By Hugo Behm Rosas*
FRATERNITY IN THE CONCENTRATION CAMPS OF THE DICTATORSHIP
From the foreword by Miguel Lawner:
This is a song of fraternity over hatred.
There are not many books written about the experiences suffered by tens of thousands of Chileans, confined by the military dictatorship in clandestine centres of imprisonment, torture and/or disappearance.
Most describe, in greater or lesser detail, the cruel torments to which they were subjected.
Dr. Hugo Behm’s book is somewhat different. He emphasises the feeling of solidarity, fellowship and mutual aid among political prisoners, which help to overcome the adversities to which they are exposed. The author emphasises the bonds of companionship, which, he says, do not reach any time outside the prison.
THE ENCOUNTER (I)
Sit down! commanded the voice.
Like a whip, the word crossed the air and reached the ears of the new prisoner. He stretched out his hands in the darkness of his blindfold, touched the chair and sat down. His tired face peered out from under the wide bandage that tightly covered his eyes and matted his hair. His clothes, nervously laid out at the time of his arrest, looked shabby and in disarray. He stood mute and motionless, longing, trying to get his bearings in the murky world into which he had been so suddenly plunged.
What would happen now? He would be questioned, he would be asked about people, events and places. They would have to charge him, but what? What would they know about him? Why had they arrested him? “You have to come with us to answer some questions,” he had been told. He remembered the warm bed he had shared with his partner and the determined knocking on the door late at night. They had looked at each other uneasily, with a slight fear in the depths of their looks, trying to imagine who might knock at curfew time. The knocking sounded again, harder and more pressing. He pulled on his trousers and went out to open the door. If, he was the person they were asking for. The men rushed in and surrounded him. He went back to the bedroom to get dressed, followed by one of them. His companion had covered herself as best she could with some clothes and had taken the sleeping child in her arms. “They’re taking me away for questioning but I’ll be back soon,” he told her, trying to sound calm. But anguish had seared itself into her pupils. He dressed nervously and left the money he had on the bedside table. He kissed her with the emotion of a strange farewell and kissed the little boy on his sleeping forehead.
When he left the house, he turned his eyes to see her once more. The indelible memory flashed vividly in his mind, so vividly that it seemed to him as if everything was happening all over again at that very moment. Emotion swept over him. He saw her with her bare feet, her skirt and blouse barely buttoned, and the little boy pressed against her breast. Nothing was said, because her look said it all, “Goodbye love, don’t be afraid for us. I will take care of our child and I will be waiting for you, now and always”.
He got into the van and felt the harsh silence, the men and their weapons, without understanding that he was entering a foreign world, which would now – and for a long time – be his own. A short walk later he was blindfolded – “for safety”, he was told – and so the starless night came abruptly. But when had it all happened, just recently or a long time ago? He shifted his position to relieve his tiredness and continued his wait.
Stop! the Voice rang out. He felt many like him rise to their feet. The sound of the chairs being stacked and the spill out of the mats on the floor reached him. Lie down! This way! He reached out his hands, patted a mat and stretched out on it. Not like that! Get across! He crossed himself on the mat, resting his head and part of his trunk on it, his legs on the floor. Tighter! He ran in the direction that the Voice indicated and felt the wall next to his body. Squeeze tighter! That’s eight per mat! He stuck his nose to his duster and the body of the second prisoner squeezed into his body, to make room for the next. He tried to stretch his legs, but collided with the head of another prisoner. Then he shrank back and lay still. The Voice continued to roar until everyone, huddled together, was able to get into position. “I must sleep,” he said to himself, “I shall need my strength. But it was a startled dream, that dream of his. He woke suddenly, shivering. The cold was coming in, sharp, through a crack under the door. His muscles ached, strained and immobile. With great care and work he was able to move a little, caught as he was in that mesh of bodies that slept their weariness away, intertwined in a strange embrace.
Get up! The Voice woke him abruptly. He fixed his blindfold as best he could, aware that to look without it was a grave fault. His mouth was sour and he felt dirty and sore. His bladder, full of urine, stung cruelly. How would he manage to urinate here? He heard the mats being picked up and the chairs being put back. Following the orders that kept pounding at him, he placed his hand on the shoulder of the nearest prisoner and felt another hand on his own shoulder. Thus he formed up in the waiting line. After an interminable time his turn came. He groped up the two steps and the stench, thick and strong, hit his face. He took a long piss, with the relief of the long wait contained. He lifted his blindfold a little, fearfully, feeling protected in that enclosed place. It was a small squat, with a basin full of dirty, stagnant water. The half-broken bowl emerged from a mountain of used papers. The pages of a torn book were used to clean it. He looked at the label: “History of the Russian Revolution”. But the Voice was already roaring for him to come out. He fixed his blindfold and groping, shuffling his feet, walked back to the chair.
How many hours had passed? The Voice commanded again and again. He called out names or nicknames to other prisoners, who stood up and made their way, unsure, towards the door, guided by the Voice. Others returned slowly, were led to their seats and remained there, silent.
They had turned on a radio, full blast. The shrill noise shook the air and pierced the ears, painfully. And suddenly he remembered a friend’s account of how the deafening music muffled other unwanted noises. But could that happen to him? “I have not offended in any way,” he said to himself, to reassure himself. But why should they believe him? The fear was born somewhere in his mind and grew, uncontainable, until it reached at last, without his being able to help it, the profound core of the anguish. His heart was pounding in his chest and an invisible hand seemed to clutch at his throat. He felt suddenly alone and helpless, a lonely sailor on a shore-less sea, swept by an unstoppable tide to a dead end. And that noise emerged from his throat, in spite of himself. It was not a scream or an articulate word, but the guttural noise of his tense and exhausted body.
Then he felt the firm hand of the old prisoner on his shoulder, and his full, brotherly voice, saying softly, “Easy, comrade, easy. Like an incantation, the hand that was squeezing his throat seemed to loosen and he could barely reply: “I’m all right now, thank you. “Do you want a smoke?” another prisoner whispered to him. “I have one cigarette butt left.” Of course, he wanted a smoke, it would do him good. He reached out his hand towards the voice and found another, the calloused, rough hand of a workman, which had the remnant of a lit cigarette. He inhaled eagerly and felt the smoke penetrate deep into his chest. He let it escape very slowly, savouring every moment.
“Estelas de la Memoria” is from Espora Ediciones, Santiago de Chile 2019.
*Hugo Behm Rosas – After obtaining his degree as a surgeon in 1936, from 1953 onwards, he devoted himself to biostatistics, training at the Chilean School of Health and at Johns Hopkins University, furthering his studies at Columbia University in New York. He collaborated on public health issues with Salvador Allende, from the years when the future President was a Senator of the Republic. In 1974 he was taken prisoner by the military regime. In September 1975 he was transferred from the Ritoque concentration camp and expelled from the country, thanks to the efforts of the American Public Health Association (APHA) in favour of the release of six detained and imprisoned health workers.
