The Blue Line (16 page)

VILLA DEVOTO

Austral Spring

1976

T
here 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 Devoto 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.

RUBENS

Austral Summer

1976

W
hen 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.

During her second visit, Julia informed her mother that the procedures for leaving Argentina urgently needed to be completed. Her asylum application had to be accepted before the baby was six months old. According to Julia's calculations, the
baby would be born in January. She would have to leave by July 1977.

Her mother reassured her. She and Mama Fina were doing the rounds of the European embassies, but they still thought France was the country most likely to accept her. They had been told that a French consulate official had applied for authorization to meet with Julia in the prison. This was part of the procedure, and it meant the asylum process was already under way.

This time Julia's mother had brought her a bag of things. Julia had been wearing the same uniform ever since her arrival in Villa Devoto, even though the prisoners weren't required to wear a uniform. There was also a selection of baby clothes, which her mother held up on the other side of the glass.

Julia seized the opportunity to raise a thorny subject. “Mom, my baby won't be able to take its father's name.”

Her mother looked up. “I'm relieved you've come to the same conclusion as us,” she said. “So it'll be a little d'Annunzio. Your grandmother's convinced it's a boy. I'd like a little girl myself, but never mind. She says you should baptize the baby with a good strong name, something like . . .”

“Like Josefina,” Julia interrupted mischievously, “since I'm hoping it'll be a girl too.”

Her mother refrained from comment. After a moment she said, “I don't like this glass between us. It reminds me that I stupidly allowed distance to grow between us. You were always so strong and confident. Even when you were a child, it
was hard for me to think of myself as your mother. I sometimes felt like you were already an adult.”

She placed her hand on the partition. Julia did likewise. Their hands were identical.

“I wanted you to know that.”

—

On December 21 a guard came to take Julia to the maternity unit. It was the first day of summer, which she took as a good omen. She would have liked to slip on sandals and wear her hair down. She collected her things and kissed her cell mates.

The hospital was on the first floor of a separate building. They had to go through several gates and checkpoints to get there, as each floor was sealed off from the others. Julia crossed the large courtyard in which she had been “legalized” on her arrival and entered a long, gloomy corridor painted creamy yellow. She followed the guard in silence, her footsteps echoing in the emptiness, as if they belonged to someone else.

The door to the hospital opened onto a fenced-in lobby area. Farther on, behind another barred door, was the maternity room. It was a sort of enclosed yard with a pillar in each corner, and between the pillars there were around thirty beds lined up along the walls in two rows facing each other.

More than half the beds were empty. There were only about ten detainees in the room. Julia could take her pick and settled on a bed close to the barred door that separated the room from the lobby area. By leaning against one of the pillars,
she could keep an eye on what was going on outside while remaining hidden from sight, if she wished.

In the bed next to hers was another woman who looked to be just a few weeks away from giving birth. They exchanged a smile. The young woman helped her put her things away in a small locker between the two beds. At the far end, next to a sealed-up window, Julia counted three patients on drips. She could tell at a glance that they were in a critical condition. In another corner sat a mother with her back to Julia, rocking her baby, while other women chatted in low voices.

The room was lit by a long, narrow plate-glass window at ceiling height, so it was impossible to see what was going on in the street outside. There was a row of six showerheads behind a partition wall. The bathroom consisted of two squat toilets.

A short man in a white coat with a nervous walk made a conspicuous entrance. He headed straight for her without looking up from his papers, followed by three nurses.

“I suppose this is Julia,” he said, reading his notes.

“Yes, sir,” Julia answered.

A pair of steel-blue eyes behind round glasses looked hard at her.

“She'll give birth at the end of the month,” he announced. “Or rather, she'll shit out her runt. You lot don't give birth, you shit.”

Julia swallowed. “I'm due in January.”

“We'll see about that,” the little man replied with a fixed grin.

He continued his rounds, instructing the nurses in a haughty tone and with deliberate and noticeable brevity, then left the way he had come.

“You'll have to get used to it,” Julia's neighbor said when the procession had gone. “All the women in this prison have C-sections. We're guinea pigs. They test drugs on us. If we don't die, they put them on the market. Everyone wins: the pharmaceutical companies and the government, because it means more money and fewer opponents. . . . Oh, sorry, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Valentina—Tina to friends. I'm with Poder Obrero.
*
What about you?”

There were all kinds of women in the same room: women who had returned after torture, mentally ill women who had not recovered from the abuse, and a few pregnant women.

“That poor girl in the far corner, the one who keeps humming to herself . . . she's lost her mind. She's just had a baby, born two months early. He's in an incubator, but they're going to give him up for adoption. She's still waiting for him, poor thing.”

“Isn't she rocking a baby?”

“No. It's a doll.”

Tina went on: “The nurses are quite nice, and the food is better than in the cells. There's more of it, at any rate.”

“When are you due?” Julia asked.

“Rubens is the one who determines the due dates here. I'll
reach full term in mid-January, but he's decided it'll be earlier. I don't care. I just want to make sure my baby is healthy. As for the rest, I know he'll butcher me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Rubens is a nasty character. A torturer in the making. It's a good thing we're in the hands of the PEN, and there are nurses around. But don't expect him to stitch you back up nicely.”

—

Dr. Rubens scheduled Julia's delivery for December 31, one month before her due date. He seemed to have a fixation on dates, since Tina was scheduled to give birth on Christmas Day. It was rumored that he was taking revenge on a group of nurses who had denounced the maltreatment he inflicted on the inmates, two of whom had died after he'd operated on them. He had immediately given their babies to his colleagues to adopt.

To prepare as best as she could, Julia began to read out loud, as Tina had suggested, so the baby would recognize the sound of her voice. She wove a tiny bracelet to put around the baby's wrist as soon as it came out of her womb. She sifted through the things her mother had brought her. She wanted only white cotton linen for the baby at first. She washed it, rinsed it, and hung it to dry next to her bed. She filed her nails right down so she wouldn't accidentally scratch the baby.
Finally, she asked Tina to cut her hair to shoulder length and washed herself thoroughly on the night before the big day.

A nurse came to get her after lunch. She was made to wear a green hospital gown that tied up the back and to swallow some pills that made her head spin. Then she was led into a large, cold room. There was a rudimentary birthing bed, old and rusty, in the middle of the room, with a spotlight on either side of it. Julia was alarmed. She didn't understand why she was being made to put her feet in the stirrups if Rubens was planning to do a C-section.

“Be quiet and do as you're told,” a nurse told her as she filled a syringe.

Dr. Rubens made his appearance, impeccable in his white coat. He looked at Julia lying on the bed, her feet in the stirrups under a sheet that was too short, as he pulled on his gloves. “Filthy Trotska,” he murmured. “This is the last time you'll be shitting a Bolshevik into the world.”