Free Beyond the Ties of Blood by Florencia Mallon Page B

never said a word, even under the worst torture. In the eyes of his organization, this made him a hero. But I knew when I saw him, that it was right before … why else would they bring us together, and mock us that way? That’s what has haunted me all these years, given me nightmares, pulled my hair out by the roots …”
    With that, Eugenia lost control. She began to sob, deeply, with her head between her hands. After turning off the tape recorder, Ignacio hesitated for a moment. Then he walked over to her, to the large armchair where she was sitting, and put his arms around her. Sitting on the arm rest and cradling her head under his jaw, he rocked gently back and forth and let her cry a long time on the shoulder of his previously well-pressed summer suit.

II
    Taking a Stand
    He must have dozed off for a moment. As he startled awake, the pain was a rusty knife gouging through the top of his right shoulder. He tried to move away from it, but then it started down his right side, into his hip. He found that if he lay quietly, as still as he could, it returned to his shoulder and seemed to calm down just a bit.
    As always happened in the dank, windowless cell, Manuel felt the sun begin to rise, a slight warming of the air around him. He thought back—had it been yesterday?—to the moment they brought him into the room where Eugenia was, where he managed to look at her with his one good eye. Her face was purple and swollen, dirty tear tracks down her cheeks, and she sat bent over, trying not to put weight on any sore part of her body. The beatings hadn’t left her much chance of finding a comfortable position. And what else had they done to her?
    How stupid he’d been, and how arrogant. She’d never been much of an activist. When did he expect to inform the soldiers she wasn’t involved? Before they beat him senseless? After they shocked him unconscious with bolts of electricity? They would release her then, of course. We apologize for the confusion, we only meant to torture your boyfriend.
    But still he managed to look at her, somehow to will her eyes to meet his one open one. And with all his remaining strength he tried to talk through his pain and hers, brain to brain, blood to blood. I’m sorry, he shouted inside his head. Whatever they’ve done to you, whatever happens, I’ll always love you. The uselessness of his words had echoed through his heart. Now, in the early dawn, in the dark closeness of his cell, the echoes returned.
    When had his ideals turned into this?
    Temuco, 1963
    The late-model Oldsmobile sedan gleamed navy blue in the mid-afternoon sun. Manuel circled the back end of the car on his way to the driver’s side. The driver’s door swung open just before he reached it and a tall man stood at attention before him. The chauffeur must have been tracking him in the rearview mirror.
    â€œ Niño Manuel,” he said, “please step back on the curb. I’ll open the back door for you.”
    Manuel stepped back onto the sidewalk. After the chauffeur opened the back door of the car, he waited politely for a minute or so, then spoke again in a carefully burnished baritone.
    â€œYou can get in now, niño Manuel.”
    â€œNo, Francisco, that won’t be necessary. I’m going to my grandparents’ shop again. In fact, you can tell Papa I won’t be needing the car at all this week.”
    Nodding politely, no change of expression on his face, Francisco walked around to his own side and got in, started the car, and pulled away from the curb. Manuel watched him disappear around the corner.
    He turned and walked a block in the opposite direction, past the intricate wrought-iron gate that framed the tasteful entrance to his school, past the queue of chauffeur-driven cars waiting to pick up his schoolmates, past the sugar-sweet aromas that emanated from the rose garden hidden behind the school wall. As he turned left at the corner and