakes up and mother rushes to the other room to pick her up.
“Great,” says Laura, smiling for the first time. “I wasn’t going to leave before seeing the baby anyway.”
Mother brings the baby to her and Laura fills her face with kisses. “Nothing like a baby,” she tells mother with shiny eyes. “No wonder I had three. A newborn baby is the most beautiful thing in the world. God bless her María, she is adorable.”
She hands mother a beautiful pink outfit for the baby and mother scolds her for spending her money.
“It’s nothing,” she says wistfully. “Just a little something to remember me by.”
“We are never going to forget you, Laura,” says mother tearing up. “You can be sure of that.”
She lowers her eyes to hide her tears. “Talk to her about me when she grows up, will you? Tell her I held her in my arms and fell in love with her.”
“I’m so glad you came to see me,” says mother with tears in her eyes, hours later, when it’s time to say goodbye. “It means a lot to me you made the trip up here, I know it wasn’t easy.”
“I couldn’t have left without seeing you, but I had to beg Sonia for the address.”
“I’m sure,” says mother, sadly. “I’m so glad she gave it to you, though.”
Laura sighs deeply and shakes her head. “I can’t get over the inju
stices of life. I would have killed for a sister like you, and there she is not appreciating you.”
Mother embraces her warmly. “I’m the sister you never had, Laura.”
Laura dries a tear from her eye and kisses her. They give each other a lingering embrace and a question mark is written in both their faces.
“Don’t forget me,” says Laura kissing me in both cheeks before getting into the car with her husband.
I want to say never, but no words will come. She gets away smiling, and I know that’s what I’ll remember, that radiant smile of hers despite the sadness in her eyes.
Mother breaks into sobs when I return, she has been holding her tears in front of Laura but now they are flowing copiously.
“The most wonderful of Sonia’s friends,” she cries. “Why did this have to happen to her? What did she ever do to deserve it? And those precious children of hers, what’s going to happen to them?”
I feel my own eyes filling up with tears. I can’t believe we will never see her again, that the sparkle and mischievousness she exhibited in abundance will be forever extinguished.
“I would introduce you to my brothers,” she would tease me frequently. “But I like you too much to do that to you. Those rascals have been chasing pretty girls since they were fifteen years old, and nobody has escaped them yet.”
~~~
Father sends money for my airfare ten days later and we set a date for my trip to November 15, which is only two weeks away. I feel that ten years have passed since we started the papers, but it’s only been eight months, the longest eight months of my life. Mother takes the news with resignation and tells me she is going to the airport. Oscar has to take care of the other children, so I say goodbye to him and Angel in the house.
Beyond the Snows of the Andes Page 34