Memorandum

by Flavia M. Lobo

Inside

She is led along a bleak corridor with cell doors on one side. The doors have rectangular openings through which she can see mouths greeting her with words of encouragement and solidarity. And then they begin to sing a well known revolutionary hymn. She feels grateful and guilty. She does not deserve the revolutionary salutation. What has she done? Nothing really. But at least she is there with them. Hers is a tiny individual cell. A cement shelf with a mattress is the bed. Next to it a latrine and a sink. A small hole near the ceiling lets in some light. The rectangular barred opening in the door can be shut, but not locked, from the inside.   Filthy walls. Among the stains, quotes, slogans. St Francis’ "Lord grant us the serenity to accept the things we cannot change, courage to change the things we can, and wisdom to know the difference"; side by side with ‘’Ther haint no god.’’ Some of it written with blood. Bela reads. Touches the letters. Caresses them. Bites her lip. Cries. The man that was here before her died. Stroke. One of the policemen made a point of telling her. After asking ”What is a beautiful girl like you doing mixed up with these things?’’ Many others have been   tortured to death or shot. She knows. She thinks that she wants to remember all this when she is dying. So that she will not feel sad or nostalgic or afraid. So that she will want to go from such a world. Now she cries. For herself too. Despite the exhaustion it will be impossible to rest. The sorrow. The fear. The strident light-bulb up in the ceiling.

They came in the middle of the night. As usual. They say it avoids embarrassment for those being arrested. In fact it eludes any possible notice in the neighborhood. Who knows, someone might want to oppose the arrest or something. Also it is no doubt done to increase the shock. Waking up from a deep sleep with machine-guns pointed at you is unsettling to say the least.

Bela manages to keep some of her cool. It is a long trip to the São Paulo Political Police station and they stop on the way for a snack. The policeman in charge is civil, even polite. He sounds sympathetic saying that her inability to swallow the juice offered is a natural reaction. She wonders when the bad cop will make his appearance.

Before entering the building, they leave her in the police car with a man they have just picked up. He is being arrested too, he says nervously, trying to make conversation. Bela goes along with it. She is all the time aware of two things: the likelihood of the man being a police informant, the likelihood of there being a microphone in the car. Inside the building she catches sight of the widely publicized face of the most powerful and infamous of police torturers. He sits at a desk under a skull and crossbones poster: the Death Squadron. The moment she is told to wait in a corner, he comes over and starts asking questions. The good cop interrupts him. ‘’Leave her alone.’’ Bela is surprised. Maybe a case of professional jealously, she thinks. But later, in an interview with the Chief of Political Police he assures her he has promised a mutual friend she will soon return home physically and psychologically unscathed. Despite the fact that the so-called mutual friend is an acquaintance, not a friend? She wonders. And hopes.

Days later, having been moved to a cell with three other women, she hears about the man who had the stroke. He was taken from the cell everyday, they say. With a hood covering his head and face. “They were trying to keep us from knowing who he was, but of course we knew.’’ Bela does not recognize his name. She remembers the policeman said they did not want him to die. That it had just happened. Sometimes their victims die before saying it all. He insisted that they were not like the military that tortured people to death in their barracks or hidden chambers. They were not like that, they did not kill people. Why did they bother to lie, she wonders. She also remembers the American talking in bad Portuguese with one of the policemen when she was brought in. “CIA of course’’, says one of the other women. “Teaching our hangmen the techniques they perfected in Vietnam.”

Once out of the Police Station and inside the prison, Bela goes into a spacious cell with five other prisoners. There are several cells of varying sizes on two floors. She will now be able to bathe everyday. A curtained corner in each cell contains shower, latrine and sink. Airless windows are mostly blocked by metal sheets. Solid doors. The keys hanging from the wardens’ belts. Lights on day and night as in the police station. She is given a bed and shown the couple of cardboard shelves on the wall that belong to her.

Here some of the women have been lying in their beds for weeks. Not a word out of them. Faking death. Pretending they have never been born. Trying to escape the horror of being face to face with human depravity, degradation. Blocking off the realization that they are at the mercy of the merciless. Not wanting to know or have to remember. Others talk non stop, telling and retelling. “And they dragged my husband out of bed and prodded him with their guns I had opened the door for them I didn’t know and they shouted the whole time telling us to put something on   to go with them it was a very cold night and saying the lieutenant or whoever had a lot of questions to ask us get ready to spill it all out if you know what’s good for you and one of them that looked drunk kept yelling take her clothes off I want to see her ass and my husband didn’t react because I screamed at him from the beginning don’t get us killed and before I knew we were in the van I was so dizzy I had hardly woken up or was it the shock but thank God the baby was at my mother’s sometimes they take the children too to make people talk more quickly and they dragged us outside it was so cold and first thing they did when we got to the barracks the first thing they did was to strip us hang us up.”

Bela thinks she will not speak. Ever again. Not speak, never smile. Or laugh. Laugh? She is hiding inside her body as when she was a child. A rather dark and quiet, cushioned shelter. Cavern-sanctuary where she licks her wounds. Where she sits and waits. Something in there knows of her. It becomes a hand and touches her face. Outside there is grief and shame. There is terrifying obscene insanity. Visions of evil incarnate. The handsome, cheerful policeman is a sadistic torturer. Guards thrash prisoners in the cellar. Men are raped down there. The screams and howls penetrate the cells through the bars, underneath and above the metal sheets in the windows, sideways. It is useless to try and block your ears with fingers or pillows. This is what dehumanized beings are capable of inflicting, becoming, enduring. It is no longer possible to ignore. Not for a second.   So she pretends she has died, is no longer there, as others have done.

But Odete insists. She is all liveliness and positive activity. She has been in hospital. One of her kidneys destroyed by days of beating, of hanging by the wrists and ankles on the “pau de arara”, of electric shocks. Her cheeks are still rosy though. She knows   herself to be luckier than those who have lost limbs due to gangrene caused by hours of hanging, or have been crippled by beatings or bullets, or brainwashed to insanity; luckier than the men who have been castrated. She decorates the cell with stars and her wonderful drawings. She will not give up on Bela. She will not give up on anything. She sits by the bed chattering away. Despite her apathy, Bela realizes Odete is being ostracized by a few. She is supposed to have talked. Who knows who really has not. Who knows what people keep to themselves while giving other things away. Who knows the point beyond which it is impossible not to say something.   Finally one morning Bela tells Odete that she will not speak again because there is nothing to say anymore. Odete smiles at the sound of Bela’s voice. ”You’re coming back. You have to.” She is right.

Little by little the women come together, become a structured group. They are not confined to their cells during the day. They cook good tasty meals in the downstairs kitchen. With the provisions brought by families and friends. They watch calories, most want to keep fit now that they are coming back to life. They organize themselves and their time. They knit. Crochet. Learn to work with leather. Nearly everything they make is sold outside. The money goes to lawyers for those who cannot afford them. They study. They discuss what they read. They have animated conversations in the yard at sunbathing time. By now immune to the threat of the rifles the little young soldiers up on the wall point at them. They are shielded, shield one another, against despair. At the mercy of the military, the police, almost at the mercy of the little soldiers, of the wardens, they know there is no guarantee they will ever get out alive. And they are proud.  

Enemies

Early in the morning. A man’s voice on the other side of the wall calls the warden. One of the male political prisoners asking for a light. The voice invades the wall between him and Bela. Tunnels through. She blushes. Her skin tingles. Then the warmth turns to shivers. She smiles and wants to cry out, wants to weep.

But the voices and sight of the men around, officers, soldiers, wardens, policemen, do not move or interest her as a woman. They are not men, they belong to another species. The enemy syndrome, she thinks. And yet, she immediately ponders, they are indeed of the same species. She even hears that many have to drug themselves in order to participate in the torture sessions. Nevertheless they bully and despise the rare ones among them who walk out of the room in disgust. The others feel they are obeying orders as they must. Very few are volunteers after all. They are not threatened with torture if they refuse. Not like some of the prisoners forced to torture their comrades. Most of who refuse. And are tortured themselves or murdered for it. Still the professional torturers keep doing it even when not sick enough to enjoy it.

Confronted with the indignation of one of the women, a visiting army officer does not believe it when she affirms she would rather have been killed. He declares he could not imagine himself wanting to die under any circumstance. Is that it then? Bela wonders. Lack of empathy due to lack of imagination?   Yes, lack of empathy. Yes, she says to herself, Hannah Arendt knew what she was talking about. Evil is banal. It takes little to get in touch with it. And when you do there are no visible signs either. No growing of fangs, no sinister looks. Not necessarily. Varying amounts of evil are tapped by different people, of course.   It begins, Bela considers, by a denial of someone else’s full humanity. Often with indifference or contempt. Sometimes with the sort of fear that breeds hatred. The more you limit your circle of active humane interest and sympathy, the more you feed the evil that is loose in the world as well as your own private brand of it.   She can feel there is a tirade coming. There has to be. So she goes on as if writing in her mind. It’s nothing to do with how sociable you are. Hermits can carry the world in them. More like Hitler, looking so affectionate with his dogs, so shy and gentle with babies at his parties, at his cronies’ parties. Like the Ku Klux Khan murderers using the Christian cross as their symbol. Or like some CEOs of big international corporations or governmental enterprises, lawmakers, ruling classes that cause the death or destitution or slavery of millions without visible qualms while being family oriented and subscribing to charities. Like the powers that be, self-appointed champions of freedom and justice, fomenting fascist coups, supporting bloodthirsty dictatorships. Like the bloodthirsty tyrants themselves. Like torturers everywhere. Etc etc. All capable of showing a benign face to the world. Or to part of the world.

But there are the visiting cadets. They come in small groups every once in a while. They do not seem to lack imagination yet. Although indoctrinated, brainwashed, the same as the young soldiers on the wall. Bela can almost see behind their alarmed or veiled eyes. In there images of political prisoners bear weapons and bare their teeth, an indistinct mass. But the cadets walk across the cells and a few women smile. Many are attractive. The mental image changes and the young men sigh behind their eyes. These dangerous prisoners are women. Kissable, lovable women many of them. Women that surely cannot all be bad, they think, as they feel something inside beginning to surrender.   Then Vera, she is usually the one, looks straight into the face of one of them. The cadet looks back longing to stay in her womanly stare, until with just one question she awakens him and his fellows. The women’s smiles are ironic, compassionate at best, the young men realize.   Some of their eyes are hostile. There is no possible peacemaking here.

Saturdays

On Thursday the women start getting ready for Saturday. Visit day. They decide what they are going to wear. They borrow and lend. They give one another skin and hair treatments. By Saturday the expectation has reached such a peak they are all radiant. A candle lit under the skin. Except for the two or three that sometimes stay in the cells. Newcomers, occasionally there is no time to organize things for them. Normally even the ones that come from afar, with no relatives or friends locally, have visitors. Some cellmate’s friend or someone from the organization. Even Marian smiles on Saturdays. Pretty. Despite the broken bones.

In the yard the women and their visitors stand in groups. There is tension.   Exhaustion. They have practical discussions. And arguments. They cry. Laugh often a bit hysterically. Some hold hands. Embrace. Exchange warm looks. There is joy.   Ruth, Bela’s stepmother, needs to be pacified as usual when she comes. Somebody has said something they should not have said. Somebody has done something they should not have done. For a while Ruth is the center of attention in their little group. By her side, her daughter Marta moans a little. Crushed by her own sensitivity, she says. A professional sufferer, she believes she feels so intensely the pain of others her suffering is greater than theirs. Whatever the circumstances.

One Saturday a little boy visits the cells. Marcia has asked the wardens for permission to show her son where she lives. “He’s been having nightmares. I bet he imagines a dungeon with me fastened to wall chains. I want him to see that it’s just ugly rooms with beds and some women’s things and books on a few shelves.”   In the end the little one barely pays attention to the surroundings. There are sweets and candy bars and kisses and hugs from the women waiting for him.   Odete has made a couple of shadow puppets and gets him to play with her. It turns out to be almost a party.

Allies

The authorities do not know how to deal with the problem of undesirable communication between the female political prisoners and the regular prisoners in the cellar. The women have been lectured: “Nothing must be lowered down to the men in the basement. They set fire to the newspapers you send for them to cover the floor, with the matches you send for them to heat their food.” The officer looks concerned. Hurt. Sorry for them all so kind, so generous, so naïve being used by those villains down there. Some of the women’s lawyers have complained on behalf of their clients against the treatment of the regular inmates. The political exploit the modicum of safety afforded by the middle class status of many of them. They know that to a certain extent they are still supported by that. And by international pressures that have been mounting from human rights organizations including Amnesty International. And by archbishop Paulo Arns of São Paulo who, having taken a clear stand in opposition to most of his colleagues, has been sending priests and nuns on weekly visits. The number of political prisoners returned to the police station for torture has decreased, the abuse of prisoners in the basement diminished. There are hardly any shrieks in the night now.

The men down in the basement no longer see the women upstairs as middle class bitches. They have stopped shouting insults and obscenities. They now chat with them on the infrequent days when they are allowed out onto their tiny yard for sunbathing. And presents are exchanged. The women send a string down with spices, cigarettes, matches, soap, sweets. In return they are serenaded. Occasionally men and women sing together until late in the night.   All on the same boat for once. All on the same side for now. Almost all. Some of the women think it wrong to co- fraternize with criminals. One day the men send up a lovely poem. And a delicate pretty little ring with a red stone. It hangs from the ceiling in the women’s largest cell.

One afternoon it is Bela’s turn and she stands at the window holding the string. She is very present, totally there. A feeling of reality not often experienced lately. She holds the string with gentle firmness and it feels compact in its slenderness. Important. The sound of voices comes faintly from the kitchen.   Others’ turn to cook dinner. Marlene is on guard. The arranged signal a cough in case the warden appears. But absent-minded Marlene is probably daydreaming again. Bela hears a voice behind her. “What are you doing?” She turns around slowly. “Don’t tell me you don’t know.” “Yes, I do know. And I know it’s forbidden. Don’t tell me you don’t know.” This particular warden is quite smart, intelligent. She also usually tries not to make trouble for them. Helps discreetly when possible. Bela decides to bluff. “Go ahead and call the officer in charge. I want to speak to him about this anyway.” The warden bluffs back saying she will do that. End of incident.

When a priest on hunger strike is being removed to a hospital to be force fed, the voices of the women and men on both sides of the walls go up in protest. The news and the watchwords have spread through the grapevine via the Morse code on the walls.   All cry out slogans and sing the national anthem. They get hold of pots and pans, any metal objects, to bang on the window bars and make as much noise as possible. The prisoners in the cellar join in. They sing and shout the slogans sounding joyful and angry. Proud. And they go to the windows, despite the machine guns pointing from the top of the wall. Pointing at everyone. Cocked at them.

Out in the street a group watches. Relatives and friends of the political. They have been told there are to be no visits even though it is Saturday.   Not for the next three weeks. So they stand there, looking at the windows from which they can be seen. Witnessing.

Court

There are five in the basement of the military court. Saying very little very softly.   “They ’re going to let you go, sure thing”. These words come from the private standing in the door of the minuscule room. He is still trying to chat with them, but manages to talk only to himself. He is tall and blond, grandson of Europeans, he informs the air. Not able to stop talking, he gives a summarized account of his life history. To the air. They are being sent upstairs one by one to listen and answer, then sent back down. The military tribunal discusses. Deliberates. Decides. Not one serious charge attached to any of them. All there because of people they know, or knew. A grotesque accusation against José. He rented his garage in town. The tenants were revolutionaries. But that was not written on their foreheads. They answered the ad. They paid the deposit. He was asleep when the police came and was dragged down the street. In his pajamas. He gives no details of his experience. Nobody knows whether he was burned with electric wires. Or made to sit on the “dragon chair”. Bruises on his wrists speak of “pau de arara”.

Upstairs officers behind the long table. Two are bald. Bela thinks: I’ve seen this film. Typical Nazi officers in American movies, all of them. Frozen, stiff, crooked. Impaled in their chairs. The air smells of hatred. Suddenly they will jump. They will start to bellow and crack whips. If she pays attention she can hear panting dogs coming in the door, running across the room after her. She wants to scream. Don’t scream. Don’t close your eyes. They will see that you are frightened. You must shorten the distance. You must give the impression that you belong to their world. Better still, to a world above theirs. You must pretend you are at a social gathering. At ease, slightly artificial, slightly sophisticated. One of them offers her a cigarette that she takes. He lights it for her and one for himself.   She watches him. Watches herself as if in a mirror. Holding the cigarette, inhaling delicately.   Afterwards her lawyer tells her off. “You don’t know these guys? They’re all as square as can be. You’re supposed to be a good, respectable woman. You’re not supposed to smoke in public, especially not in a courtroom!’’ But she explains she thought it would help her feel and look relaxed. And a couple of the inquisitors had even sat back on their chairs as if forgetting for a moment the robot role-playing. Which did not prevent any of them from asking their tricky questions, trying to set their traps.

On the way back to prison, Bela looks out of the barred window of the military van. They are all free. Until summoned to appear in court for the trial. In a few months. Bela stares at the ugly little street outside. It looks lovely to her, out there. The street, the dusty houses and trees, the cars, the gray looking people. Words in her head: I’m going home tomorrow. After six months. The surprise. The wonder. They are letting me go. They haven’t killed me, as they did others. They haven’t crippled me, as they did others. I’m not going to die waiting, as others have.   Things get into focus, out of focus. I’m going home.

Out

Bela has been out since yesterday. Today she has wandered up and down the streets trying to understand things again. At least the surface of things. Words reverberate in her mind. Why me? What about the others? Some have been there for over a year with no formal charge. She is haunted by plain-clothed policemen she sees getting out of cars, crossing the street, staring at her. Following her. Everywhere. Look, they’re laughing. They always laugh a lot. They’re whispering now. And laughing some more. About me. They will be approaching soon. She slows down, waits for it to happen. They will take her back again. Inside. With the others. When nothing happens, she tries to resume her normal pace. She feels like she has never really been here before. Her neighborhood. The condos, the apartment buildings, the few houses, the park with the playground and the tamarind trees. The people. Everything behind a sort of thin veil of iron. As if this was a world she no longer belonged to, that she remembered vaguely from having experienced it in some other life. She thinks she cannot speak the language anymore. She knows the words, of course, but does not know how to use them. She thinks of them and they do not fit things. And she wonders about stresses, tones, intonations. She stops at the door of a coffee shop. Decides to have a cappuccino. How to ask for it? What do people say exactly? She cannot remember. She rehearses sentences in her mind. She knows any of them will sound strange when she says it. Nevertheless, bracing herself, she goes in, sits on one of the high stools and presses her hands hard on the counter. To stop the shaking.