Chapter One:
Red And White
Birth Of The Moment
Slaughterhouse Chile
Eric Lindblom
Tuesday Morning, September 11, 1973
It was blood red on fresh snow and had one, single star. Victor Jara’s
eyes refocused away from the Chilean national flag to soldiers
installing a heavy 9mm machine gun pointed toward the Technical
University where the President, was to speak at the Greek Forum
Today in favor of a plebiscite. Victor looked away.
On top of the once elegant buildings across the wide avenue everyone knew as “The Alameda” there was another heavy machine gun installation. Victor knew the 9 mm machine gun represented horrendous firepower. It could shred a man in seconds. Near was the central train station and
Victor turned and went back into the University where he taught drama. He was a Professor. Victor was not an ordinary man. He taught drama. He was a famous Director in theater. His work had toured worldwide. In
Military men were talking far across the avenue from the university, where Victor could not hear. They were fierce and bloodthirsty.
“I hate this f_ing duty,” one soldier said.
“Me too, Paco, but what are you going to do?” the second soldier said.
“We have to get this gun to work, Juan.”
Juan and Paco were angry. They were tank soldiers not machine gunners. They resented the lowly assignment in front of the university.
“It doesn’t work, now?” Juan asked.
“You know, they never work right, Mac. These guns are no better than our tank which is what we should be driving,” Paco said.
Their tank hadn’t been serviced since an aborted June coup. (Both Juan and Paco had been involved in the former coup under General Souper.) It was now September. They hid the tank so officers wouldn’t notice it was disabled. The tank was behind a wooden wall in the Maipu Open Market. The wall had been part of an old empenada meat pie stand before they smashed it with the tank.
“Yeah, and we have to shoot that university or whatever it is with this pee shooter,” Juan said. He made a face.
“I hate this duty. I have to take a _ ,” Paco concluded.
Victor glanced one last time through a window and sighed deeply. He knew the kind of military men who were setting‑up machine guns. Not that long ago he had been among those hardscrabble ranks. Victor had been a sergeant first class then. Most of the men were just big farm hands or Native American Mapuche. Victor was both in his origins. The military had long been a problem and now they came to harm, perhaps to kill. Victor had received prognostic warnings: he knew that he was a target.
As Victor looked across the wide University lawn toward the street, The Alameda, a rat scurried seeking shelter from the increasing military activity. Even rats will leave a sinking ship, Victor thought. He thought he recognized one of the soldiers. The man was sighting the machine gun directly at Victor. A chill went down his back. He thought he saw him smile. All of it was hard to tell because of the distance. The grunt must have felt alone because he, next, unzipped his pants and ed into the street. Victor didn’t know him; he doubted if the man knew himself. Victor thought the greatest loss in life is not to know who you are. To Victor, the people were everything. In their open hands he placed his life’s work: the theater, the songs, the dance. The work may have begun long ago when he was in the seminary. Probably the change in Victor’s life toward the arts began prior to seminary albeit that experience had been a definitive fulcrum. He had decided to place El Pueblo (the people) first in his life. Even though he was in a seminary for about a year or so, Victor’s worldliness meant he couldn’t stay. A priori, he felt the priesthood would turn him away from the ways of the world. (He didn’t know how thoroughly he would be tested by that world.)
Victor heard light automatic rifle fire in the distance. It sounded dangerous and was getting closer. He had heard a lot of it as Marshall Law took the city. No one knew what exactly was happening. Whatever was occurring, it was brutal and very badly coordinated. The city was hush in anticipation.
Victor adjusted the guitar sling across his slim shoulders and walked further into the University building toward his office. Victor had an odd look in his eyes. He was at a loss. If Victor had known the extent of the depths to which military men were sinking, his expression would have changed even more dramatically. Life wasn’t meant ever to come to this. We can go very far but not this far. It was said he could envision the future giving him power to feel what his mind could barely conceptualize and, still, remain sane. Puzzlement was the odd expression on Victor’s face this morning. He walked to the university Office Of Extended Studies where he worked in theater. He saw Cecilia, the Extended Studies Department Chief.
“ What are we going to do?” Cecilia, asked. (“¿Que Hacemos?”) 6
“We are going to wait and hope,” Victor said, assuring her. (Vámos a esperar.”)
“What, then?” Cecilia asked.
“I’ll stay here for a while, don’t worry, O.K.?”
“O.K., but I am really afraid.” Cecilia said voice trembling.
Everything seemed so normal that inside the University in that the students came, the President (always a close companion) was visiting as he often had; there was the usual excitement and anticipation for the plebiscite being held that day. Victor was strumming his guitar in the hallways as often he did. He was working on a new song.
At the same time there was something very wrong. Time and space had twisted horribly until reality felt alien. The military was everywhere succeeding only in creating chaos. Victor couldn’t help but think they were the cause of the problem not the solution. No one knew least of all the military.
From the very beginning of the country, the military had been a tragic problem. There had been massacres at San Gregorio, Coruña, Santa Maria de Iquique and more recently at Puerto Montt. There had been an epidemic tendency toward dictatorship. Initially,
There were bizarre military reports and conflicting stories on the radio. The People didn’t know what to believe. Most stayed indoors where they would know the least. Many didn’t want to know. Victor strummed his guitar. He hummed his new song.
“ I like that tune. ¡Eso!” (Hooray!) It was - . Always excited, she was a theater major who had migrated to the city with her family from
“¡Todo de Chile!” Victor said flashing his well-loved smile. Totally
- smiled widely. She couldn’t help it. “ Power to the People!” she said her high voice reaching past Victor toward the other students in the hallway especially Pablo. She saw her friend Pablo smile. I hit the target she thought.
“Let’s have class in the patio today,” Victor suggested. It was just barely the beginning of spring and the weather could permit a theater class outside. Victor was thinking that today it was imperative to keep the students to the interior of the University and away from whatever violence happened on the outside. He, also, knew it was important to have some semblance of a class however much. A class would keep the students at the university.
“ Victor!” It was Cecilia peeking out of her office. In hushed tones she said: “ The students are getting nervous, could you sing to them? It might calm them a little.”
“ Sure, no problem.” Victor answered.
“ Oh, one more thing, “ Cecilia added, “Your wife called. You should call her back. She was concerned that you are OK.”
“ Sure, I’m OK. It’s no problem, really,” Victor smiled again. He began to sing.
Victor’s voice echoed compellingly bouncing back into the patio from university walls. Images began to form in his mind as he sang. Rapt student attention followed his flight into reality. The wind rose. Soulful. A feather drifted to the ground then was caught to soar, again, in the breeze. Disbelief, disillusion fluttered and, at last, came to rest. Victor wondered: How many feathers would be ripped away? How many would float endlessly? Ten thousand? How many souls, dead but never forgotten?
Victor sang his unfinished song, part of a more developed opus never produced fully. Death cut the song short. His image was of hands longing. They weren’t denied. The hand doubled into a fist. Come see the blood. See the slaughter. See the gore. Never forget. Victor sang.
And
Cry against this atrocity!
We are ten thousand hands
Who produce nothing now.
How many are we in all the whole mother country?
The blood of our companion, the President
Has more power than bombs and machine guns.
Thus we struck with our fist again.
When I must sing of horror!
The fear in which I live
And like that I am dying, in fear.
What I feel and have felt
Gives birth to the moment.7
Victor Jara
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