Betito and I walked to my parents’ house. We had a family lunch: Cecilia, Armando, and the children came from Santa Ana; several uncles and aunts were also there. The clubs, along with the newspapers, remain closed by order of the general. Mother and Cecilia made paella. I told them what had happened at the Central Prison; everybody is indignant, they insist this situation cannot continue, something simply has to happen soon to make that Nazi warlock go away. “We all want him to leave, but not one of you is doing anything to get rid of him,” Father said reproachfully. “Hail, Lenin,” responded my Uncle Charlie jokingly. The men in this family are impossible: they joke about everything. Without any real information, we live off hearsay: they say they captured so-and-so, they say there will soon be new executions, they say the gringos are preparing something big against the general. I told them we are planning to go to the American Embassy to get the diplomatic corps to support our demand for immediate amnesty. “Mr. Thurston is waiting for you,” my Uncle Charlie said somewhat ironically. He is, in fact, good friends with the ambassador. I told him to stop joking, I was speaking seriously. “I am also speaking seriously,” he said, with another smile. I don’t know what to think; most likely he’s having fun at my expense.
Later this afternoon I asked Don Leo to drive me to Mingo and Irmita’s house. I told Mingo about our plans and asked for his help notifying the foreign correspondents. He told me very few had remained in the country, but I can rest assured, he can guarantee that at least two from the American press will show up. We drank coffee and chatted a while. Irmita seemed worse; in my opinion she’s suffering from something more serious than just chronic bronchitis.
Angelita came to visit me: the poor thing is just like me, she has no information about Jimmy, and her only comfort is knowing he hasn’t been captured. She had hoped her son had left in one of the airplanes the pilots escaped in when they saw the white flag flying over the First Infantry Regiment barracks and were sure the coup had failed; but no, she just found out that the last pilot to take off was the son of Don Chente Barraza, a young air force student who had participated in the bombing of the Black Palace, and he had offered Jimmy a seat in his plane. But Jimmy decided his duty was to stay and organize the retreat of the cavalry troops he commanded, which were being surrounded at the airport by troops loyal to the general. That’s what the Barraza family told Angelita. They also told her that their son Chente flew to the North American base in Punta Cosigüina, on the Nicaraguan side of the Gulf of Fonseca, where the few pilots who hadn’t flown to Guatemala had gone, and now, fortunately, they are all safe and sound in the Panama Canal Zone. Angelita was in the middle of telling me this story when the Alvarados stopped by for a visit. They didn’t know each other, but soon they all felt quite comfortable; all this anguish and uncertainty brings people together. Raúl predicted that things are going to get more difficult starting tomorrow, the university will be a cauldron of activism, and tragic events will undoubtedly occur; Rosita bewailed Chente’s involvement in the protests, she fears the worst should he be captured, and she confirmed that the students plan to call a strike. Raúl said he has met with his medical colleagues, all of whom are wondering what has become of Dr. Romero, two weeks have passed since the coup, and there’s been no word, except that he was sentenced to death. This is the same situation we are in with Clemen, Jimmy, and so many others, who are surviving on the lam, who knows where or under what conditions.
I must get ready for tomorrow: we will all wear black to the embassy. At this hour of the night, when I lie down in bed, I feel like I’m floating in the sea, face up, without moving, my eyes closed under the setting sun, being tossed about in the waves, while Pericles watches over me from the beach.
Monday April 17
A feverish day, as if the city had woken up in an altered mood. We arrived at the American Embassy at precisely eight in the morning. Indeed, just as Uncle Charlie had predicted, Mr. Thurston made us wait only ten minutes, then welcomed us warmly and was eager to be of assistance; he offered his condolences to Merceditas and the Maríns’ mother. Doña Chayito was our spokesman: she gave him the communiqué, explained the situation of the prisoners, and formally requested that his government and the diplomatic corps intervene and pressure the general to declare an amnesty for all political prisoners. The ambassador said the first priority was to prevent more executions; he would call an urgent meeting of the diplomatic corps so they could present the general with a unified position; and although they cannot request amnesty because that is not within the purview of foreign governments, they can request that the government show “mercy.” I don’t know why, but at that moment I could clearly hear Pericles saying that the general had always been a loyal husband and as far as women goes he knows a Concha but no Mercy. The meeting was brief: a photograph was taken of all of us with Doña Chayito handing the ambassador the communiqué; as we left through the front door we were approached by journalists, not only three or four foreign correspondents but also some from our own newspapers and radio stations shut down by the general, journalists Mingo had surely informed of the event. Once in the street, and much to our surprise, a group of students, including Chente, were cheering for us and chanting antigovernment slogans. We turned our steps to the Central Prison to again demand the right to visit our family members. Colonel Palma refused to see us; again he sent Sergeant Flores, who assured us that visits would be allowed by next weekend. “We want to see them now!” Doña Consuelo shouted angrily; we all seconded her demand. Doña Chayito gave a copy of the communiqué to the sergeant and said, “Take this to the colonel. And tell him we just came from the American Embassy. The ambassador told us that sooner or later you will pay for your villainy!” Doña Chayito’s boldness impressed me, though afterwards I wondered what Mr. Thurston would think if he found out what she had said. Suddenly, the young people started shouting at the sergeant, “Nazis! Nazis! Nazis!. ” The expression on the sergeant’s face changed: his eyes filled with hostility, he ordered us to disperse and threatened to call the National Guard that very moment to come and arrest us. We realized he wasn’t bluffing; we left quickly.
María Elena was at home when we arrived; she had just gotten back from the village. She asked me where I was coming from that I was so agitated. I brought her up-to-date on the most recent events, including how frightened I was by Sergeant Flores’s threat. María Elena told me that in her village and in the entire region around the volcano, people are fed up with the general, nobody can forgive him for having executed General Marroquín and Colonel Calvo in cold blood; in addition, squadrons of National Guard troops keep scouring the fincas and threatening the peasants, they suspect that several people who participated in the coup are hiding in the area. She told me the dress fit Belka perfectly, and her whole family sends me their gratitude and best wishes; she brought bags of fruit and the curdled cheese I love so much. María Elena said that when she walked out of the bus terminal, she had the sensation that this was the first day San Salvador had returned to some semblance of normalcy since the coup, but after what I told her, she no longer felt that way.