Read Online Beyond the Ties of Blood by Florencia Mallon - Free Book Online
Authors: Florencia Mallon
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exile organization. The young man who drove the tattered station wagon into which they put her two small bags still sported the large, dark moustache and long hair that had been marks of Revolutionary Left militants. His voice took on a hushed, awestruck tone when he spoke about Manuel.
âYou were there, compañera ,â he said respectfully, âso I donât have to tell you how much he suffered. But one of our guys who was also in there with him, and got out by some miracle, he said that compañero Bronstein became a legend in the torture camp. They tortured him every day in Villa Gardenia, compañera , for hours and hours. And he never said a word. Not one. Here in Mexico, compañera , well ⦠we consider him a hero.â
As the widow and child of a hero, she and Laura were given a place to live and she was put into contact with several newspapers, where she learned slowly but surely to be a journalist. She had always loved reading and had dreamed of becoming a journalist, and this was a way for her to take her mind off Manuel. And Mama. Even Papa. Loved ones she would never see again. By focusing on the stories of others, she didnât have to think about her own.
Slowly they settled into a life in Mexico City. They moved to a small second-floor apartment in Coyoacán, a southern neighborhood full of artists and cobblestone streets. A bougainvillea grew up the side of the balcony, spreading its luxuriant purple blossoms along the edge of the wrought-iron railing. On her third birthday, Eugenia bought Laura a small stuffed porcupine made of pink velvet. They called him Paco. A Zapotec woman from Oaxaca, not more than eighteen years old, helped in the kitchen, washed and ironed their clothes, and took care of Laura when Eugenia had to go in to the office at the newspaper.
Mostly Eugenia wrote at home, clacking out articles on a small Olivetti portable typewriter. Over time, her byline, which at first had felt like charity from the exile community, developed a prestige of its own. The change came after she landed an exclusive interview with the mother of a young leftist disappeared by Mexican authorities the same year she and Laura arrived in Mexico. Hundreds of letters poured in at her newspaper, lavishing praise. From that moment, her editor always sent her when a story had to do with human rights. Between her arrival in Mexico City in 1974 and the beginning of the 1980s, the horrors of military massacres in Nicaragua, Guatemala, and El Salvadorânot even to mention Chile and Argentinaâkept her very busy.
As the widow of a revolutionary hero and an expert on human rights, Eugenia could not shake the feeling that she was an impostor. After all, she had never done anything truly revolutionary herself, except be in love with Manuel. And what had made Manuel such a hero, anyway? She pretended to know, but she really had no idea. He hadnât talked under torture, everyone kept repeating. Not a word, they said in awestruck whispers. What she never mentioned was that she, too, had never said a word. But that was because she had nothing to say. And it didnât matter to the soldiers. They tied her down and sent electric currents through her anyway, until welts formed on her burning flesh that would mark her forever.
Whenever these thoughts came into her head, Eugenia locked herself in the bathroom and took off her blouse. In the mirror she looked at the purple marks on her arms, the scars from where the electricity had seared her skin. She ran an index finger over each one, felt the raised edges, the points at each end that were still slightly tender to the touch, even after several years. More than anything else, she thought, these made her an expert on human rights. The nightmares did too, full of nameless and faceless beings who did horrible things to her. Things she still managed to suppress during her waking hours.
The first night that Laura brought her the blanket, then the
âYou were there, compañera ,â he said respectfully, âso I donât have to tell you how much he suffered. But one of our guys who was also in there with him, and got out by some miracle, he said that compañero Bronstein became a legend in the torture camp. They tortured him every day in Villa Gardenia, compañera , for hours and hours. And he never said a word. Not one. Here in Mexico, compañera , well ⦠we consider him a hero.â
As the widow and child of a hero, she and Laura were given a place to live and she was put into contact with several newspapers, where she learned slowly but surely to be a journalist. She had always loved reading and had dreamed of becoming a journalist, and this was a way for her to take her mind off Manuel. And Mama. Even Papa. Loved ones she would never see again. By focusing on the stories of others, she didnât have to think about her own.
Slowly they settled into a life in Mexico City. They moved to a small second-floor apartment in Coyoacán, a southern neighborhood full of artists and cobblestone streets. A bougainvillea grew up the side of the balcony, spreading its luxuriant purple blossoms along the edge of the wrought-iron railing. On her third birthday, Eugenia bought Laura a small stuffed porcupine made of pink velvet. They called him Paco. A Zapotec woman from Oaxaca, not more than eighteen years old, helped in the kitchen, washed and ironed their clothes, and took care of Laura when Eugenia had to go in to the office at the newspaper.
Mostly Eugenia wrote at home, clacking out articles on a small Olivetti portable typewriter. Over time, her byline, which at first had felt like charity from the exile community, developed a prestige of its own. The change came after she landed an exclusive interview with the mother of a young leftist disappeared by Mexican authorities the same year she and Laura arrived in Mexico. Hundreds of letters poured in at her newspaper, lavishing praise. From that moment, her editor always sent her when a story had to do with human rights. Between her arrival in Mexico City in 1974 and the beginning of the 1980s, the horrors of military massacres in Nicaragua, Guatemala, and El Salvadorânot even to mention Chile and Argentinaâkept her very busy.
As the widow of a revolutionary hero and an expert on human rights, Eugenia could not shake the feeling that she was an impostor. After all, she had never done anything truly revolutionary herself, except be in love with Manuel. And what had made Manuel such a hero, anyway? She pretended to know, but she really had no idea. He hadnât talked under torture, everyone kept repeating. Not a word, they said in awestruck whispers. What she never mentioned was that she, too, had never said a word. But that was because she had nothing to say. And it didnât matter to the soldiers. They tied her down and sent electric currents through her anyway, until welts formed on her burning flesh that would mark her forever.
Whenever these thoughts came into her head, Eugenia locked herself in the bathroom and took off her blouse. In the mirror she looked at the purple marks on her arms, the scars from where the electricity had seared her skin. She ran an index finger over each one, felt the raised edges, the points at each end that were still slightly tender to the touch, even after several years. More than anything else, she thought, these made her an expert on human rights. The nightmares did too, full of nameless and faceless beings who did horrible things to her. Things she still managed to suppress during her waking hours.
The first night that Laura brought her the blanket, then the
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