When they finally hauled her up, they tied a blindfold over her eyes and half-dragged, half-carried her out into a waiting car. She was thrown into the back, her head hitting the door on the opposite side.
After they were picked up, Eugenia realized her mistake in taking him back. She was in love with him, but he loved politics. Thatâs why she ended up on that metal frame, the electricity crashing through her until all she wanted was to die. To escape the searing pain. She couldnât tell them anything because she really didnât know anything. She just happened to be in love with a political leader. And then that horrible day, when they took her into the room where they had him and she saw how badly they had tortured him. She was sure the only reason they brought them together was to taunt him one last time. She knew that, after that moment, heâd be gone. She wasnât sure what was worse, having lost him, or seeing him again, in the state he was in, right before losing him forever.
But then she became aware she was pregnant. The sickness started coming every morning, and pretty soon it was clear that she wasnât just suffering delayed effects from the beatings and electric shock. Her breasts got large, and her stomach grew round and full. When the young girl with whom she had shared a cell was released from Villa Gardenia and let Irene know where she was, her sister moved heaven and earth to get her out. Eugenia remembered the cold wetness of the winter morning when she was transported to the Mexican embassy in the old VW van that smelled of gasoline. She shivered all the way, nauseous from the fumes, her swelling belly making it hard to get in and out of the back seat where theyâd put her. Irene had been waiting at the embassy gate with a large poncho to drape over her shoulders.
Even after they took her to the embassy, she had to wait until the Chilean government accepted the Mexican request for political asylum. She took to strolling back and forth among the tables of exiles waiting to leave the country, watching their endless chess games, their disputes over a hand of bridge. Irene came every day, bringing treats to still her cravings, new clothes as her belly got larger. Yet every day, when she woke up, she wondered how things could just go on as normal. There were people dying, she thought, being tortured, beaten, and killed all around them. She didnât even want to think about how much Mama must have suffered, her daughter disappeared and tortured, and now, pregnant, about to go into exile. And people were arguing over cards? Every time the baby kicked she felt like the ultimate, and most banal, symbol of how life goes on, even in the midst of tragedy and grief. Her baby was a flower growing on earth made spongy with human blood.
The contractions began one evening while she was still waiting for approval from the Chilean government. After all, there werenât that many countries that, like Mexico, were still accepting exiles. The large number of petitions made the wait so much longer. Canada had filled its quota, and the United States accepted no one. She had never really had Manuel, but now she would have his child. Irene was there, too, when Laura was born, the first person to hold her, tears streaming down her cheeks. Because Laura was born in the embassy, she was a Mexican citizen. In any case, Chile wouldnât want her, the child of two subversives, one of them gone and the other damaged beyond repair. Her birth certificate read: âLaura Bronstein Aldunate, born on Mexican soil, Mexican embassy, Santiago, Chile, September 16, 1974.â Only later, after theyâd lived in Mexico for several years, did the full irony of that date strike Eugenia. Her daughter had been born on Mexican Independence Day.
Mexico City, 1974
A month later, she and Laura were booked on a flight to Mexico City, where they were picked up at dawn by representatives of the Revolutionary Left
After they were picked up, Eugenia realized her mistake in taking him back. She was in love with him, but he loved politics. Thatâs why she ended up on that metal frame, the electricity crashing through her until all she wanted was to die. To escape the searing pain. She couldnât tell them anything because she really didnât know anything. She just happened to be in love with a political leader. And then that horrible day, when they took her into the room where they had him and she saw how badly they had tortured him. She was sure the only reason they brought them together was to taunt him one last time. She knew that, after that moment, heâd be gone. She wasnât sure what was worse, having lost him, or seeing him again, in the state he was in, right before losing him forever.
But then she became aware she was pregnant. The sickness started coming every morning, and pretty soon it was clear that she wasnât just suffering delayed effects from the beatings and electric shock. Her breasts got large, and her stomach grew round and full. When the young girl with whom she had shared a cell was released from Villa Gardenia and let Irene know where she was, her sister moved heaven and earth to get her out. Eugenia remembered the cold wetness of the winter morning when she was transported to the Mexican embassy in the old VW van that smelled of gasoline. She shivered all the way, nauseous from the fumes, her swelling belly making it hard to get in and out of the back seat where theyâd put her. Irene had been waiting at the embassy gate with a large poncho to drape over her shoulders.
Even after they took her to the embassy, she had to wait until the Chilean government accepted the Mexican request for political asylum. She took to strolling back and forth among the tables of exiles waiting to leave the country, watching their endless chess games, their disputes over a hand of bridge. Irene came every day, bringing treats to still her cravings, new clothes as her belly got larger. Yet every day, when she woke up, she wondered how things could just go on as normal. There were people dying, she thought, being tortured, beaten, and killed all around them. She didnât even want to think about how much Mama must have suffered, her daughter disappeared and tortured, and now, pregnant, about to go into exile. And people were arguing over cards? Every time the baby kicked she felt like the ultimate, and most banal, symbol of how life goes on, even in the midst of tragedy and grief. Her baby was a flower growing on earth made spongy with human blood.
The contractions began one evening while she was still waiting for approval from the Chilean government. After all, there werenât that many countries that, like Mexico, were still accepting exiles. The large number of petitions made the wait so much longer. Canada had filled its quota, and the United States accepted no one. She had never really had Manuel, but now she would have his child. Irene was there, too, when Laura was born, the first person to hold her, tears streaming down her cheeks. Because Laura was born in the embassy, she was a Mexican citizen. In any case, Chile wouldnât want her, the child of two subversives, one of them gone and the other damaged beyond repair. Her birth certificate read: âLaura Bronstein Aldunate, born on Mexican soil, Mexican embassy, Santiago, Chile, September 16, 1974.â Only later, after theyâd lived in Mexico for several years, did the full irony of that date strike Eugenia. Her daughter had been born on Mexican Independence Day.
Mexico City, 1974
A month later, she and Laura were booked on a flight to Mexico City, where they were picked up at dawn by representatives of the Revolutionary Left
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