Operation Massacre (10 page)

 

20.
Execute Them!

4
:
45
a.m. It seems as though Rodríguez Moreno is trying to buy more time. He probably doesn't think of killing ten or fifteen unlucky saps as a very pleasant way to spend his evening. He is personally convinced that more than half of them have nothing to do with anything. And he even has doubts about the rest. He has a tense exchange with the Chief of Police, who has already arrived in La Plata. The orders are strict: execute them. The alternative: be subject to martial law himself. It sounds like they are even talking about sending him an envoy with troops.

At
4
:
47
a.m., they broadcast Communiqué No.
3
from the Office of the Vice President of the Republic:

“Campo de Mayo has surrendered. La Plata is practically contained. In Santa Rosa, the cavalry regiment has been enlisted to defeat the last rebel group. Eighteen civilian rebels who tried to attack a precinct in Lanús have been executed.”

The Marine Corps and the Police Academy lift the siege on Police Headquarters. The rebels disperse. Fernández Suárez arrives at the Government House, where Colonel Bonnecarrere has had no choice but to listen to the nearby shooting all night long, and they walk together toward Police Headquarters. They are walking up the wide staircase that looks onto Rivadavia Square when Fernández Suárez turns to a subordinate and, so that everyone can hear him, gives the order:

—
Those prisoners in San Martín should be taken out to a field and executed!

Apparently that's not enough. Fernández Suárez has to take the radio transmitter into his own hands.

Rodríguez Moreno receives the command. It is incontestable. So he makes his decision.

 

21.
“He Felt He was Committing a Sin”

At the last minute, three of them get lucky: the night watchman, “the man who went to have dinner,” and “the man who was saying goodnight to his girlfriend.” They are pulled aside, given back their identity papers and personal items, and set free.

Rodríguez Moreno will later say that they had been included in the order for execution but he released them “of his own accord.”

They make the rest of them go outside. An assault car is parked in front of the Department, one of those blue trucks that are open on both sides and have wooden seats that cut across the middle. A police van waits a few meters back. Next to it, a small man in a raincoat is nervously rubbing his hands together. It's Captain Cuello.

The prisoners receive the order to get on the truck. There is still one who asks again:

—Where are they taking us?

—Don't worry —is the cunning response.— We're transferring you to La Plata.

Nearly everyone has gotten on. Just then a strange scene comes to pass: it's Cuello who impulsively shouts out of the blue:

—Mister Giunta!

Giunta turns around, surprised, and walks toward him.

There is an almost pleading tone to Cuello's deep, steady voice now.

—But, Mr. Giunta
 . . . —
he moves his arms a bit, his hands
clenched— but you . . . you were in that house? You really were?

Giunta realizes all of a sudden that he is asking him to say no. He just needs a syllable to let him go, to fix the situation somehow. Cuello's face surprises him: it's tense, he's squinting a little, and a muscle twitches uncontrollably in one of his cheeks (“He knew I was innocent. He
felt he was committing a sin
by sending me to my death,” Giunta will later say, in his typically striking language).

But Giunta can't lie. Or rather: he doesn't know why he has to lie.

—Yes, I was there.

The policeman brings his hand to his head. It's a gesture that lasts a fraction of a second. But it's strange . . . Then he pulls himself together again.

—Okay —he says dryly.— Go.

Giunta will not forget the scene. Without even noticing, he will continue to build upon it in his mind over the course of many more minutes. He has already conditioned himself, unknowingly prepared himself for what could happen. He has the professional habit of observing faces, studying their reflexes and reactions. And what he just saw in Cuello's face is still shapeless and nebulous, but worrisome nonetheless.

All of them have now gotten on. And again, the same enigma: How many were they in total? Ten, according to Livraga's calculation. Ten, Mr. Horacio di Chiano will repeat. But they have not been counted. Eleven, Gavino will say. Eleven, both Benavídez and Troxler will estimate.
18
But it's clear that there are more than ten of them, and more than eleven, because in addition to those five, there's Carranza, Garibotti, Díaz, Lizaso, Giunta, Brión, and Rodríguez. Twelve at least. Giunta will calculate twelve, a number confirmed by Rodríguez Moreno who, nevertheless, also mentions somebody “with a foreign name that sounded like Carnevali who later found asylum at an embassy.” Twelve or thirteen, Cuello will claim. But Juan Carlos Torres will say that, based on indirect testimonies, there were fourteen. And the Chief of Police of the Province, months later, will also speak of fourteen prisoners in Florida. If there were two extra men, one of them must have been the anonymous NCO that Torres mentions.

And the guards? There are thirteen of them, according to one testimony. Based on information obtained from another source, they seem to be under the command of a corporal by the name of Albornoz, of the district of Villa Ballester. Is he the one Livraga will later see under extraordinary circumstances? We don't know.

There is one thing that truly stands out: the policemen are armed with Mausers alone. Given the kind of operation that they are carrying out and the circumstances under which they are doing so, it is nearly incomprehensible. Is this about some sort of opportunity, an “out” that Rodríguez Moreno is consciously or unconsciously going to give the prisoners? Or is it that there aren't any machine guns in the District Police Department? There is no easy solution to this riddle. What's certain is that, thanks to this fortunate circumstance—and to other equally strange ones that we'll later encounter—half of those condemned to die will make it out alive.

But they don't know that they are condemned, and this outrageous cruelty ought to be highlighted in the list of aggravating and mitigating factors. They have not been told that they are going to be killed. What's more, until the very last moment, there will be those who try to deceive them.

The guards draw the canvas curtains that enclose the body of the police car, and the truck heads northwest. They are followed by the van holding Cuello, Rodríguez Moreno, and Officer Cáceres, along
9
de Julio Street and its continuation, Balcarce Street, which turns into Route
8
. They cover
2100
meters—about fifteen somewhat populated blocks—before exiting at the first open lot, which is about a thousand meters long. From there the road veers off to the west.

The prisoners don't have the opportunity to observe these topographical details. They are traveling as though in a cell, in nearly total darkness. All they can see is the rectangle of paved road that the windshield up front lets through.

It is bitingly cold. The temperature stays at
0
°
C. Those who suffer the most are Giunta, who is wearing just a jacket, and Brión with his white cardigan. They are sitting face to face on the left, Brión on the first double seat with his back to the driver, and Giunta in the second, looking forward. One of the clasps of the curtain that covers the doorframe is broken, and the fabric flaps against the truck with sharp blows, letting in a gust of freezing wind that cuts like a knife. They both turn to hold the curtain down and talk softly.

—I think they're going to kill us, Mr. Lito —Brión says.

Giunta is still mulling over what happened with Cuello, but tries to console his neighbor.

—Don't think about those things, Mr. Mario. Didn't you hear them say they were taking us to La Plata . . .

If they could see anything, they would realize that they are getting farther and farther away from their alleged destination. Next to Giunta is Mr. Horacio. He also believes they are being taken to La Plata. In front of Mr. Horacio is Vicente Rodríguez, quiet and pensive. Gavino is sitting next to Carranza. He is afraid, while Carranza is trusting. The one who is also trusting, confident, even optimistic in all of this, is Juan Carlos Livraga. He is a bus driver who knows the roads, he should realize that they're not taking them where they say they are. Still, he notices nothing.

In the back seats are Lizaso, Díaz, Benavídez, Troxler . . . Troxler is tense, alert, trying to look out for the slightest indication that might let him know where he is. He is very familiar with the guards and used to dealing with them and giving them orders. Why don't any of them want to look him in the eye? Julio Troxler must have noticed something in their behavior that made him so suspicious.

The truck drives back into a populated area. On the left is a thousand-meter stretch unevenly scattered with houses. Then houses appear on the right as well. The road cuts diagonally across lots and streets for another thousand meters. And suddenly it widens and splits into two. Troxler almost jumps up in his seat. He has just figured out where they are. They are at the intersection of Route
8
and the Camino de Cintura highway.
19
So, not only are they not going to La Plata, they are going in the opposite direction. And Route
8
leads to Campo de Mayo. And in Campo de Mayo . . .

One particular incident interrupts his conclusions. The driver is feeling sick. He stops the truck, gets off, and looks like he's vomiting. There is an exchange with those in the van.

One of the prisoners—it's Benavídez—offers to help.

—If you want, I can drive —he says, completely innocently.— I know how to drive.

They don't pay attention to him. The driver gets back on. They set out again.

“And in Campo de Mayo . . .” Troxler thinks to himself. But he is wrong. Because the assault car turns at a clear right angle onto the Camino de Cintura, it's heading north!

It is incomprehensible.

Footnotes:

 

22.
The End of the Journey

It really is incomprehensible. What is Rodríguez Moreno thinking? Continuing west on Route
8
, there is a four- or five-kilometer lot about ten blocks away, a true barren land in the night where there is even a bridge over a river—the perfect setting for what's about to happen. And yet, they turn north towards José León Suárez and enter a semi-populated area where there are only wastelands, each about three or four blocks long.

Is it stupidity? Is it early remorse? Is it possible that he doesn't know the area? Is it an unconscious impulse to seek out witnesses for the crime that he is going to commit? Does he want to give the condemned men a “sporting” chance, to leave them to fate, to luck, to each one's individual shrewdness? Does he mean to absolve himself this way, by handing over each one's fate to destiny? Or does he want the total opposite: to calm them down so it will be easier to kill them?

At least one of them is not calming down. It's Troxler. He has finally managed to get one of the guards to look him in the eye and keep his gaze. But this anonymous guard does something else as well. He gives him a swift, deliberate, unmistakable blow with his knee. A sign.

So Troxler
already knows
. But he decides to play a wild card, to force a decision or at least put the others on their guard.

—What's going on? —he asks loudly.— Why are you touching me?

A look of panic flashes in the policeman's eyes. He is already regretting what he's done. The corporal looks at him suspiciously.

—No reason, sir —he stammers.— It was an accident.

The truck has come to a halt.

—Six of you, get off! —orders the corporal.

Mr. Horacio is the first to step out, from the right side of the truck. Rodríguez, Giunta, Brión, Livraga, and one more person follow, each guarded by an officer. They can see their surroundings for the first time. They are on an asphalt road. There are fields on either side of it. Just in front of where they got off, there is a ditch filled with water and, behind that, a wire fence. The location, despite everything, is nearly perfect.

But then a commanding voice rises again from the police van parked behind them:

—No, not here. Further up!

They get them back on the truck and resume the journey. Troxler has taken up his distressed, mute post once again. He is now trying to catch the gaze of the other prisoners, to coordinate with them, to get their attention and rally for a frantic, surprise attack. But it's useless. The others seem stunned, resigned, bewildered. They still don't believe, can't believe . . . Only Benavídez seems to respond to him. He is just as alert, tense, and anxious.

The truck carries on for three hundred meters more before stopping one last time, this time definitively. The seven-kilometer trip has taken almost thirty minutes.

The same prisoners get off. Carranza and Gavino as well. Maybe Garibotti and Díaz. Troxler will later confirm that Benavídez, Lizaso, and the anonymous NCO stay in the truck with him.
20
Other testimonies are confusing, divergent, still contaminated by the panic.

To the right of the dark and deserted road, there is a small paved road that peels off and leads to a German Club.
21
On one side of the street there is a row of eucalyptus trees that cut tall and bleak against the starry sky. On the other side, a wide wasteland extends out to the left: a slag dump, the sinister garbage heap of José León Suárez, tracked through with waterlogged trenches in winter, infested with mosquitoes and unburied creatures in summer, all of it eaten away by tin cans and junk.

They make the prisoners walk along the edge of the wasteland. The guards push them along with the barrels of their rifles. The van turns onto the street and shines its headlights on their backs.

The moment has come . . .

Footnotes: