When something did, it stuck in your memory for years.
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It happened in summer, when bees are at their busiest making honey, and they fly around endlessly in flaxen arcs like inhabitants of a sprawling city. In the days following, my grandfather stood there staring at the hive, neglecting the housework. In a way, he was like one of the bees, incapable of getting anything done when something worried him.
My grandfather had a plan. It was the eldest Fischer boy, who was leaving his bike on the path and taking the long way around to get to the back of the property. I knew grandfather always took his rifle with him, so I ran to let him know what was going on, and found him lying down on a green tarp. The rifle was resting on his right forearm, and he motioned for me to lie next to him, which I did, and then we saw the eldest Fischer boy jump over the fence and disappear momentarily among all the tree trunks.
Translation of «peluquera» into 25 languages
When he reappeared, he was right next to the hive. So I looked up again and saw him standing there, taking it all in. Even though he was just another one of the townspeople, and he often led the group of kids who insulted me at school, I thought he looked really brave standing there, indifferent to the threatening buzzing of the bees around his blond head. Then the eldest Fischer boy turned around and headed back toward the path. That afternoon we ate in silence. Afterward, grandfather put on his beekeeper suit and went out to the hive. I stood on a stool and washed the dishes.
At dusk my grandfather motioned for me to get on the truck. My grandfather drove through town and then a bit further on. We stopped in front of a dilapidated wooden house. Two children younger than me came out to greet us, but I could see the timid blond head of the eldest Fischer boy sticking out from behind them. He was huge, and he kept bringing his hands to the seat of his pants, as if they were dirty and he wanted to keep us from seeing them. I noticed his face was as red as a cherry, and that he looked a lot like the eldest Fischer boy, I guess because he was his father.
We sat down in some uncomfortable chairs, and my feet dangled there. For awhile no one said anything.
All I could hear was the coughing of one of the three boys, who sat in a terrified huddle in the back of the room, and my own breathing. Maria served three cups of coffee.
"Traitors" - Dialogos
She put milk in mine, even though I hate coffee with milk. Then she stood behind her husband, continuously drying her hands on her apron. It was like wiping their hands was some kind of family tic. We all went quiet, holding our breath as my grandfather took the hive from the box, but then the youngest Fischer boy got scared and started running toward the house.
We looked back and saw that a swarm of bees was following him. Maria was startled and we all looked at her, surprised. She turned around and took three cookies out of a box, placing them on a plate in front of me. The Fischer children craned their necks and I could tell that these cookies meant a lot to them. Then he looked at his son. The eldest of the Fischer children nodded, a perplexed smile on his face.
- Patricio Pron.
- Patricio Pron: SETTING THE RECORD STRAIGHT: MY FATHER'S VERSION (ENGLISH)!
- Miguel Street;
Then we stood up to leave. Fortunately I was able, long ago, to cross the bridge that separated me from, while at the same time uniting me with, your grandfather. That was one of the things, I believe, that allowed me to have my own children. A few days ago, at the office, I was having trouble finishing reading the printed-out manuscript […] Jorge, seated at the next desk, was looking at me out of the corner of his eye.
In June , their remains were identified among those exhumed by the Argentine Forensic Anthropology Team in a clandestine mass grave located on a rural Army property situated in the town of Laguna Paiva, where the bodies of Bosso and his wife had been buried and covered with lime alongside those of twenty-six other prisoners.
My dear parents:. These lines are to ask you for a big favor, which is that you take care of Mariana for a while.
We know you will do it with much love as you did with me. Greetings to grandma and grandpa, uncles and aunts and a big hug and kiss for you both from Mariana, Mary and me. Her eating schedule is: when she wakes up, […] at She eats lunch between 12 and with fruit and orange juice. I boil her water. She sleeps […] this and the other bottle, she has between […] and 8 or dinner.
Before bed she has another bottle.
This week she had 2 days with fever, the doctor told me it was a flu, he prescribed Bactrim one […] and Multin for the fever. The flu went away, but she has a lingering cold. Of course I so appreciate what you can do for Mariana and I know that she is nowhere better than with you; since we cannot have her.
Thank you very much. A kiss and a hug to you both. There he worked at the De Lorenzi factory and in the local hospital and was goalie for the soccer team of the El Expreso Athletic Club, which he also coached.
What happened to him after that is unclear; his remains have not yet been found. The interruptions in the institutional life of the Argentine Republic always represented an illegitimate appropriation of the unalienable will of the Argentine people by sectors that imposed their group interests over those of society as a whole, preventing it from exercising the rights guaranteed by the Constitution. In these circumstances, when the institutional order of the Republic was shattered, they both became selfless fighters for the return of democratic institutions and the respect for the will of the people.
History and the Argentine people cannot be denied their right to know the truth, but also recognition is overdue for these sons and daughters of the city who contributed with their martyrdom and the sacrifice of their lives to the recovery of the rule of law and democratic life. Here you can see some photographs and audio clips from the event. My father and my mother were also there, along with their ghost.
In one of those emails reproduced here with her authorization, which I appreciate , Florencia Cresto remembers the following:. There is a place of honor in my home for the little ceramic statues and a basket she sent me. Who knows where those red stockings I knit for her are now? Also, I am about to turn sixty and it is an opportunity to open up, from another place, the history, the bonds, the past without nostalgia and without breaking down.
Without the pain that used to paralyze me. From left to right is my sister Mercedes, some kid from there, me in sunglasses, Alicia and another boy from around there. A story I remember from the trip was that one night, after waiting for everyone to fall asleep in the inn where we were staying, we put on our swimsuits and very quietly got into the lake which was deserted at two in the morning.
We did that in high school, the Escuela de Comercio. I remember that we called ourselves the Tulis in real life, one was Tuli L. The novel was never finished.
Stirring Things Up. And it is even possible that some of the people present, drawn here more by obligation than by conviction, are also thinking: Why stir up the past? Let the dead rest in peace! This is not a funeral service. This is an act of militancy to remind us that dictatorships have an objective that goes beyond kidnapping and killing people. Their goal is to destroy a country, bring it to its knees, erase the memory of the achievements of those who built the nation, make people lose their ability to react and to fight, annihilate their hopes, break down their social fabric, their bonds of solidarity and the basic duty of helping the defenseless get back on their feet not with welfare but with social justice and dignity.
Presenting this book in an academic setting would have been a mistake. This book—the first of three that aim to bring to life the figures and actions of four of our fellow townspeople who were sacrificed in their dedication to an ideal that guided their lives: serving others—should be presented as an act of militancy. As an act in memory of what happened to us—what happened to all of us—and especially for the justice that must be brought to each of those responsible—civilians and military—for the criminal acts of all dictatorships, particularly the most recent.
That is why things must be stirred up. We have to stir things up again, dream again, believe again, work hard again for the greatness of our country and the happiness of our people. Appreciating what we have managed to recover—including the bodies of Carlitos and Mary—but convinced that more must be done. We must recover the utopia, that which makes us lift our gaze from our navels and, focusing on the horizon, continue in our pursuit of more equality, more opportunities for all, more social justice, more solidarity, less selfishness, less cowardice, more faith in our fellow human beings, more integrity in our actions.
That is the only way this commemoration will have meaning. And that is the only way to honor our fallen and to march firmly toward truth and justice. Suscribirse a: Entradas Atom.
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