Family History
Carlos discovered the photograph album under a pile of shoes in the back of his grandmother's closet. It was hidden, not with a real attempt to conceal, but like she’d been holding it and heard someone approaching; thrusting it into the collection of footwear as a stopgap until she returned it to its usual location. He wondered how long it had been there.
The leather was real and old with a firm board underlay, not the synthetic padding on newer and cheaper albums. He opened it, the tissue paper rustled in the quiet room, and he looked at the photos. Originally black and white, they were now yellowed with age and the corners were cropped or slightly rounded. Some had dates, initials or placenames written on them; the cursive script was formal and scrolling, in a style nearly defunct, now that children don’t spend long hours practicing penmanship.
He turned the pages, looking at snapshots of a young woman’s life. Alone, with friends or family, at a lake, in front of the Palacio de La Moneda, Santiago. A series of the young woman with some military officers caught his attention and he peered at it closely.
The ping of a message interrupted him and he fished the phone from his back pocket. Sylvia, his wife, asking if she should bring anything with her. He requested coffee and a bagel. Returning to the photo album, he turned the pages back and forth, looking for the clearest images.
“Emilia?” He called to his sister who was in the guest bedroom.
“What is it, Carlos?”
“Come and look at this.”
He stood and walked towards the door continuing to peer at the album as he went. Emilia came through the doorway.
“What is it?” she asked.
He closed the album and held it out to her. She took it. He nodded his head, and Emilia looked down, flicking through the album, giving each page a cursory glance.
“These are pictures of Abuela Soto.” She shrugged casually. “I’ve already seen photos of her when she was young.” She handed it back to Carlos, who turned pages until he found the photos he wanted.
“That young officer in these pictures.” He lifted the album up and scrutinized the pictures again. They were grainy, but he was sure he was right. “Is our Abuela Soto with Pinochet?”
Emilia had her arms folded across her chest, one hand toyed with the thin silver crucifix hanging over her red roll-neck. She shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so. Why would she be with him?”
#
Back home, Carlos and Sylvia sat at their kitchen table the photograph album open amidst the coffee cups and plates.
“You are sure that it is your granny, your abuela?” Asked Sylvia.
Carlos nodded.
“Is that definitely Pinochet in the pictures? I mean, they are pretty grainy photos.”
“Sylvia, I was born in America, Emilia was under two our parents arrived. We were brought up as Americans, not Chilean refugees. But they taught us to recognize Augusto José Ramón Pinochet Ugarte.” He pointed at one of the photographs. “That man is Pinochet. Even if the picture is from long before he stole my parents’ country.”
“What are you going to do?” Sylvia asked.
Carlos looked at his wife. “That is a good question. I can’t figure why she would have been with Pinochet, or why Emilia tried to deny it.”
“You know, looking at these pictures, she isn’t with him, she’s with the other officer. And their all very young. Wouldn’t the picture be from long before the coup? Anyway, do you want to know? Your Mom and Dad were no friends of the regime. You always said they were so left wing the state department hassled them for years.”
“I know my family history, Sylvia.”
“If you’re right about him,” she pointed at the photo, “then I think you don’t know as much as you thought. Emilia seems to know more, but you don’t, and you have to decide whether we want to find out.” She rubbed at a mark on the table. “You know, your Abuela Soto was always distant. The first time I met her was at our wedding, in fact I only met her three or four times ever. Maybe this is the reason. Maybe you don’t really want to know.”
The kitchen clock ticked into the silence. Sylvia stood up.
“I’ll make more coffee, and we should think about eating. I’m guessing you've only had that bagel all day, I know you didn't have breakfast. I'm starving.” She put a new filter paper in the percolator and spooned in coffee. “Shall we get Lucky House to deliver, or do you fancy pizza?”
“I want to know. I want to know what happened,” said Carlos.
“Are you sure?” Emilia turned, leaning her hip against the worktop. “I want to know, but it’s not my family. What if you find out a different truth to what you’ve been taught? What if your parents and grandparents weren’t brave idealists fleeing policide?”
“It would make me, and Emilia, different people. We might learn something about how and why we became the people we are. Sometimes I feel I grew up in a vacuum. No, that’s not right, a greenhouse, a very climate controlled greenhouse. All of our home life was how Chile was stolen by fascists, how America was free, but the people were slaves to the corporations. Grampa, Dad, Uncle Orlando, they taught a litany of social capitalism. Pinochet and his whole regime were anathema.”
Sylvia watched her husband speak to the table. She nodded sympathetically, “Whatever you may or may not learn about your granny won’t change the person you chose to become.”
The clock continued ticking and the coffee pot gurgled. Sylvia rinsed their cups and spooned sugar into both of them, cream into hers.
“You know,” said Carlos, “they wanted us to live without crippling ties to a sub-culture of emigré regret. Emilia and I didn’t grow up thinking Santiago was New Jerusalem. It was somewhere our parents escaped from, just in time. So yes, Sylvia, I want to know the story. You’re right, it probably wont change who I am, but I want to know what happened.”
“So long as you’re sure. I think you should speak to Emilia first.”
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
story by stuartcturnbull, picture by FranDuque via Pixabay
