In Praise of Difficult Women

by Karen Karbo

  Eva’s new show, Heroines of History, managed to make it past the censors. The gossip, of course, was that she was a common whore having an affair with the officer in charge of assigning airtime. Was she? Maybe? Probably? Or was the show just upstanding and dull enough to appeal to a military guy stuck reading bad scripts all day?

  Meanwhile, in January 1944, an earthquake caused a few books to tumble from shelves in Buenos Aires but left the city of San Juan, in the Andean west, in rubble. Col. Juan Domingo Perón, then the secretary of labor, hatched an idea for a fundraiser: a gala with plays, comedy acts, tango, the works.

  I hate to waste ink on Evita’s future husband, Juan, but as she would go on to become the world’s most fanatical Perónist, I have no choice.

  Juan Perón was also the illegitimate son of a ranch manager—but perhaps because his parents eventually married, it didn’t bother him much. At the age of nine, he was sent away to boarding school, then military college. Perón was rugged, handsome, and macho. He fenced and played polo. He could easily have been mistaken for a Hollywood character actor of the time—the one who was routinely cast as a world-weary detective with a drinking problem.

  He was career military. In 1939, a year after the death of his first wife (of cervical cancer; more on this later), he was sent to Europe to train with Italy’s alpine warfare division and to study fascism on behalf of the Argentine military. He found himself captivated by the Nazi gift for pomp and ceremony. When he returned to Buenos Aires, he wasn’t shy about proclaiming his admiration for Hitler and Mussolini. He was fairly convinced the democracies of France and Britain were not long for this world, and why shouldn’t Argentina, neutral in World War I, throw its lot behind the winners this time around?

  Not that anyone cared what Juan Perón thought at this moment in time. When he returned in 1941, he was sent to a far province where he served as an army ski instructor. After the 1943 coup (the one that gave Evita such headaches about her radio scripts), he was appointed secretary of labor. It sounds like an important job, but he may as well have been the minister of silly walks.

  No one in government gave much of a thought to workers in Argentina in 1943. They were all just…there…operating the trains and buses, cleaning the streets, making things in factories. They had no rights, because no one in the oligarchy, which historically ruled the nation before the military started butting in, thought they required them. Charity was the name of the game. Poor people, like workers, were dependent on what the rich felt like tossing their way.

  Around the time of the earthquake, the press took a shine to the 48-year-old Perón. Unlike the rest of the sourpusses in the ruling junta, or military government, he was chatty and personable. He tended to mirror the attitudes of whomever he was speaking to, and depending on his audience, he came off as either a social justice warrior or a Nazi sympathizer.

  AT THE EARTHQUAKE FUNDRAISING GALA, Evita and Perón were introduced, and left together at the end of the evening. After that they were a couple. She left her nice apartment in Barrio Norte and moved in with him. She continued doing her radio plays, sometimes as many as three a day. She still had dark hair, although she wore it swirled atop her head in a pompadour, in keeping with the style of the time. In late 1944, Eva was cast in a starring role in La Cabalgata del Circo, a historical melodrama about a theater troupe. She was required to go blond for the role, and once she did, she never went back.

  Film stock was hard to come by in Argentina; it came from Mexico or the United States. Through her connections with Perón, Evita was able to get her hands on enough to make a film. She presented the stock to the studio, with herself attached as a star. The Prodigal (La Pródiga) was an odd choice. Evita played an aging beauty from the aristocracy whose generosity toward the less fortunate would be her downfall. There was no shooting schedule; instead, they’d expose a few rolls whenever Eva had some free time.

  Meanwhile, back at the secretary of labor’s office, Perón—singlehandedly and in an impressively short amount of time—improved the life of the working class. A strong supporter of unions, he increased their clout and legal rights by instituting a minimum wage, paid medical care, paid time off, retirement pay, and a 40-hour workweek. He created work tribunals to deal with labor disputes; the old way involved the police throwing disgruntled workers in jail until they decided they weren’t that unhappy after all.

  I’m sure you’re reading this and thinking, Juan Perón—what’s not to like? But pay close attention: In another maneuver, which would become a hallmark of his special brand of authoritarianism, he “closed” the existing unions, scrubbing the leadership of its sharpest thinkers and possible future dissenters. Then, he reestablished another union under his own leadership, populated with devoted supporters and sycophants. Nevertheless, the lives of millions of workers improved drastically, and they became lifelong Perónists. The discarded unionists and conservatives were furious, and everyone else was confused. Which was business as usual, for the most part, in Argentine politics.

  Evita was fiercely devoted to Juan Perón. Despite their 24-year age difference, they were in many ways a perfect match. She was passionate; he was reserved (for an Argentine). She was ruled by her heart; he was ruled by a Machiavellian need, not uncommon in autocrats, to quash any and all dissent. They conducted their love affair in a shockingly modern fashion. Perón would sometimes hold meetings at his apartment. Here would come well-educated lawyers, stodgy generals, erudite politicians; Eva the sassy radio star would serve coffee, then sit down and join the conversation. The men were horrified. A wife would never be allowed to take part, yet here was Perón’s mistress? Why wasn’t he doing the acceptable thing—passing Evita off as his daughter, then hiding her in a back room?

  Once again, points for Juan Perón. He didn’t care enough to lie, and there was something else. He saw something fierce in Eva, and thought it would be prudent to educate her. She became his mentee, his pupil, or, as he once called her, “a second I.” (This is also problematic, but it’s better than being cast in an incestuous relationship against your will and locked in a back room.)

  Evita, for her part, was an eager student. Perón taught her everything she knew. She attended union meetings, swearing in ceremonies, and political rallies. Once, before a cabinet meeting, Perón appeared with a record player and forced the members to listen to a revolutionary poem recited with soap operatic flourish by Eva. Around this time, all the common whore accusations began to take root. Prostitutes weren’t just beneath contempt from a moral perspective; they were also thought to be capable of putting men under magical spells. Clearly, this is what was happening to Juan Perón.

  AFTER A SLAPDASH FAILED COUP on October 9, 1945 (from what I can tell, an Argentine specialty), Perón was forced to resign his post at the Department of Labor. He was then tossed into military prison on Martín García Island.*1 Evita was immediately fired from her current radio series, a sci-fi show in which she was playing an astronaut. Suddenly, she found herself with no man, no job, no round-the-clock police protection. Rich ladies made a point of coming to spit on her doorstep.

  For the next few days chaos ensued. There was no cabinet. The meat plant workers went on strike, and so did the sugar workers. The tram drivers walked out. The newspapers announced the end of Perón and his “Nazi-fascism.” (Oh, they had no idea.)

  This is the moment in time when the alternative facts concerning Evita really get rolling. There are two prevailing legends: Determined to save her man, stories say she either disguised herself and went from union leader to union leader, soliciting support—or, she was pulled into back alleys and physically beaten by members of the opposition, her bruised and battered face then serving as a disguise. Either way, both theories posit that she heroically orchestrated the workers of the nation to rise up and demand her beloved’s release.

  What she actually did was file a writ of habeas corpus for Juan’s release, a standard and surpr
isingly dispassionate procedure, given the circumstances. The federal judge who heard and denied her claim was named Juan Atilio Bramuglia. He would rue the day he crossed her, but that comes later. Afterward, she went home and sat in her apartment.

  Still, the workers did rise up, clamoring for Perón to declare his presidency and lead them. On October 17—a week after the coup—they simply didn’t go to work. Instead they headed toward the center of the city. Many of them had never been there before. Now they flowed to the Plaza de Mayo, ground zero for Argentine protests since the foundation of Buenos Aires in 1580. They took over the buses. They climbed on top and hung on the back. They chanted Viva Perón! Viva Perón! The police joined the marchers. They sympathized with Perón because he was a military man. Before the day was over, Perón would be released. The descamisados, or shirtless ones, as the workers came to be called, were thunderstruck to realize they had substantial political clout after all.

  It was on this day, October 17, 1945, that Evita claimed to have been “born.” The next day, in a small civil ceremony in Junín, she and Juan were married.

  Almost overnight, her past vanished.*2 She had never talked about her childhood, so ashamed was she of her illegitimacy and poverty. Now, it was as if she’d never been a radio star, never appeared in a movie. All prints of her films were confiscated and destroyed, except a copy of La Pródiga, which she and Juan would watch from time to time. She was now the nation’s most ardent Perónist, and that was all that mattered.

  At the end of the year, Perón announced his presidential candidacy. He ran with no party and no funds. The descamisados and various radicals supported him, while progressives, conservatives, socialists, communists—all of whom were well funded and well organized—opposed him. It mattered not. On his arm he had Evita: young, blond, beautiful, glamorous. People ate it up, and on February 24, 1946, Perón won 52 percent of the vote in the first legitimate election since 1928. He immediately got busy appointing all his friends to important positions. He appointed his dentist, Ricardo Guardo, to a cabinet position. Evita’s brother, Juan, the soap salesman, was appointed private presidential secretary.

  Evita was the perfect modern first lady. She wasn’t interested in the traditional wifely duties. She wasn’t into hosting parties, and she never cooked. Cabinet members sometimes showed up at the presidential residence unannounced, and when they did, she would offer to open some cans and pass out the forks.

  She was, however, interested in her wardrobe. She only knew how to dress like a cheesy radio star, and she understood that would not do. She enlisted the educated, well-bred Liliane Guardo, wife of the dentist/cabinet member, to assist in a makeover. At her first official state banquet she wore a subdued (for her) gray silk sheath dress, one shoulder completely bare. Everyone was appropriately scandalized.

  IN JUNE 1947, EVITA WAS SENT on a grand tour of Europe. The reason for the trip was vague. Some typical morsel of nonsense was floated in the press about a rainbow of peace stretching between the continents. Perón had originally been invited by brutal Spanish dictator Francisco Franco—but Argentina had only recently been invited to join the UN (not a fan of Franco), and his visit would be too tricky politically to pull off. But Evita could go on her husband’s behalf. Once her trip was announced, the usual travel logic took over: She was going to be over there anyway, so why not visit some other countries?

  Evita had never been on an airplane. She had been out of the country only once before. Her brother, Juan, and friend Liliane Guardo accompanied her, as well as someone whose sole job was to keep an eye on her jewels. Also some speechwriters, diplomats, and photographers.

  Three million supporters were there to welcome her in Madrid. Spain spent a fortune feting her: banquets, pageants, parades, presents, and long speeches, all in her honor. In France she received the Légion d’honneur, and had private viewings at the Paris fashion houses. (After this trip, Christian Dior would make most of her clothes.) At the Vatican, she was accorded 20 minutes with the pope—the same amount of time allocated to European queens. Some wag referred to her as “the South American Eleanor Roosevelt.”

  Still, every night, she asked Liliane to sleep in her room. She was lonely and homesick—and as much as she felt all this was her due, she also felt out of her depth, and thus a little frightened. No one would know this. Her public speaking skills were improving rapidly. Her soap opera training was perfect for the short, passionate, over-the-top declarations she would soon become famous for. She was also expert at seeming to answer questions without actually answering them, a foundational requirement for a politician.

  IN 1947, WOMEN GAINED the right to vote. Evita is routinely credited with leading the charge—but as with everything else, it’s hard to know what actually happened. What we do know is that after Perón appointed her head of the Perón Feminist Party, women quickly came into their own politically. Universities reported enrolling twice the number of female students as the previous year. In the next elections, in 1951, seven female senators were elected. Argentina now boasted the most female legislators in the world.

  Evita’s genuine passion was giving—but in that confusing way where it was really as much about her as it was about the person on the receiving end. The world would come to wonder what lay at the heart of Evita’s spectacular obsession. Did she remember, clearly, what it was like to be poor? Did she feel indebted to the workers for supporting her husband? Or did she simply dig the adulation?

  At first, she and Juan would do the Christmas thing, where they were chauffeured around to the poorest slums to distribute panettone and cider. Soon, she went alone and passed out food boxes during the off-holiday season and during frequent strikes.

  People began to show up at her office with specific requests. Mostly women came. They were very poor. They were dirty, and—how to put this—they smelled. Eva’s minions never failed to comment upon the odor of poverty in her office. The women asked her for shoes for their children. A new sewing machine because the one they relied on to make a few pesos here and there was stolen. Medicine to stop a husband’s raging toothache. Evita kept a stack of new 50-peso notes beneath her desk blotter. Her hands were perfectly tended, her nails polished with red Helena Rubinstein polish each morning by a maid. She would pinch a note from beneath the blotter and press it into the hand of the supplicant, also making a note of their specific need. She would then stand up and hug and kiss them. Day by day, the lines grew longer. Evita worked longer hours—the hardest-working Santa Claus in recorded history.

  JUAN PERÓN WAS NEVER your standard-issue dictator. He was elected freely and wound up dragging Argentina kicking and screaming into the modern age, and—at least at first—his supporters didn’t mind being ruled in a paternalistic fashion. Plus, he had a beautiful, charismatic young wife and champion whose passion was giving over-the-top speeches singing his praises. It was quite a dog and pony show. He depended on the workers, but he was just not that into them. Evita was his heartfelt link. Once, she and Juan stepped from their limousine on the way to an event. Out of nowhere a descaminado in a filthy poncho swooped up and tried to embrace Perón. The president reflexively swatted him away, but Evita tottered after the man in her high heels. She bestowed a kiss upon his head, to make it up to him.

  In the June 26, 1948, issue of the New Yorker, Philip Hamburger wrote, “They live happily in the presidential mansion. She now has fine furs and satins, and lots of big, sparkling diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. It’s a dream come true. But Eva never forgets the Poor. She and the President, who love not only each other but the People, slave night and day doing good works and destroying the Enemies of the People. And so it goes, week after week after week. Wow!”

  Evita and Juan viewed themselves as loving but strict parents who punished back talk—or really, any disagreement at all. The national labor union leadership comprised enthusiastic supporters who were nevertheless still capable of independent thought. When these me
n dared to disagree with or criticize Juan or Evita, they were fired and replaced with slavering toadies whose only qualification for the job was Labrador retriever–like loyalty. Both the driver of a biscuit truck and Perón’s doorman were promoted within the ranks.

  Perón found an arcane article in the Argentine Constitution that allowed him to impeach four Supreme Court justices. He replaced them with avid supporters, including one of Evita’s brothers-in-law. Vast, complex plots to assassinate Juan and Eva would be hatched in-house and reported on state-run radio, giving Perón carte blanche to toss a select list of enemies in jail. There they would sit, awaiting a trial that would never occur.

  Any newspaper that published anything aside from the most glowing editorials about Juan and Eva was soon visited by inspectors who would find reason to shut them down (lack of “proper” ventilation, inadequate washrooms). The Socialist newspaper published critical editorials and was shuttered because, allegedly, its printing presses violated local noise ordinances.

  By 1948, the government was in charge of dispensing the printing ink. By 1950, most of the newspapers, publishing houses, radio stations, and news agencies were owned by a single entity chaired by the governor of Buenos Aires: a staunch Perónist.

  Eva was given a newspaper, the nearly defunct Democracia. She was a hands-off publisher, but her staff knew without asking that each edition should feature the full texts of her husband’s speeches, and plenty of flattering pictures of Evita in her red-carpet finery.*3 The only thing she absolutely insisted upon was that Democracia never mention Juan Atilio Bramuglia. Remember him? The federal judge who crossed her on the matter of Juan’s imprisonment? If Bramuglia did something newsworthy, it was ignored. No pictures of him were printed. If he showed up in a group shot at some rally, meeting, or gala, his face was blacked out, without explanation.