Using the calendar, I calculated that it was October 18, 1975. And, as I now remembered, Saturday. That explained the silence of the telephones. Because on Saturday and Sunday all life died away. Those two days were governed by their own inviolable laws. The guns fell silent and the war was suspended. People put down their weapons and fell asleep. Sentries left their posts and observers put away their binoculars. The roads and the streets emptied. Headquarters and offices were closed. Markets were depopulated. Radio stations went off the air. Buses stopped running. In an incomprehensible but absolute way, this vast country with its war and destruction, its aggression and poverty, came to a halt, went motionless as if someone had cast a spell, as if it were enchanted. Neither the most titanic explosion nor any heavenly apparition nor any human appeal could budge it from its weekend lethargy. Worst of all, I could never establish what happened to the people. The closest friends disappeared like stones in water. They were not at home and not in the streets. Yet they couldn’t have traveled outside the city. Clubs, restaurants, and cafés—they didn’t exist. I don’t know—I can’t explain it.
All the warring sides respected this weekend rest, and the bitterest enemies acknowledged the opponent’s right to two days of relaxation. In this matter there were no divisions; the weekend laxity swept up and united everyone. These people were constructed in such a way that their vital energy lasted from Monday to Friday, after which they passed at midnight into a state of nirvana, into nonexistence, freezing in the positions they were in at that hour. Everything was enveloped in an apathetic silence that had the effect of a sleeping potion. Even nature seemed to go to sleep. The wind died down, the palms stiffened, and the fauna disappeared into the earth.
Oscar came in the evening with a telephone number written on a piece of paper, saying that I was to call it. “Whose number is it?” I asked. He didn’t know. They had phoned the hotel and said to give me that number when I returned to Luanda. Oscar left me alone in the room. I picked up the receiver and dialed the number written on the paper. At the other end of the line, a low masculine voice answered. I said they had given me that number in the hotel and said to call. Was I named such-and-such? asked the low voice. Of course, I said. The first part of the conversation had been in Portuguese, but at that moment the other switched to Spanish and from his way of speaking and his accent I realized that I was speaking to a Cuban. Anyone who has spent some time in Latin America and knows Spanish can immediately distinguish the Cuban accent: It has a specific melody and is a slaphappy fusion of words whose endings are regularly omitted. I asked the other who he was and what he was doing, thinking that he was a reporter from Prensa Latina or someone of that order. Then he said, “Man, don’t ask too much because whoever asks too much gets too much of an answer.” I shut up, since I didn’t know what he was talking about. “We’ll see you in your room,” he said. “We’ll be there in an hour.” And he hung up.
Two of them came, in civilian clothes, and one was black and massive and robust, and the other was white and stocky and short. They sat down and the black one took out a pack of Populares, a brand of Cuban cigarettes that I like. They asked if I had ever been in Cuba.
“Yes, I was there once.”
“But where?”
“I was everywhere, in Oriente, in Camagüey, in Matanzas.”
The black is from Oriente. “It’s beautiful there, right?” he laughs.
“Beautiful,” I say. “They took me up a magnificent mountain. The view was fantastic.”
“Have you been south of here lately?” the white asked.
“Yes, I have.”
“What’s it like down there?”
“What’s it like? First tell me who you are.”
The white said, “We’re from the army. From a group of instructors.”
This was something new to me—I didn’t know there were Cuban instructors in Angola. In Benguela I had seen a few people in Cuban uniforms, but they wear every conceivable kind of uniform here, whatever they get from abroad or on the front, so I thought they were MPLA soldiers. Now I asked, “Were those guys I saw in Benguela yours?”
“Yes,” said the black, “ours. We’ve got a dozen or so people there.”
I said maybe they had come too late, since by my calculations the South African army might already be deep inside Angola. Anyway, what could a dozen or so people do? They were facing a strong regular army. The South Africans had a lot of armor and artillery. They were Afrikaners and Afrikaners know how to fight. And the MPLA had no weapons. I said that Farrusco’s unit had only two mortars and a few old rifles. There were no heavy weapons in Lubango, either. The one armored vehicle that used to be in Benguela had been taken out by the mercenaries. Who could put up any resistance to the armored columns that were coming, or might already have come, from Namibia? Besides, the past weighed heavily on the fate of the war. In this country the black man had lost every war with the white man for five hundred years. You couldn’t change the way people think overnight. The MPLA soldier could whip the FNLA or UNITA soldier, but he would fear the white army coming from the south.
They agreed that the situation was difficult. We fell silent. It was dark from smoke in the room, and humid. We sat there sweating, tormented by thirst. I was fighting against my imagination because the vision of a bottle of beer or chilled juice with ice or some similar madness kept appearing before my eyes. I asked them if more aid was coming. They didn’t know. It might come, but when and how, nobody could say. They had just arrived and were supposed to train this army, but it wasn’t an army in our understanding of the term. There were loose units scattered around the country. Would there be time to make an army out of them? The enemy was twenty kilometers from Luanda. Mobutu was sending more and more battalions. They might march in tomorrow.
I led them downstairs. They said that we would have our next meeting at their place, because it was awkward for them to come to the hotel where various people were hanging around. They would send a car for me when the time came. I asked what I was to call them. I was to call the black one Mauricio and the white one Pablo. But if I telephoned it would be better not to use any names; instead, say in Spanish that a friend wanted to meet them. They would see to the rest. In a dark side street stood a covered jeep, new, with no license plates. The hand of someone sitting inside opened the door. They got in and the jeep drove away.
But there at staff headquarters in Pretoria and later in Windhoek and finally (a small detail) at the front headquarters in Tsumeb, everything was precisely and capably thought out. Maps on the walls: Africa in miniature but still large, from floor to ceiling and from the entrance all along the commander ’s wall, with the uninhabited regions marked in a sandy color. The higher-ranking staff officers at the long tables: experts who know it all inside out.
The name of the operation: Orange.
The goal of the operation: to occupy Luanda by November 10, 1975 (at 1800 hours on that day, in accordance with the Alvor agreement, the last Portuguese units were to leave Angola). The next day, announce the independence of Angola, with power passing into the hands of an FNLA-UNITA coalition government.
Coordination: a strike from the south along the Tsumeb– Pereira d’Eça–Lubango–Benguela–Novo Redondo–Luanda road. A simultaneous strike from the north along the Maquela do Zombo–Carmona–Caxito–Luanda road. A simultaneous strike from the east along the Nova Lisboa– Quibala–Dondo–Luanda road.
Forces, southern flank: motorized units of the South African army (support: units of Portuguese volunteers, FNLA and UNITA units, the Chipenda force). Northern flank: FNLA units (support: units of the Republic of Zaïre army, units of Portuguese volunteers). Eastern flank: same as for the northern flank.
Zero hour:—
(Here begins a discussion in English-Afrikaans-Portuguese. Two opinions collide. One faction favors beginning the action earlier, because the enemy might put up resistance; breaking down resistance takes time and could delay the occupation of Luanda. Besides,
to the degree that moving into Angola will extend the army’s supply lines for ammunition, fuel, and food, it is necessary to allow additional time. They propose Monday, October 20, for zero hour. Others contend that the operation will not take more than two weeks. In the north we are already in the suburbs of Luanda. All information indicates that the enemy will not be able to mount any resistance in the south. We’ll move quickly in Panhard armored vehicles. It is enough to calculate the driving time of these vehicles from Tsumeb to Luanda and then factor in time for the units to have meals and sleep. They contend that a zero hour of October 27 will be sufficient. The first, more cautious variant finally prevails. Even if it takes three weeks, it will be a blitzkrieg to dazzle the world.)
Zero hour: Sunday, October 19.
On Sundays, as I mentioned, the country is immersed in a state of nonexistence and manifests no signs of life. Today, however, informed by an incomprehensible presentiment, Comandante Farrusco has been hunting his driver Antonio since morning and in the end Antonio has appeared on his own, sleepy and unconscious with exhaustion. Farrusco orders him to get behind the wheel and in the same red Toyota jeep that I returned from Pereira d’Eça in, they drive along the road through the bush. A while later they spot something in the rays of the sun that could almost be a phantom but quickly materializes and assumes the shape of a drawn-out column of armored vehicles above which hovers a bulging, nearly motionless helicopter. Another moment and the nervous rattling of machine guns rings out. Farrusco is badly wounded, shot through the lungs. Antonio is hit in the leg but remains conscious. He backs up and rushes in the opposite direction with his severely wounded commander.
The column moves forward toward Pereira d’Eça. The soldiers ride hidden inside the vehicles, but it must be hot and stuffy for them because—contrary to orders—here and there, in more and more of the armored personnel carriers, the hatch opens and a young, tanned face appears.
And in Luanda? What can you do on Sunday in our abandoned city, upon which—as it turns out—sentence has already been passed? You can sleep until noon.
You can turn on the faucet to check—ha!—just in case there is water.
You can stand before the mirror, thinking: so many gray hairs in my beard already.
You can sit in front of a plate on which lies a piece of disgusting fish and a spoonful of cold rice.
You can walk, sweating from weakness and effort, up the Rua Luis de Camões, toward the airport or down toward the bay.
And yet that’s not all—you can go to the movies, too! That’s right, because we still have a movie theater, only one in fact, but it is panoramic and in the open air and, to top it off, free. The theater lies in the northern part of town, near the front. The owner fled to Lisbon but the projectionist remained behind, and so did a print of the famous porno film Emmanuelle. The projectionist shows it uninterrupted, over and over, gratis, free for everyone, and crowds of kids rush in, and soldiers who have got away from the front, and there’s always a full house, a crush, and an uproar and indescribable bellowing. To enhance the effect, the projectionist stops the action at the hottest moments. The girl is naked— stop. He has her in the airplane—stop. She has her by the river—stop. The old man has her—stop. The boxer has her—stop. If he has her in an absurd position—laughter and bravos from the audience. If he has her in a position of exaggerated sophistication, the audience falls silent and analyzes. There’s so much merriment and hubbub that it is hard to hear the distant, heavy echoes of artillery on the nearby front. And of course there is no way—not because of Emmanuelle, but the great distance—to hear the roaring motors of the armored column moving along the road.
“When the dawn breaks, to Thee, O Lord, the earth sings.” A bad sign—Dona Cartagina is singing the Office of Our Lady. Since morning the whole city has been staggering and trembling, and the windowpanes are rattling because the artillery has opened fire all out: boom, boom, bash, whammerjammer, zoom, zoom, and the horizon is full of martial crashing. Holden Roberto has announced that he will enter Luanda today. He’s asked the populace to remain calm. Yesterday his planes dropped leaflets, pictures of Holden with the caption GOD RULES IN HEAVEN HOLDEN RULES ON EARTH.
They must be attacking in great strength, because the firing has not slackened since dawn and it is almost noon. In the city there is panic and nervous running around and shouting. It is fifteen minutes by car to the front line. They may get in. Dona Cartagina wants to hide me in her apartment. She lives near here: Go three blocks and take a right. I’m supposed to go now, and she will show me the way so I’ll know. I’ll be her son, caring for his elderly, ailing mother. And why do you speak such strange Portuguese? they ask. Because I was born in Timor but I ran away from home and went to live in Burma. I served in the Burmese navy and so I speak that language better.
Show us your documents!
I left my documents on the ship, and you know yourselves that all the ships have sailed away.
Dona Cartagina orders me to burn my papers and pack my suitcase but I tell her no, there’s still time, they might not come today.
I call the Cubans; no answer.
I go downstairs, catch Oscar on the run, and ask him what’s going on. He doesn’t know and he’s running. An army truck goes down the street, then another one. Some women with bundles, on the trot. Finally, a patrol appears, looking for the enemy. What enemy? says Felix, as white as the wall. My skin tingles because at that moment I am sitting in front of the telex trying to make contact with Warsaw, but they might think I’m trying to contact Holden Roberto. I have already managed to ring through to the local central and transmit:
3322 TIVOLI AN
OB INT LUANDA AN
ESTIMADO COLEGA, PODE LIGARME COM
POLONIA NUMERO 814251 OK?
But they suddenly disconnect me and I breathe with relief, because one of the patrol has come up to me and wants to see what I have written, but I haven’t written anything yet, so he says, We have to be alert, camarada, because the enemy is outside Luanda. Yes, camarada, I say, and Felix says, Yes, for sure, that’s clear, and Oscar, suspended in mid-stride, also becomes a yes-man, anything to get them to lower their gun barrels or, better yet, leave.
In the end they moved out and I walked through the empty streets to Diario de Luanda, to Queiroz, who always knew a lot. Three people produced the newspaper. It had sixteen pages, of which Queiroz wrote eight each day. He thought they were shorthanded: It takes five people to put out a newspaper. He showed me the headlines that had been sent to the printer: “Everyone to the front! The hour of truth has arrived! We won’t yield an inch!” He told me that the situation was critical, that all the FNLA forces and five battalions from Zaïre and more mercenaries were attacking, and that the MPLA was sending units from the provinces to the battlefield outside Luanda, but there was no transportation and ammunition was running out.
I went back to the hotel and waited for Warsaw. The reception area was full of people who were afraid to spend the night at home and preferred to sit there and wait for whatever came next. The barrages were coming closer and closer and again there were trucks on the street with no lights.
Suddenly the telex lit up and the machine began:
3322 TIVOLI AN
814251 PAP PL
GOOD EVENING WE CANNOT CONNECT TRY EVERY FEW MINUTES BUT DID NOT MAKE CONTACT AND DO NOT KNOW WHY MACHINE KEEPS PRINTING BUSY SIGNAL PLEASE
YES BI BI THERE IS A WAR HERE AND TERRIBLE MESS YESTERDAY SHELL HIT CABLE AND BROKE LINE BUT FIXED TODAY
BI BI IS DUTY EDITOR THERE?
YES MOM MOM
MORAWSKI HERE
HEY ZDZICH LISTEN STORMING OF LUANDA UNDER WAY WE MAY LOSE CONTACT HEAVY ARTILLERY BOMBARDMENT WILL SEND WHAT I HAVE BUT YOU MUST BE PREPARED FOR LOSS OF CONTACT NOW MATERIAL OK???
YES SIR SEND BUT CANT WE DO SOMETHING RE YOUR SECURITY PERHAPS CAN ARRANGE AIRPLANE TO GET YOU OUT
NO TOO LATE EVERYTHING PERHAPS OVER TOMORROW NOBODY KNOWS WHAT WILL HAPPEN HERE WE AR
E VERY WEAK ITS BAD BUT NOW MATERIAL AND CHAT LATER BECAUSE IM HOMESICK OK?
OK OK SEND
MOM MOM
(I sent “MOM MOM,” which means “just a moment,” because just then the voice of the MPLA chief of staff, Comandante Xiyetu, came over the radio to announce a general mobilization. I listened to the end and immediately typed:)
LAST MINUTE LUANDA PAP 2310 IN VIEW OF CRITICAL SITUATION WHICH HAS ARISEN IN ANGOLA GENERAL STAFF OF MPLA PEOPLES ARMY HAS ANNOUNCED GENERAL MOBILIZATION OF ALL MEN BETWEEN 18 AND 45 AS OF THURSDAY PM A MOMENT AGO. STAFF COMMUNIQUE STATES THAT ANGOLA HAS NOW BECOME VICTIM OF ARMED AGGRESSION ON WIDE SCALE. ENEMY HAS CAPTURED A RANGE OF IMPORTANT CITIES TODAY AND HIS OFFENSIVE IS CONTINUING. FIGHTING NOW UNDER WAY IN OUTSKIRTS OF LUANDA. SITUATION IS VERY SERIOUS AND STAFF COMMUNIQUE ORDERS ALL PATRIOTS TO TAKE UP ARMS AND GO TO FRONT TO DEFEND COUNTRY END ITEM
MOM MOM
RYSIEK: TELEVISION REQUESTED WE PASS FOLLOWING NOTE TO YOU: ON NOVEMBER 8 WE ARE BROADCASTING PROGRAM ABOUT INTERNAL SITUATION IN ANGOLA AND WE INVITE YOU TO APPEAR. FILM REPORT WOULD BE BEST BUT IT COULD ALSO BE DONE WITH STILLS AND INFORMATION RECORDED ON AUDIO TAPE OR EVEN A WRITTEN REPORT WHICH WOULD BE READ BY SPECIALLY HIRED ACTOR. WARMEST REGARDS.
LISTEN RYSIU I SENT THAT NOTE REALIZING HOW ABSURD IT ALL IS AT THIS MOMENT
DONT WORRY LISTEN TELL CZARNECKI: MICHAL IT IS GETTING VERY BAD HERE. ASSAULT ON LUANDA COULD COME ANY DAY WITH LOSS OF COMMUNICATIONS. THAT IS WHY I WANT TO SET IT UP LIKE THIS: IF YOU CANNOT GET THROUGH TO ME EVENINGS AT AGREED TIME TRY TO CONNECT MORNING OF NEXT DAY AT 7 GMT AND AGAIN AT 20 GMT AND AGAIN NEXT DAY UNTIL WE CONNECT AND GOD GRANTS WE ARE IN TOUCH OK. ARRANGE TO SUSPEND ANY POSSIBLE TRAVEL TO LUANDA UNLESS SOMEBODY IS PLANNING SUICIDE OK? HUGS RYSIEK
YES OK THANKS KEEPING OUR FINGERS CROSSED
THANKS OLD MAN BEST WISHES FROM LUANDA AND IM WAITING TO HEAR FROM YOU TOMORROW AT 20 GMT OK?
Another Day of Life Page 8