Chile: The Other September 11. Fidel Castro

of social change. History belongs to us, because it is made by the people...

      It was the speech of a heroic man who knew he was about to die, but at that moment we heard it only in snatches. Víctor was called to the phone in the middle... I could hardly bear to listen to it.

      Víctor had been waiting for me to come back in order to go out. He had decided that he had to go to his place of work, the Technical University, obeying the instructions of the workers’ confederation (CUT). Silently he poured our last can of petrol, reserved for emergencies like this, into the car and as he did so, I saw one of our neighbors, a pilot of the National Airline, look over the balcony of his house and shout something mocking at Víctor, who replied with a smile.

      It was impossible to say goodbye properly. If we had done so I should have held on to him and never let him go, so we were casual. “Mamita, I’ll be back as soon as I can... you know I have to go... just be calm.” “Chao...” and when I looked again, Víctor had gone.

      Listening to the radio, between one military march and another, I heard the announcements. “Bando Numero Uno... Bando Numero Dos...” military orders announcing that Allende had been given an ultimatum to surrender by the commanders of the armed forces, led by General Augusto Pinochet... that unless he surrender by midday the Moneda Palace would be bombed...

      The girls were playing in the garden, when suddenly there was the thunder and whine of a diving jet plane and then a tremendous explosion. It was like being in the war again... I rushed out to bring the children indoors, closed the wooden shutters and convinced them that it was all a game. But the jets kept on diving and it seemed that the rockets they were firing were falling on the población (shantytown) just above us toward the mountains. I think it was at this moment that any illusions I may have had died in me... if this was what we were up against, what hope could there be?

      Then came the helicopters, low over the treetops of the garden. From the balcony of our bedroom I saw them, hovering like sinister insects, raking Allende’s house with machine gun fire. High above, toward the cordillera, another plane circled. We could hear the high whine of its engine for hours on end—the control plane, perhaps?

      Soon after, the telephone rings. I rush to answer it and hear Víctor’s voice, “Mamita, how are you? I couldn’t get to the phone before... I’m here in the Technical University... You know what’s happening, don’t you?” I tell him about the dive bombers, but that we are all well. “When are you coming home?” “I’ll ring you later on... the phone is needed now... chao.”

      Then there is nothing to do but listen to the radio, to the military pronouncements between one march and another. The neighbors are outside in the patio, talking excitedly, some are standing on their balconies to get a better view of the attack on Allende’s house... they are bringing out the drinks... one house has even put out a flag.

      We listen to the news of the Moneda Palace being bombed and set on fire... we wonder if Allende has survived... there is no announcement about it. A curfew is being imposed. Quena rings to know how we are and I tell her that Víctor isn’t here, that he has gone to the university. “Oh, my God!” she exclaims, and rings off.

      We have to assume now that all the telephones are tapped, but Víctor rings about 4:30 p.m. “I have to stay here... it will be difficult to get back because of the curfew. I’ll come home, first thing in the morning when the curfew is lifted... Mamita, I love you.”

      “I love you too,” but I choke as I say it and he has already hung up.

      I did go to bed that night, but of course I couldn’t sleep.

      All around the neighborhood in the darkness you could hear sudden bursts of gunfire. I waited for morning wondering if Víctor was cold, if he could sleep, wherever he was, wishing that he had taken at least a jacket with him, wondering if, as the curfew had been suddenly postponed until later in the evening, perhaps he had left the university and gone to someone’s house nearby.

      It was late next morning before the curfew was lifted and the maids trooped out to buy bread at the corner shop. But today the queue was controlled by soldiers who butted people with their guns and threatened them. I longed for Víctor to come home, to hear the hum of the car as it drew up under the wisteria. I calculated how long it ought to take him to make the journey from the university... As I waited, I realized that there was no money in the house, so I set out to walk the couple of blocks to the little shop belonging to Alberto who might be able to change a check for me. On my way, two trucks zoomed past me. They were packed with civilians armed with rifles and machine guns. I realized that they were our local fascists coming out of their holes into the light of day.

      Alberto was very scared, and with reason. In the preceding weeks a couple of bombs had already exploded outside his shop. But he was good enough to change a check for me and asked after Víctor. I hurried home, and on my way, bumped into a friend, the wife of one of the members of Inti-Illimani [Chilean folk-music group] who lived nearby. She was in a state of shock too, and all alone, because Inti was in Europe. By mutual consent she came home with me and didn’t leave until several days later. She had been ill the previous day and had not gone to the government department where she worked. Now she was in agony, thinking about what might have happened there and how her colleagues had fared.