Silent Goodbyes from the Dirty War

WARNING: Historical Violence, Antisemitism, and Sexual Assault

Buenos Aires, Argentina

March 1979

The deep scream brought Raquel back around. Her pain was intense — like being hit by a truck. Her feet and private parts were burning and tingling. More than anything, she wanted her torment to end. Death would be welcomed over another round of torture.

Raquel struggled to open her tear-encrusted eyes beneath her blindfold. Lying on the cement floor in the hot, damp cell, with her hands cuffed behind her, she used her left arm and elbow to push herself up to a seated position. Lowering her face to her knee, Raquel tried to rub away the gritty residue from her eyelids and the dried snot from her nose. She attempted to summon enough saliva to diminish the salty, metallic taste, but her mouth was too parched to cooperate. Plus, the intense ache combined with the cloth gag rendered her incapable of even moving her jaw.

Groans and screams continued from the room down the hall. It was definitely Raul. She could recognize his voice anywhere. As neighbors, they had grown up together — friends before they became lovers. After another blood-curdling scream, the sound of his baritone voice ceased.

“Mother-fucker,” said “acne-boy,” the younger guard. “That dirty Jew can’t take the heat.”

His superior, “fat-man,” — let out a snort. “Help me drag him back to his cell.”

The two men grasped Raul under each armpit and pulled him down the hall. Raquel could hear Raul’s toenails scratching against the concrete. He landed with a thud — like a one-hundred-pound sack of flour being dropped from a two-story building. Acne-boy shut the gate and slammed the lock together. He looked through the bars on Raquel’s cell door and made a repetitive slurping/sucking sound. “I’ll have another go with you later, commie bitch.”

Raquel turned away. Her underwear were missing, the top of her dress was ripped apart leaving her breasts exposed. The bottom of her dress was caked with a combination of blood, urine, semen, and feces. “Bastard,” she thought to herself. The guards chatted in their lounge at the end of the hall; an occasional word or two came through, but not enough to ascertain what fresh hell was coming next. A few cells down, whimpering could be heard. Someone further down the hall attempted to yell through the wads of filthy cloth stuffed in his mouth as he rattled the door. The constant clanging gave her goosebumps. Fat-man repeatedly yelled, “Stop the god-damn ruckus.”

“This is how you make them shut the hell up,” said acne-boy as he threw a pot of boiling water on the annoyance. Raquel heard a splatter of liquid and a piercing scream, followed by gasping sobs. “If the rest of you make noise, I’ll cool you down too.”

Fat-man snickered.

In the quiet that followed, Raquel could make out the sound of vehicles on a fast-moving highway. She attempted to piece together the events of the previous day.

* * * * * * * * * *

After their Sociology class ended at 3:00, Raquel Solano and Raul Zimmerman headed toward the bus stop. Hearing the screech of brakes behind them, they took off running. Raquel’s sandal clipped a ridge on the sidewalk, and she tumbled down. When Raul turned back to assist her, two men grabbed them, cuffed them, and threw them in the backseat of a dark-green Ford Falcon.

Their pleas for release were ignored, until the man in the passenger seat turned around and backhanded Raquel, causing her to bite her lip. Since their hands had been cuffed behind them, Raquel tried to wipe her bloody mouth on her shoulder. Raul scooted closer and offered up his shoulder. “I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you forever,” said Raquel. These were the final words they would ever share.

In a deserted alley, they dragged Raul out of the car, blindfolded and gagged him — shoving a ball of dirty rags in his mouth and securing them with a strip of material. They did the same to Raquel.

It felt like they drove in circles — so many turns. Raquel could not tell what direction they finally settled on. Roughly forty minutes after their capture, they arrived. One of the men yanked Raquel out of the car and dragged her up an outdoor set of stairs. Once inside the building, her captors shoved Raquel into a small cell so hard that she collided with the back wall. She heard Raul tumble into the room next door.

Blindly, Raquel explored her quarters: six paces by four paces, without a corner to pee in. The outside wall was large bricks — maybe cinder blocks; the inside walls were rough-hewn wood. A locked metal gate kept the room secure. The entire space reeked of vomit, piss, and shit. A variety of sounds filled the space: moaning and crying insulated by the muzzles that covered the inmates’ mouths; scratching, tapping, and the rattling of bars; a high-pitched crackling sound that was always followed by a shriek or scream; and confessions — both real and fabricated.

After a few hours, Raquel got the attention of one of the guards. As she heard him walk by, she rattled the door and pointed to her private area.

“Bathroom time?” he asked with the deep rasp of a heavy smoker.

Raquel nodded. She did not recognize his voice. He was not one of the men who captured her. Her spirits raised. Maybe he would treat her kindly — allow her and Raul to escape.

He opened the metal gate and led her to a bathroom. Still blindfolded, Raquel felt around for the toilet. There was no seat — just the porcelain bowl. She lifted the back of her dress and started to pull down her underwear.

“Let me help you with that.” Her captor pushed her down to the toilet bowl and ripped off her panties. “Go ahead bitch. Do what you came here for.”

After a few seconds, Raquel produced a solid stream. As soon as she finished, the guard yanked her up and dragged her into the nearby lounge. He pushed her face-forward into a table, lifted her dress, and assaulted her. She could feel his hard belly pound into her. He lowered his face near hers and sucked on her earlobe. He smelt of stale cigarettes. When he smeared his oily hair against her cheek, Raquel gagged.

“My turn.” A different man flipped her around and threw her on to a sofa. He mounted her missionary style. After a few violent thrusts, he ripped apart the top of her dress. His switchblade snapped open. Cold metal rubbed against her skin as he cut the straps and front section of her bra — exposing her breasts. He tossed the remains of the brassiere on the floor and began sucking on her right nipple. His rough and pitted face felt slimy on her chest. “Here we go,” he said, pumping her hard and fast.

When it finally ended, acne-boy offered her to a third man — one of her original captors. “I’ll pass. Not interested in your sloppy seconds.”

“It would be thirds, pendejo.”

“Take her to the workroom,” said the third man.

Acne-boy hoisted her up from the sofa and pushed her though the doorway and down the hall. He lifted her on to a wire bed-frame, strapped her down, and removed her gag.

“I’m going to ask you once — only once,” said the third man. “Who are you working with to undermine our proud nation?”

“No one,” said Raquel. “I’m just a student.”

He put the picana — a two-pronged super-charged cattle prod — in her mouth. With a loud buzzing-crackling noise, the device delivered between 12,000 and 16,000 volts of electricity. The shocking pain practically knocked her unconscious. Her screams rattled the windows.

“Your brothers are known revolutionaries. They have confessed their sins.”

Raquel thought about Luis and Javier. No way they talked. Never. They would go to their graves rather than give up their compatriots.

“Who do you answer to?” The third man spit as he yelled in her face. He threw a cup of water on her chest and applied the wand to her left nipple.

Raquel screamed, then gasped. Every muscle and fiber seized, centering on the point of contact, then radiating out from head to toe. Mental disorientation followed.

“No one. I answer to no one.” Her mouth was so sore, she struggled to get the words out. He shocked the bottoms of her feet and zapped her private area — repeatedly demanding answers to the same questions. He boasted that her brothers had given her up, along with other people, some of whom she had never heard of before. Finally, he shoved the prod into her anus, causing her to soil herself and the wire bed. The searing pain overwhelmed Raquel. The next thing she remembered was coming to in her cell — exposed, drenched in sweat, and gagged once again.

* * * * * * * * * *

Raquel heard movement in the cell next door. Raul must have woken up. She used the metal cuffs to tap on the wooden wall that separated them. At first, she made random, frenetic taps. Finally, Raul tapped back. To let him know that it was her, Raquel tapped the special knock that her group used to alert one another: three soft knocks, two hard knock, three soft knocks — tap tap tap, TAP TAP, tap tap tap. Raul knocked back with the proper response: one hard, two soft, one hard — TAP, tap tap, TAP.

Unable to speak, Raquel hummed through her nose. Raul hummed back. At first, no real thoughts were communicated — just nasal murmurs. Then, Raquel hummed, “I love you.”

“I love you forever,” Raul hummed back, followed by, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” hummed Raquel.

“Together forever,” hummed Raul.

“Forever,” hummed Raquel.

Torturing another prisoner, the guards could not hear their exchanges.

Raquel began humming the tune of their National Anthem. Recognizing the melody, Raul started humming along.

When the screaming in the torture room ended abruptly, Raquel and Raul ceased their purring. They could overhear the guards muttering down the hall. A deep thump came from the torture room, followed by a scraping sound down the hall, and an even louder thump in a different room. “They must have dragged the guy back to his cell and threw him in,” Raquel theorized.

“Your turn again, Jew boy,” said fat-man. Raquel heard Raul’s gate open and Raul groan when he was hoisted to his feet.

“I love you,” she hummed again.

“I love you forever,” Raul hummed back.

She knew what would happen. They’d strap him down, splash him with water, and zap his most sensitive parts with the picana. The places she had only recently began to explore: the beautiful dark brown curls on his head, the spattering of curls on his strong chest, and the cluster of curls surrounding his circumcised penis. Then they would hurt him — badly, profoundly, irrevocably.

She tried to block his shrieks and screams. Each caused her to recoil, then shudder. Raul would never give up his comrades — the men and women who fought for the benefit of all Argentinians. People determined to overthrow the military junta that had taken control after ousting the failed president, Isabel Peron. The former dancer and third wife of Juan Peron was certainly no Evita. Shit, the woman was not fit to run a dog-grooming business, let alone the presidency of Argentina.

Raul’s screams came to a sudden halt. Like before, Raquel heard the guards argue, followed by a deep thud, the sweeping drag, and the louder thump. They did not bring Raul back to his cell; it sounded like he was taken to the cell of the previous torture victim.

* * * * * * * * *

Raquel awoke to a flurry of activity. The prisoners were being evacuated from their cells. The gate to her cell opened, and acne-boy lifted her up from an armpit and ripped off her blindfold. He was even uglier than she imagined with a lanky frame, sunken chest, deep-set eyes, and rotten teeth. “Walk,” he said, pushing her forward. “You’re going for a ride.”

Raquel got in line behind six men in their early twenties. Another three men were behind her. She was self-conscious of her exposed breasts and soiled clothes, but the men only made eye contact, rather than embarrass her. She passed a doorway and glanced inside. Raul’s naked body rested haphazardly on top of another man. His baby blues stared icily forward. Raquel gasped.

“Your boyfriend didn’t make it,” said fat-man. He let out a snort.

Raquel and the men were led down the stairs. In the warehouse below, they were herded into panel vans. During the drive, Raquel thought about her parents. How would they survive without their children? Maybe one of my brothers left behind a child.

She remembered the night when the police busted into their home, trashed the place, and dragged her brothers away. Luis was a known union activist, but Javier was only a student. That was over two years ago. When they left, her parents hugged her close for the rest of the night. In the morning, Raquel and her mom put the house back together — as best they could. Her father began what became his weekly rounds of police stations and military bases in an effort to locate his sons.

They arrived at an airfield, and the ten of them were loaded on to a plane — still gaged and cuffed. Lightheaded from dehydration, Raquel’s throat felt like sandpaper. She started to dry heave, as there was nothing to expel. It was dark as they flew over the Rio de la Plata. The prisoners guessed their fate.

A few of the men cried openly, a few prayed. Raquel felt relieved. She would never experience the picana again, and she would be reunited with Raul.

Raquel looked up at an older man in his early 40s with salt and pepper hair sitting across from her. He nodded. The sadness is his eyes spoke volumes. Fat-man and acne-boy kept their guns trained on the prisoners.

Raquel caught the eye of the older man again. She began humming the National Anthem. “Salt-and-pepper” accompanied her and two other men joined in. Fat-man waved his gun in her face, but Raquel kept humming. No way, he’d shoot the gun in the plane. Fat-man motioned to acne-boy, who smacked one of the men in the head with the butt of his gun. The rest of the men joined the humming. A look of shame appeared on fat-man’s face.

From the cockpit, the pilot yelled, “Throw ‘em out now.”

Acne-boy jerked open the door and yelled for the prisoners to stand up. He knocked another man in the head with his gun to make the point. Raquel and the men rose to their feet. One by one, fat-man pushed them out to their deaths. In the air above the Rio de la Plata, ten bodies floated down to the open waters below, along with the melody of the Argentine National Anthem.

Hear mortals, the sacred cry: Liberty! Liberty! Liberty!

Hear the sound of broken chains, see noble equality in the throne.

Already the most dignified throne they’ve opened,

The United Provinces of the South and the free people of the world respond,

A toast to the great people of Argentina!

May the laurels be eternal,

That we figured a way to obtain.

Let us live crowned in glory, or let us pledge to die with glory!

* * * * * * * * *

For the next four years, Elena Solano marched with the other mothers every Thursday around the Plaza de Mayo in front of the Casa Rosada — the “Pink House” — Argentina’s seat of government carrying a large poster with photos of her three children: Luis, Javier, and Raquel.

* * * * * * * * *

Argentina’s Dirty War began in 1976 when the military junta overthrew President Isabel Peron, who had succeeded her husband, the infamous Juan Peron, following his death. It lasted until 1983, after Great Britain humiliated the military junta in the Falkland War. During this period, the generals oversaw the disappearance — and death — of an estimated 30,000 citizens who were perceived to be a leftist threat. Most of the “desaparecidos” or disappeared were young people of college age. Others were true revolutionaries, union leaders, journalists, educators, and members of the Peronist party.

An estimated 500 children were taken from them disappeared and given to military families to be adopted. Pregnant women were mostly housed at the Mechanics School. They were kept alive long enough to give birth. These kids are known as the “lost children of the Dirty War.”

Thanks to the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo, who marched with poster-size photos of their children every Thursday afternoon, the atrocities of the military junta were exposed to the world. To distract attention, in April 1982, the Argentinian generals invaded the Falkland Islands (aka the Malvinas) — their former territory that was lost to the British in 1833 — in an effort to restore control. At that time, the Falklands were home to about 400,000 sheep and around 2,000 British citizens. The generals were certain that Britain would not fight for 4,700 square miles of territory (roughly the size of Northern Ireland), 300 miles off the coast of Argentina and over 8,000 miles from their mother country. They underestimated Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, who sent down the big ships and blew the Argentinians out of the water in 74 days. Casualties included 649 Argentinians, 255 British servicemen, and three female civilians.

The generals resigned in shame, and civilian government was restored to Argentina.

(C) Joyce O’Day 2023. All Rights Reserved.