“Your father says they deserved it for being such idiots.”
“No one deserves that, Juana. My father ought to be more careful in his opinions. It was a massacre unworthy of Chile. The whole country is furious, and that’s what cost the right wing the election. So Pedro Aguirre Cerda won, as you know, Juana, and now we’ve got a Radical president.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s a man with progressive ideas. According to my father, he’s a man of the Left. Anybody who doesn’t think like my father is of the Left.”
For Juana, left and right meant directions in the street, not people, and the president’s name meant nothing to her. He wasn’t from any well-known family.
“Pedro Aguirre Cerda represents the Popular Front, made up of center and left-wing parties, similar to what they had in Spain and France. Do you remember I explained the Spanish Civil War to you?”
“In other words, the same thing could happen here.”
“I hope not, Juana. If you could vote, you would have voted for Aguirre Cerda. Someday, I promise you, women will be able to vote in elections.”
“And who did you vote for, niño Felipe?”
“For Aguirre Cerda. He was the best candidate.”
“Your father doesn’t like him.”
“But I do, and so do you.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“It’s bad you don’t know, Juana. The Popular Front represents the workers, peasants, the miners in the north, people like you.”
“I’m none of those, and neither are you. I’m a domestic servant.”
“You belong to the working class, Juana.”
“As I see it, you’re my master, so I don’t see why you voted for the working class.”
“What you need is education. The president says that to govern is to educate. Free, compulsory education for all Chilean children. Public health for everyone. Better wages. Making the trade unions stronger. What do you think of all that?”
“It’s all the same to me.”
“Juana! How can it all be the same to you? You really should have gone to school.”
“And you may have a lot of education, niño Felipe, but you can’t even blow your own nose. And while we’re at it, let me tell you you’re not to bring guests into the house without warning. The cook gets angry, and I don’t want any trouble, or having visitors leave here saying we don’t know how to treat them properly. Those pals of yours may have a lot of education as well, but they drink your father’s liquor without asking permission. Just wait till he gets back, and we’ll see what he says when he discovers all that’s missing from the wine cellar.”
* * *
—
IT WAS THE SECOND to last Saturday of the month, the day of the informal meeting of the Club of the Enraged, as Juana Nancucheo called the group of Felipe’s pals. Usually they met at Felipe’s place, but since his parents had been away, he received them in the family’s house on Calle Mar del Plata, where the food was excellent. Despite the trouble these people caused her, Juana did her best to get fresh oysters and to serve them the finest stews prepared by the cook, a formidable woman whose temper was as foul as her cooking was superb. Like all young men of their class, Felipe’s friends were members of the Club de la Union, where they discussed personal matters as much as the country’s financial and political affairs; but those big, gloomy rooms with dark wood paneling, chandeliers, and plush armchairs were not exactly suitable for the animated philosophical discussions the Enraged held. Besides, the Club de la Union was for men only, and what would their gatherings be like without the refreshing presence of a few unmarried women: free spirits, artists, writers, and stylish adventuresses, including one amazon with a Croatian surname who traveled alone to places that didn’t figure on any map. The most frequently recurring topic over the past three years had been the situation in Spain, and in recent months the fate of the Republican refugees who, since that January, had been left to rot and die in French concentration camps.
The massive exodus of people from Catalonia toward the border with France had coincided with the worst earthquake ever to hit Chile. Even though Felipe boasted that he was an incurable rationalist, he saw in this coincidence a call for compassion and solidarity. The earthquake left a total of twenty thousand or more dead and whole towns flattened, but the Spanish Civil War, with hundreds of thousands dead, wounded, or refugees, was by comparison a far greater tragedy.
That evening the Salon had a special guest: Pablo Neruda, who at the age of thirty-four was considered the best poet of his generation, which was some feat as in Chile poets flourished like weeds. Some of his Twenty Love Poems had already become part of Chilean folklore, and even those who couldn’t read or write recited them. Neruda was a man from the south, from rain and timber, the son of a railway worker, who recited his verses in a booming voice and described himself as having a hard nose and minimal eyes. A polemical figure because of his fame and left-wing sympathies, especially for the Communist Party, in which he would later become a militant, he had been a consul in Argentina, Burma, Ceylon, Spain, and most recently France, because, according to his political and literary enemies, the successive governments in Chile preferred to keep him as far away as possible. In Madrid, where he had been consul shortly before the war broke out, he had made friends with numerous intellectuals and poets, among them Federico Garcia Lorca—murdered by the Francoists—and Antonio Machado, who died in a town close to the French border during the Retreat. Neruda had published a hymn to the glory of the Republican fighters called “Spain in the Heart,” five hundred numbered copies of which were printed while war was raging by the militiamen of the Eastern Army in Montserrat Abbey. Copies were done on paper made from anything they could lay their hands on, from bloody shirts to an enemy flag. The poem was also published in Chile in an ordinary edition, but Felipe had one of the original copies. And along the streets the blood of the children flowed simply, like the blood of children…Come and see the blood in the streets, come and see the blood in the streets.
Neruda had a passionate love of Spain; he loathed Fascism and was so concerned about the fate of the defeated Republicans that he had managed to convince the new Chilean president to allow a certain number of them to come to Chile, in defiance of the intransigent opposition of right-wing parties and the Catholic Church. This was what he had been invited to come to the meeting of the Enraged to talk about, as he was briefly in Santiago, having spent weeks in Argentina and Uruguay organizing economic aid for the refugees. In Chile, the right-wing newspapers claimed that other countries offered money, but none wanted to welcome Reds, those rapists of nuns, murderers, bandits, unscrupulous atheists, and Jews, who were bound to put the country’s security in jeopardy.
Neruda told Felipe and his friends that he would be leaving in a few days for Paris, where he’d been appointed a special consul for Spanish emigration. “They don’t like me in the Chilean Legation in Paris, they’re all right-wing stooges determined to obstruct my mission,” the poet told them. “Our government is sending me there with no money, and I have to find a ship. I’ll have to see what I can do.”
He explained that his orders were to select qualified workers who could teach their trades to their Chilean counterparts. They had to be peace-loving and honorable, not politicians, journalists, or potentially dangerous intellectuals. According to Neruda, Chilean immigration policy had always been racist: consuls were given confidential instructions to refuse visas to several categories, races, and nationalities, from gypsies, negroes, and Jews to the so-called Orientals, a vague term that could mean almost anything. Now a political dimension had been added to this xenophobia: there were to be no communists, socialists, or anarchists—but since this had not yet been officially sanctioned, there was still some room for maneuver. Neruda had a herculean task ahead of him: he had to finance and equip a boat, select the i
mmigrants, and provide them with the amount of money demanded by the government for their upkeep if they didn’t have any family or friends to receive them in Chile. This was three million Chilean pesos, which had to be deposited in the Central Bank before they embarked.
“How many refugees are we talking about?” Felipe asked him.
“Let’s say fifteen hundred men, but there’ll be more than that, because how can we leave their wives and children behind?”
“When will they arrive?”
“At the end of August or the start of September.”
“That means we’ve got more or less three months to raise funds and find them housing and work. We also need a campaign to counteract the right-wing propaganda and mobilize public opinion in favor of those Spaniards,” said Felipe.
“That’ll be easy. Popular sympathy is on the side of the Republicans. Most of the Spanish colony here in Chile, the Basques and Catalans, are ready to help.”
The Enraged said their farewells at one in the morning, and Felipe drove the poet in his Ford to the house where he was staying. On his return, he found Juana waiting for him in the dining room with a jug of hot coffee.
“What’s wrong, Juana? You ought to be asleep.”
“I was listening to what those pals of yours were saying.”
“Spying on us?”
“Your pals eat like jailbirds, not to mention how they drink. And those women with painted faces drink even more than the men. And they’re so rude: they don’t ever say hello or thank you.”
“I can’t believe you waited up just to tell me that.”
“I waited up so that you could explain to me why that poet is famous. He started reciting and would never shut up: more and more nonsense about fish in vests and crepuscular eyes—who knows what kind of illness that is.”
“They’re metaphors, Juana. That’s what poetry is.”
“Go teach your grandmother, may she rest in peace, to suck eggs. I know what poetry is: Mapudungun is pure poetry. I bet you didn’t know that! And I’m sure that Neruda of yours didn’t either. I haven’t heard my language in many years, but I still remember. Poetry is what stays in your head and isn’t forgotten.”
“Of course, and music is what you can whistle, isn’t it?”
“You said it, niño Felipe.”
* * *
—
ISIDRO DEL SOLAR RECEIVED the telegram from his son Felipe on the last day of their stay at the Savoy Hotel, after spending a whole month in Great Britain with his wife and daughter. In London they visited the usual tourist sights, went shopping, attended the theater and horse races. The Chilean ambassador, yet another of Laura Vizcarra’s many cousins, put an official car at their disposal so that they could tour the countryside and visit the Oxford and Cambridge colleges. He also had them invited for lunch at the castle of a duke or marquess—they weren’t sure of the exact rank, as titles of nobility had long since been abolished in Chile, and no one remembered them. The ambassador warned them about the proper codes of behavior and dress: they were to pretend that the servants did not exist, but it was best to make a fuss over the dogs; they were not to comment on the food, but to go into raptures about the roses; to wear simple and, if possible, old clothes—no flounces or silk neckties, because nobles dressed like the poor in the country. They traveled to Scotland, where Isidro had secured a deal for his Patagonian wool, and to Wales, where he was hoping to do the same, but which fell through.
Behind the back of his wife and daughter, Isidro visited a ladies’ finishing school that dated from the seventeenth century, based in a magnificent mansion opposite Kensington Palace and Gardens. There Ofelia would learn etiquette, the art of social relations, how to deal correctly with invitations and selecting a menu, good manners, comportment, grooming, and household management, among other virtues of which she was greatly in need. What a shame his wife had not learned any of that, thought Isidro; it would be a good business opportunity to found a similar establishment in Chile, to refine all the uncouth young women down there. He would look into the possibility. For the moment, though, he hid his plans from Ofelia: she would only kick up a fuss and ruin the rest of their trip. He would tell her at the very end, when there was no time for tantrums.
They were in the hotel salon with its glass-domed ceiling (a symphony in white, gold, and ivory) enjoying the customary five o’clock tea served on floral porcelain, when the bellboy in his admiral’s uniform came up bearing Felipe’s telegram. “Poet exiles need rooms STOP Juana refuses keys STOP Send instructions STOP.” Isidro read it three times, and passed it to Laura and Ofelia.
“What is this crap about?”
“Please, Isidro, don’t talk like that in front of the child.”
“I hope Felipe hasn’t started drinking,” he growled.
“What are you going to answer?” asked Laura.
“Tell him to go to hell.”
“Don’t get angry, Isidro. Better not to answer anything; these things always sort themselves out.”
“But what does my brother mean?” Ofelia wanted to know.
“I’ve no idea. Nothing that concerns us,” her father retorted.
* * *
—
ANOTHER IDENTICAL TELEGRAM REACHED them at their Paris hotel. Isidro could only with great difficulty scan Le Figaro because he had learned some French at school, but since he understood even less English, he had not caught up with the news in England. He now read that the French Communist Party and the Spanish Refugee Evacuation Service had chartered a cargo boat, the Winnipeg, and were fitting it out to send almost two thousand exiles to Chile. He nearly had a fit. This was all that was needed in this time of disasters, he grunted, first a Radical Party president, then the apocalyptic earthquake, and now they were going to pack Chile with communists. The sinister meaning of the telegram became clear: his son intended to install this rabble in his own house, no less. Thank God for Juana, who refused to hand over the keys.
“Explain to me what exiles are, Papa,” Ofelia insisted.
“Listen, sweetheart, in Spain there was a revolution of bad people. It was a catastrophe. The military rose against it and fought for the values of the fatherland and morality. Naturally, they won.”
“What did they win?”
“The Civil War. They saved Spain. The exiles Felipe talks of are the cowards who escaped and are in France.”
“Why did they escape?”
“Because they lost and had to face the consequences.”
“I think there are lots of women and children among the refugees, Isidro. The newspaper says there are hundreds of thousands of them…” Laura commented timidly.
“That may be. But what does Chile have to do with all of it? Neruda’s the one to blame! That communist! Felipe has no common sense, it’s as if he weren’t my son. I’m going to have to set him straight when we get back.”
Laura seized on this to suggest it might be better to return to Santiago before Felipe did anything crazy, but the newspaper said the Winnipeg would be leaving in August. They had more than enough time to go to the spa at Evian, visit Lourdes, as well as the shrine of San Antonio of Padua in Italy to fulfill Laura’s many vows, as well as the Vatican to receive a private blessing from the new Pope Pius XII, which had cost Isidro a lot of pulling of strings and money, before they came back to England. There they would leave Ofelia at the finishing school, by force if need be, and then he would embark with his wife for the journey back to Chile on board the Reina del Pacifico. In other words, a perfect trip.
CHAPTER 5
1939
Let’s keep anger, pain, and tears,
Let’s fill the desolate void
And may the nightly bonfire recall
The light of the deceased stars.
—PABLO NERUDA
“José Miguel Carrera, 1810”
VICTOR DALMAU SPENT SEVERAL MONTHS in the concentration camp at Argeles-sur-Mer, never once suspecting that Roser had been there as well. He had not heard any news of Aitor, but supposed he had kept his promise to get his mother and Roser out of Spain. At this point the inhabitants of the camp were almost exclusively male, tens of thousands of Republican soldiers, who suffered hunger and deprivation, as well as blows and constant humiliation from their jailers. Although the conditions were still inhuman, at least the harshest days of winter were behind them.
In order to survive without going mad, the prisoners organized themselves. The different political parties held revolutionary meetings separately, just as they had during the war. They sang, read whatever they could lay their hands on, taught those who needed it to read and write, published a newspaper of sorts—a handwritten sheet of paper that was passed from reader to reader—and sought to preserve their dignity cutting one another’s hair and checking each other for lice and washing their clothes in the freezing seawater. They divided the camp into streets with poetic names, outlined absurd squares and ramblas like those in Barcelona in the sand and mud, created the illusion of an orchestra without instruments to perform classical and popular music, and restaurants with invisible food that the cooks described in great detail while the others savored the tastes with their eyes closed. With what little building supplies they had, they managed to construct sheds, barracks, and huts. They were constantly alert for news from the outside world, which was on the brink of another war, and for the possibility of being set free. The more skilled among them were often employed in the countryside or in industry, but the majority had been farm laborers, woodcutters, shepherds, or fishermen, and so had no skills usable in France. They came under constant pressure from the authorities to be repatriated to Spain, and were sometimes fooled into being taken to the Spanish border.
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