Tyrant Memory (20 page)

A little while ago, after cleaning the stove and turning off the
kitchen lights, while we were listening to the radio theater, María Elena
insisted she would also accompany me to church and on the march. I made it clear
to her that it was not her duty, and that it might be dangerous, but she said
she was doing it out of her own free will, because it simply isn’t right that
Pericles is in jail and that they want to execute Clemen.

***

A few minutes ago, just after I put away this notebook,
Father called to tell me that this afternoon, under the cloak of secrecy, the
war council has been reconvened and assigned the task of trying another group of
coup participants; he couldn’t give me names, but he said they were military
officers captured since the previous war council. “There will most likely be a
new round of executions tomorrow morning,” Father said with rage and sorrow. I
asked him, my heart in my throat, if Clemen might be among those captured. He
told me he is certain he is not, because he was told they were all military
officers, and Tonito Rodríguez would be their defense lawyer. I am appalled, my
nerves are frayed. How can one sleep after hearing such news . . . ? And what
will happen at the march if there are new executions?

Sunday April 23

What a day, dear God! I barely slept a wink all night. I
turned on the radio at five o’clock in the morning, knowing there would be a
news bulletin if there were executions even though it is Sunday. But at seven,
there was still nothing. Then I received a call from Father telling me the war
council had adjourned an hour earlier and would reconvene that night; Mingo,
Doña Chayito, Angelita, and other friends also called because the news had
spread like wildfire. Doña Chayito told me that Captain Gavidia, Merceditas’s
husband, is among the new officers on trial and will surely be sentenced to
death. I just managed to cry out “God no!” then felt enormous pressure in my
chest. I asked her if we would still hold the march under these conditions; she
answered, of course we would.

Moments later I received my Sunday call from Pati; I tried to speak
calmly, I didn’t want her to notice how anxious I was, I avoided mentioning the
war council or Chente’s arrest, for she is very fond of him. My daughter knows
me too well, she is too perceptive, and I didn’t want to worry her because of
her pregnancy. In spite of my best efforts, at one point she said I sounded
strange, then insisted several times that I was hiding something important from
her. I explained that I was suffering from exhaustion and worry precisely
because nothing was happening, I couldn’t see her father and had no news of
Clemen. After hanging up, I crossed myself and asked God to forgive me for
having lied.

During breakfast, Betito was ranting and raving against the general,
in that same show-offy way Clemen has that so displeases Pericles. I asked him
to tone it down, the walls have ears. At that moment we heard knocks on the
door: it was Raúl and Rosita. They wanted to know if the march was happening in
spite of the threats of new executions; I told them yes, it was. Rosita was very
nervous. We agreed that each family group would go to church on its own so as
not to arouse suspicions in the policemen watching our block.

Father sent Don Leo to drive us to church. I was dressed in strict
mourning, even wearing a veil, and I had a marker and a piece of cardboard in my
handbag, as Doña Chayito suggested; María Elena was also dressed in black, and
Betito was wearing Pericles’s tie of the same color. We didn’t speak the whole
way there; the streets were almost empty. But many groups of people were
standing in front of the church, many more than usual. Don Leo told me he would
park nearby and wait for us, for Father had given him orders to remain at my
disposal the whole time and then to drive us home. Carmela, Chelón, and Mingo
arrived at that moment. I saw Raúl, Rosita, and the other doctors standing near
the door; Doña Consuelo, accompanied by her daughter, came to greet me. Mingo
gestured to me, calling my attention to the secret policemen hanging around
nearby. I looked for Doña Chayito among the various groups, but couldn’t find
her. We were all whispering angrily about the new trials. Soon the bells rang
and we entered the church. I saw that a lot of people were already inside. Doña
Chayito appeared by my side; while she was greeting me, she placed a small piece
of paper in my hand. Betito went off with his friend; María Elena sat at a pew
in the rear. I sat between Carmela and Mingo. The priest began saying Mass. The
first time we kneeled I carefully unfolded the piece of paper and read it; Mingo
was watching me out of the corner of his eye. A few moments later I stood up and
went to the confessional; I wasn’t burdened by any particular sin, but I felt
anxious and thought it would calm me down to confess. While I was waiting my
turn in line, the tension in the air was palpable: people were glancing at one
another with looks of complicity, others were gesturing to each other, and many
were whispering, not listening to what the priest was saying, as if everyone was
simply waiting for Mass to be over and for the march to begin. I confessed that
I had lied to my daughter to avoid worrying her, because of her condition: the
priest sent me off quickly with one Apostles Creed as penitence. I returned to
my place at the pew, but as I was settling in between Carmela and Mingo, I
thought I espied, in the bright light pouring in through the church doors, Don
Leo entering the church. I wondered, and worried: Don Leo doesn’t like priests
and never attends Mass. The priest was reading the part of the gospels with the
parable of the good Samaritan; then he devoted his homily to the theme of
forgiveness. Just as I was joining the line to receive communion, Don Leo
approached and whispered in my ear that a squad of National Guard soldiers was
stationed outside the church, and it would be best for us to leave as soon as
Mass was over. My knees buckled with fear. I continued to the altar, contrite,
praying to God that nothing would happen, then I looked up to see where Doña
Chayito and Betito were, but didn’t see them. I heard some noise behind me, near
the entryway, but just at that moment the priest was holding out the host to me.
Returning to my pew I could feel the agitation, the looks of fear and anger on
everybody’s faces, and the young people going to and from the front doors. I
kneeled to pray for a few minutes. Mingo and Chelón said it seems the general
has stationed a tank half a block away on the street the march would go down. “I
told you,” Mingo reminded me, when I came back to sit down, “the warlock is
always the first to know.” The priest concluded the Mass. Most people got up and
began to move toward the door. I remained seated, took out the cardboard and the
pen, and wrote “WE DEMAND A GENERAL AMNESTY!” exactly as Doña Chayito’s little
piece of paper had instructed. Carmela was watching me as I drew the large
letters. Then I joined the others on the way out, the sign still folded in half.
I saw Merceditas, walking with Doña Chayito, the poor girl looked completely
distraught. A nervous crowd had gathered in the atrium. The soldiers were
positioned on the sidewalk across the street, and I caught a glimpse of the tank
about fifty yards away, in the middle of the street, its cannon pointed right at
us. I was scared. The university students began to congregate in the street, to
shout slogans demanding the release of the prisoners and against the
dictatorship, and to shout insults at the soldiers. I saw Betito on one of the
steps along with Henry, El Flaco, Chepito, and other classmates. Doña Chayito
strode out into the street, her sign held high, defiant, face-to-face with the
soldiers; several of us followed her. My legs were trembling as I walked down
the stairs. At that very instant, the commanding officer ordered them to draw
their guns, and they fired into the air several times; the soldiers then aimed
their weapons at us, and a horrific blast was fired from the tank. There was a
stampede in both directions. I dropped my placard and felt like I was going to
faint, but then somebody took me by the arm. “Hurry!” Don Leo said as he led me
quickly down a side street. “What about Betito?” I managed to ask, but Don Leo
was almost carrying me because I was on the verge of shock. María Elena was
running behind us. “Where’s Betito?” I asked again, terrified, when we got into
the car. “He took off with his friends in the other direction. He’s okay,” Don
Leo said before driving off at full speed. The further we got from the area the
more I worried about what might have happened to Doña Chayito, Merceditas,
Carmela, Chelón, Mingo, and so many others. “Holy Jesus, God willing they
haven’t hurt or arrested anybody!” I cried out, reduced to a bundle of nerves.
“The shots were fired in the air, to frighten and disperse the crowd,” Don Leo
said, then he asked me where I wanted him to take us. I asked him to go by the
house to drop off María Elena, so she’d be there in case Betito showed up or
called, and then he should take me straight to my parents so I could tell them
what had happened. But they’d already heard and were waiting for us along with
their neighbors out in the street: the news had reached them by telephone a few
minutes after it happened, and Mother assured us she even heard the shots. The
whole city was in an uproar. I fell onto the sofa in the living room, overcome
by distress: Juanita asked me if I wanted some tea. Mother was anxious about
what might have happened to Betito, though Don Leo had already told her what he
had seen. The telephone was ringing off the hook; I asked them to keep their
calls brief in case Betito tried to call. Father was giving instructions to Don
Leo to drive around the area looking for his group when the call came. Thank
God, they got away in Henry’s car, Betito said; they were safe and sound at
Flaco’s house. I felt enormously relieved. I tried several times to call Doña
Chayito, but her line was busy; finally, her husband answered, he said she was
fine, but she wasn’t home. I gave thanks to our Lord; I told myself that woman
is made of steel, surely she was already organizing other forms of protest.
Suddenly I had a terrible sensation, like an emptiness in my stomach and total
exhaustion; I went to one of the bedrooms, curled up in a fetal position on the
bed, and began to sob, quietly, so nobody in the living room would hear me,
until I fell asleep.

Now, as I finish describing the events of the morning, I already
feel better, thanks to Mother letting me sleep uninterrupted until late this
afternoon. Don Leo then brought me home. We dined with Raúl and Rosita. We are
all quite discouraged, fearful, anticipating news about the war council that
reconvened at seven o’clock tonight. I don’t think we’ll hear anything until
early tomorrow morning, but it seems quite certain that evil warlock will order
the execution of more young officers. I must give thanks to our Lord that they
haven’t captured Clemen, and ask Him to keep protecting him.

Monday April 24

They executed them by firing squad at seven this morning
in the General Cemetery: Captain Gavidia, Merceditas’s husband, another captain
named Piche, and Lieutenant Marín, the brother of Víctor Manuel, the young man
from the Tax Collectors’ Office whom they had so savagely tortured, the only
civilian they’ve executed so far. I feel like there is a pendulum swinging back
and forth in my chest, taking me from the bleakest desolation to outraged anger,
back and forth, and back and forth. The university students have gone on strike
to protest the executions. Raúl confirmed it: the university will remain closed;
he also said that final-year medical and engineering students who volunteer at
hospitals and government officers will soon go out on strike. Rosita is
suffering from nervous depression, she is convinced the general will execute all
political prisoners, including Chente.

Doña Chayito came by the house before lunchtime; as always, she was
in a rush and didn’t want to stay to eat, having only a glass of fruit drink.
She had just come from Merceditas’ house: the captain’s body has been prepared
and the wake will be held there, at the family home, so as to avoid trouble for
any funeral parlor, she explained. I told her I would go there later in the
afternoon and could remain all night to keep them company, if necessary. Doña
Chayito also told me she had just spoken to some leaders of the university
movement: they have decided that it is impossible to confront the beast on the
streets, we just saw he wouldn’t have any qualms about killing all of us; the
idea now is to organize a general strike, shut down businesses, offices,
hospitals, schools; halt all public transportation and trains; make sure
everyone stays home and the country remains at a standstill until the warlock
leaves. “Where will we get the courage to do nothing?” I muttered, as if to
myself, faintly. Doña Chayito asked me what I meant. I told her people need to
work, earn their daily bread, only single young people without families to
support can go on strike like that. Doña Chayito kept looking at me, pensively:
“That’s exactly what I argued,” she said. She then added that we must do
something immediately to stop the warlock from executing Dr. Romero and force
him to release our family members, or at least allow us to visit them, as is our
right.

I went to the beauty salon this afternoon. I felt like something the
cat dragged in, and I didn’t want to show up at the wake looking like that; it’s
enough to have one’s spirits so low they’re sinking through the floor but one
must, at least, keep up appearances. When I entered the salon, Angelita was
lying in the chair; Silvia was finishing up combing her hair. Not realizing I
had entered, she was talking contemptuously about the general digging his own
grave, about the Americans being furious at him, how President Roosevelt will
personally give orders to have him dragged out by the scruff of his neck, how in
the world did he dare execute those young men, Captains Piche and Gavidia,
Jimmy’s classmates, Piche considered the best artilleryman in the army, the
United States having invested a cartload of money in their training. When she
saw me, she didn’t flinch, but her anger seemed stronger than her prudence, and
she asked me if I was going to go to the wake. I told her I was.
Th
en Silvia asked if it was true that Dr. Romero
is going to be the next one to face the firing squad. “God help us,” I
murmured.