Luis
Casado, 10/9/2023
Translated by Fausto
Giudice, Tlaxcala
I never knew how my father managed to give us so much with his modest salary as a bakery worker.
In this so much the readings and the trips occupied a place of privilege. My old man collected for decades the sports magazines Estadio (Santiago), El Gráfico (Buenos Aires) and others, and every week he bought us kilos of comics, short stories and various books. My mother read novels and El Fausto, a weekly magazine for ladies that brought serial romantic stories. That’s where my love for books comes from, from the encouragement of a father who didn’t finish the third year of elementary school but loved reading.
The trips always had the same destination: the archipelago of Chiloé, more precisely Achao, on the island of Quinchao. Getting there in those days -the fifties- was an unforgettable adventure.
From San Fernando to Puerto Montt you traveled in an old train pulled by a sloppy locomotive, operated by the tiznados [sooties], workers of the State Railroad Company, so called because their faces bore the indelible mark of coal.
The train moved with a delightful and gentle slowness. It took no less than 14 hours to cover the 700 km, not counting the numerous stops in the provincial capitals. If you opened a window you were liable to get a particle of coal in the eye. From time to time a man in a white jacket, very formal, would pass by and offer you something to drink and eat: the service was impeccable but too expensive for our meager purse.
In Puerto Montt you spent the half night in a lodge, until early the next morning when the steamer sailed to the island of Quinchao.
In Achao there was (and still isn’t) neither harbour nor wharf: you would have to disembark in the middle of the ocean going down a narrow stairway, located on the sides of the steamer, to the rowing boats that came to pick you up and to which you jumped risking diving into the icy waters of the South Pacific along with your suitcases, bags and various bundles.
When you reached the beach of Achao you took off your shoes, rolled up your pants, and jumped into the water. That’s how you arrived, walking, to your destination. There was Luis Soto Romero, my grandfather, mayor of the town, who practiced his trade. My father, teasingly, had nicknamed him the Cacique.
My grandfather had been a practitioner in the army. In Achao, as a civilian, he was a nurse, midwife, minor surgeon, public authority, spokesman, justice of the peace... in short, a cacique.
My grandfather was a socialist, one of those of that time, not to be confused with those of today: my grandfather never had any sinecure, nor did he ever create any foundation. He rather gave than received. Would it surprise you to know that he was a friend and comrade of a certain Salvador Allende?
That’s right. Salvador Allende.
In 1958, I was not yet 10 years old, when my grandfather announced that we had to go to the beach to receive our candidate. I didn’t understand anything about those things but, together with my brothers and a crowd of locals, we were on the beach of Achao when a fishermen’s sailboat appeared in the distance.
On board we could clearly distinguish the boatman maneuvering the sails and the rudder, and two people dressed in suits, clothing somewhat out of line with the place, the means of transportation and the inhabitants of such unknown sites.
As the boat approached the beach, the two city men in suits performed the well-known ritual of the traveler: they rolled up their pants, took off their shoes and socks, and jumped into the icy waters. One of them was Salvador Allende, who visited even the most remote villages of our tormented geography in his stubborn determination to obtain the necessary citizen support to become president and put an end to the abuses and exploitation of our people, as well as to the plundering of our basic wealth.
Other times, other men, other practices. It was hard to be a democrat and to practice with the daily example of decades of political activity. Allende had already been a candidate in 1952. And he would be again in 1964, when my younger brothers wrote his name on notebook pages and went out to paste them on Curalí Street.
It was a time when, in a cyclical rite, with a periodicity of six years, the “good ladies” went out to visit the poor, provided with some “gifts”. And a message: vote for the candidate of the oligarchy. I did not know that this was called bribery, buying consciences, frightening the unwary, preaching hatred with the all too evident support of the local parish.
I, an adolescent who prolonged the struggle for the ideals of his grandfather, took an active part in the campaign. Thus I could see that there was no place, however small and modest, that Allende had not visited in his long career towards immortality.
On one occasion some miners from Lota proposed, or rather challenged me, to come with them to the galleries from which they extracted coal. They extended for miles under the Pacific Ocean, and accidents were frequent. But I did not want to panic, and I accepted. I confess that I entered the tunnels with ill-concealed fear. Already in the bowels of the earth, the miner who carried the lamp announced: now you are going to know the darkness. And he turned off the lamp.
The moments in which I experienced an indescribable blackness, a sepulchral silence, the loss of all sense of orientation, were unforgettable. No starlight enters the coal mines.
When we finally came out into the daylight, the miners said kind words to me for my fortitude (it is clear that they did not know the terror that inhabited me). But what impressed me most was that they added:
“The only politician who dared to enter with us to the bottom of the mine was compañero (comrade) Salvador Allende”.
Allende in Lota, 1971
Later I was able, during my travels through Chile, in the arid and desert north, in the mountains, in the central valley, in the factories, on the coast, in every little town I visited, to verify that the “compañero” had already been there more than once, long before the light of political conscience, that of citizens’ rights, went on for me.
Now that I am reaching a canonical age, I am amazed to remember the unimaginable effort, the countless hours, days, months and years, the words always full of hope and encouragement for social combat, the epic commitment and the ethical example of Salvador Allende to offer Chile the dream of a just, free and democratic country.
And I understand the value of his last words... “I say to the people: I am not going to give up”.
I am left, forever inscribed in the place in my chest that serves for that purpose, with the pride of having known him, of having contributed, microscopically, to his reaching La Moneda and entering, definitively, in the History of the great men of this Humanity.
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