Beyond the Ties of Blood

by Florencia Mallon

  The first thing she did when she got back was to write down her dream from the night before, including the image of Laura’s father. Then she began thinking about the dirty clothes at the back of her closet. Ignacio had fallen in love with the suffering victim. Had she been unable to accept this, his adoration of her as an icon? Or had she been afraid that, in accepting his love, she would have had to reveal herself to him? Would he have left her then, repulsed by the truth of her past?

  She started writing in a new notebook from the pack she’d just bought at the store. In large capital letters, on the front page, she wrote the title: “MATH LESSONS.” Her testimony before the Commission had been about Manuel, but this was different. She knew, as she turned the page to begin her text, that the dreams and scribblings she had been gathering over the past several weeks would be its core. Now, she struggled for words to frame the introduction.

  “There are so many more of us,” she began. “We have not been executed, and we have not disappeared. We have dedicated our lives to the memories of those who have. But by spending so much time with the dead, we have deeply hurt our loved ones still alive. This is my story,” she continued, “of the hurt I have suffered, but also the damage I inflicted on my daughter. I could not face the truth of my own suffering. I could not tell her the truth of her own origin. And now it may be too late.”

  Eugenia put down her pen. Was it too late? Suddenly she was filled with the need to talk to Laura. She looked across the room at the clock on her nightstand. Ten-thirty in the morning. She was probably getting ready to leave for her work at the Committee, and then it would be nearly an hour before she arrived. Eugenia decided to take a shower, get dressed, and drink some coffee. By the time she was done, Laura would have arrived at the office.

  When she called, it was slightly before noon. Tonia answered the phone.

  “Tonia? This is Eugenia. How have you been?”

  “Eugenia, it’s good to hear you. I’m fine. How is your mother?”

  “Much better, thank you. She and I are getting along much better. But you, as much as anyone, understand how long these things take.”

  “You’re right, hija. But it’s funny you should bring this up now. I’ve barely seen you over the last months, and I know how difficult this time has been for you. But I wanted to tell you that, sometimes, healing comes in unexpected ways.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, as it turns out, after I read Laura’s urine, I realized that there were things I could do to be useful, if only I could stop feeling sorry for myself. So I’ve started taking on clients again.”

  “That’s wonderful, tía! I’m so happy to hear it, even if I can’t say I’m happy about the consequences of that first reading.”

  “I know, hija, and that reminds me. Laura is here. I’ll tell her it’s you.”

  “Hello?” Even though she had tried to prepare herself while she waited for Laura to pick up the phone, Eugenia still felt out of breath, and at a loss for words.

  “Laurita,” she managed. “It’s me.”

  A short silence. Then: “I know. Tonia told me.”

  “Thank you for picking up the phone. Laurita, I need to see you. I have a lot to tell you.”

  “About what?”

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, a lot of writing. I’ve remembered things I had blocked out. Most of all, I want to tell you I’m sorry.”

  A much longer silence, punctuated by short, jerky breaths. When Laura spoke, her voice was raspy. “You’ve said that before, that you’re sorry. You’ve told me the same thing in those little cards you send. What else is there to talk about?”

  “M’hijita, please. I’ve remembered now, details of my torture, things I’d completely blocked out, I …”

  “And this is good news?!” Laura’s voice exploded, forcing Eugenia to move her receiver away from her ear. “You think this is good? That you can finally remember my real father? Is this why you want to see me? Isn’t it enough that I see his face every morning when I look in the mirror?”

  A sharp crack, followed by a dial tone, and Laura had hung up. Eugenia tried calling back. The busy signal told her Laura had left the phone off the hook.

  When Rosa ducked her head into the dining room after the phone rang the next morning, Eugenia allowed herself the wild hope that it was Laura.

  “Doña Eugenia,” Rosa said, “it’s don Ignacio Pérez on the phone.”

  “Hello?” Her voice felt like thick pudding in her throat.

  “It’s been a long time.” He waited for an answer, and when none came, he continued. “You may not want to talk to me, but please. Just listen for a moment.” A short pause, and when she didn’t hang up: “I’m sure you remember what happened when you visited the office of the Investigative Police. At first, after we’d discussed your experience, I didn’t think any more about it. But about two months ago, I began to wonder. Something just kept gnawing away at the back of my head.

  “To make a long story short, Eugenia, we investigated the history of the building. And you were right. It wasn’t one of the larger, more notorious torture centers. But for about ten years it was a way station for people being transferred from the provinces to the larger concentration camps. Thousands of people, many of them later disappeared, moved through there.” He stopped for a moment. “Are you still there?” he asked.

  “Yes.” It sounded like a croak.

  “We’re putting a plaque on the front of the building, part of an effort the Commission is involved in as we tie up the loose ends of our work. The inauguration ceremony is two weeks from tomorrow. Do you think you could say a few words? We’d be honored.”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice clearer.

  The day of the ceremony was cold and rainy, so they decided to hold it in the large room where Eugenia had sat that day nine months before. The area had been cleared for the occasion, and along one wall, facing the lines of chairs, was a small podium with a microphone. Ignacio approached it first. He was dressed formally, the long strand of hair in its usual place over his right eye. Eugenia now noticed a streak of grey in it. Perhaps he would not be hounded quite as much about his youthful appearance, she thought.

  “I am very glad to see all of you today,” he began. “Some of you know me, but I also see a number of new faces, for which I’m glad. My name is Ignacio Pérez Letelier, and I am one of the lawyers of the Commission on Truth and Reconciliation. As we wind down the period of our investigation, we have taken it upon ourselves to leave an additional record of the events that have hurt our country over the past twenty years.” He paused, looking down at his notes.

  “As many of you know, our mission has been limited by the political situation in Chile. Officially, we could not listen to the people who, while still alive, have been irreparably damaged by the repression. All the tortured, those who lost loved ones and spent their lives looking for them, the children of the disappeared, the abandoned.” He stopped briefly. “These people have not had the opportunity to speak publicly, on the record, about their experiences.

  “This has not changed, but we may have found a way to open the door just a crack. A number of the places where people were tortured were also stopping-off places for those who, in the end, were executed or disappeared. Not because of the torture, but because of the deaths and disappearances, these places are a part of our purview. As a first step toward recognizing all those who have worked with us, helped us confirm the fate of their loved ones even as they themselves cannot be properly heard, we are attempting to mark these sites in some way.

  “This office of the Investigative Police is one such place. For ten years it served as an intermediate stop on the caravans of death that traveled through our country. So today we place a plaque at the doors of this building, and even though we can’t stand in front of it for our ceremony because of the rain, we want to recognize the person who made this possible. If it hadn’t been for her, we would never have known the history of this building. If it ha
dn’t been for her, who survived torture and intense suffering at the hands of the military police, we would have never been able to confirm the details of the disappearance of the first victim of repression whose case was brought before us.

  “It is therefore not only my pleasure, but my distinct honor, to introduce to you Eugenia Aldunate Valenzuela.”

  As Eugenia stood up, she was surprised to hear loud applause. Her knees felt weak as she approached the podium, especially since Ignacio’s use of both her paternal and maternal last names in his introduction had emphasized to her the importance and formality of the occasion. But his tight hug held her up until the weakness passed. “Thank you,” he whispered in her ear before rejoining the audience. She placed her notes, hands slightly shaky, on the lectern and looked up at the people sitting in the audience.

  The first row had been reserved for her invited guests. In the middle, right in front of her, sat doña Sara and don Samuel. Next to him, on his left, sat Tonia, Laura, Joaquín, and Marcela. She was glad to see that Tonia had been able to persuade Laura to come. After their phone conversation, she hadn’t had the courage to try and invite her daughter personally, but perhaps what she said today would help in some way. And maybe, someday, she would share with her daughter the testimony she was still writing.

  It was the first time she had seen Laura since she’d run away. She looked older, the cut of her jaw more prominent, her hair gathered up into a twist held in place by a large clip. Tonia’s copihue earrings still hung prominently from her ears. She was holding Tonia’s and Joaquín’s hands. On doña Sara’s other side sat doña Isabel, and the seat next to her had now been occupied by Ignacio.

  Eugenia’s gaze rose up to take in the rest of the audience, every seat in the room occupied. Among them she saw the long manes and handlebar moustaches, now dappled with grey, of the Revolutionary Left. She was glad they were there for Manuel.

  “Thank you so much for coming today to help mark this place and its history,” she began. “I am very grateful to the Commission, and especially to Ignacio Pérez, for the work they have done in confirming the fate of my beloved compañero Manuel Bronstein. I am also extremely grateful to his parents, doña Sara Weisz and don Samuel Bronstein, whom I never had the opportunity to meet before I returned to Chile last year.” She was interrupted by more applause.

  “But I would be terribly remiss if I didn’t also recognize other loved ones, people whose support and—I must say it—suffering, have accompanied me throughout my years. My mother, here with us today, has suffered immeasurably because of the events that shattered my life. I have never really told her how grateful I am for her love, and how sorry for the pain I’ve caused. My sister, who despite her own loss got me out of prison and into exile, has been my guardian angel throughout the last twenty years. But most important, I wish to recognize my daughter Laura, also here today.” Eugenia stopped for a moment, swallowing several times.

  “As many children of disappeared, tortured, or traumatized parents must know, being the daughter of such a victim is not easy. Inevitably the surviving parent’s needs come first, because she is too damaged to do what normal parents do, which is to put the needs of their children above their own. In the case of my daughter, to this has been added a recent discovery that has, I think, made many things difficult to repair—and to forgive.” Her voice broke. She took several sips of water before she was able to continue.

  “This is not meant as a plea for reconciliation, whether at the level of the individual or the society. It is instead a reminder that truth does not, in and of itself, bring reconciliation. As a very wise and dear friend said to me one day,” she looked up to meet Tonia’s eyes, “once something is known, it becomes truth and nothing more.

  “As we begin to learn this truth, as we begin to live with the consequences of this truth, whether measured in plaques or in shattered lives, I hope we can learn to take responsibility for it. Not only so that, to use an already overused phrase, it should never happen again. But also in our attempts to account for the damage, hurt, and pain that, even as victims, we could not prevent ourselves from inflicting on those we love.”

  For a split second all Eugenia heard was silence. Then thunderous applause as those present rose to their feet. She moved back toward the audience but hesitated in front of the first row. Through the mist that gathered before her, she tried to decide where to sit. Laura and Tonia stood together and, taking her hands, led her back to an empty seat that miraculously opened up between them.

  When the mail arrived early the next afternoon, there was an official envelope addressed to Eugenia Aldunate Valenzuela and Laura Bronstein Aldunate. Embossed in the upper left-hand corner was the seal of the Ministry of Foreign Relations. Eugenia opened the envelope with shaky fingers and found a single, heavy sheet of paper, the same seal at the top, and the stamped signature of the Minister at the bottom. “Dear Señora Aldunate,” she read. “Your two petitions, for your own recertification of citizenship and for your daughter’s recognition of citizenship, have been approved. You can pick up your papers at our downtown office, on Moneda two blocks from the Presidential Palace. Our hours are nine to one, and again from three to seven in the afternoon.” Eugenia looked at her watch. If she left now, she would miss the rush hour and get there in plenty of time.

  Putting on a jacket, she walked out to Providencia, down the stairs at the Pedro de Valdivia station, and took the metro to the Moneda stop. By four o’clock she was in the correct line at the Ministry, and an hour later she had collected all the necessary papers, as well as the instructions on how to get her and Laura’s identification cards.

  As she emerged from the building with all the materials in two manila envelopes, it suddenly occurred to her that she might still catch Laura at the Committee offices if she swung by on her way home. Now that they had both been accepted as Chilean citizens, it was probably the best chance she would have to bring up the topic of the future with her daughter. And with Dean Henderson’s deadline a little over a week away, she had the future on her mind.

  Tonia opened the door before Eugenia had a chance to knock.

  “Ay, tía, no matter how many times you do that, it still scares the living daylights out of me,” Eugenia complained, giving the other woman a tight hug.

  “I just knew it was you,” Tonia laughed, “so why wait?” She drew back a bit, putting her hands on both of Eugenia’s cheeks. “I’m so glad you came by, because it gives me the chance to tell you how beautiful the ceremony was yesterday. But this is not the reason you’re here, is it?”

  “No, it’s not,” Eugenia said. “I’m here because earlier today I got some good news. Laura’s and my petitions for Chilean citizenship have been accepted, and I’m on my way back from the Ministry. I decided to stop by and, if she’s still here, I can give her the papers.”

  “That’s excellent news,” Tonia said. “Come in and sit down. I’ll call Laura. She’s still in the back doing some filing.”

  As she settled into an armchair in the sitting room, Eugenia remembered the last time she had sat in the same chair. It had been nearly four months earlier, when she had come to ask Tonia to read Laura’s urine. It felt more like four years.

  “Mama?” Laura walked into the room. Eugenia stood, and the women kissed awkwardly before retreating to separate armchairs. Laura’s hair was gathered in a single ponytail, the ubiquitous copihues glimmering in her ears. A light coat of dust, probably from the filing she was doing, covered the front of her brightly colored hand-knit sweater. Eugenia was once again impressed by how mature her daughter seemed.

  “So Tonia said our petitions were accepted by Foreign Relations,” Laura said after a short silence.

  “That’s right, hija. Your documents are all in here,” Eugenia said, waving one of the manila envelopes in the air. “The only thing you still need to do is get your identity card, and there’s a page of instructions in the packet. I already read mine and it’s pretty easy, all you need is a coupl
e of small photographs and the fee, which I’ll be happy to pay for.”

  Laura came over and took the envelope from her mother’s hand. “Thanks,” she said. “I’m making a bit of money here now, but it’s not a lot.” She sat back down and opened the envelope, nodding as she went through the contents. “Laura Bronstein Aldunate,” she said. “Shouldn’t we change that now to Laura Aldunate Aldunate? I think that’s what happens with children who don’t know who their fathers are.” Her voice was firm, and she looked over at her mother with steady eyes.

  Eugenia was silent for a moment. Of course. It hadn’t even occurred to her, but Laura was right to ask. Did they need to go through the whole process again? “I don’t know,” she said.

  “You don’t know what? If that’s what is done for children without fathers? Of if that’s what we should do now?” Laura’s voice and expression remained calm.

  “Legally, I guess you’re right. But I’m wondering about doña Sara and don Samuel. How they would feel about a name change.”

  “Is it really up to them?”

  “You’re right, hija. But when we found out about your father, even before we told you, doña Sara said that, for them, it changed nothing. They still felt that Manuel’s memory was embedded in your heart.”

  A curtain seemed to fall over Laura’s eyes, and she put down the documents on the side table next to her chair. When she passed a hand over her forehead, the fingers were trembling slightly.

  “Well,” Eugenia said, “I expect that you could petition for a name change at a later point if you wanted to. I could ask Ignacio if you’d like, I’m sure he can find out if he doesn’t already know.”

  Laura sat bent over, elbows on knees. “I’ll think about it,” she said.