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  Prisoner Without a Name, Cell Without a Number

  Jacobo Timerman

  Translated from the Spanish by Toby Talbot

  * * *

  VINTAGE BOOKS

  A Division of Random House New York

  Translation copyright © 1981 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published, in hardcover, by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., New York and, in softcover, by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., in 1981. This is a translation of Preso sin nombre, celda sin numero by Jacobo Timerman. Copyrighted as an unpublished work © 1980 by African International Productions N.V.

  Portions of this book originally appeared in The New Yorker.

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Timerman, Jacobo, 1923-Prisoner without a name, cell without a number.

  Translation of: Preso sin nombre, celda sin numero.

  1. Timerman, Jacobo, 1923

  2. Political prisoners —Argentina —Biography.

  3. Jews — Argentina — Biography. I. Title. [HV9582.5.T55A3513 1982] 365'-45'°924 [B] 81-52261

  ISBN 0-679-72048-0 AACR2

  Manufactured in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4

  To

  MARSHALL MEYER

  A rabbi who brought comfort to Jewish, Christian, and atheist prisoners in Argentine jails

  Foreword

  My father was Nathan Timerman. Nathan ben Jacob (Nathan, son of Jacob). And I am Jacob ben Nathan. Jacob, named after my father’s father. The Timermans, by way of those strange, biforked paths of Judaism, escaped the Spanish occupation of the Netherlands, and the Inquisition, and wound up in a small town of Vinnitsa Oblast in the Ukraine, called Bar. Family accounts, rather imprecise and often colored by vanity, claim that the Timermans were prominent in the community and fought for Jewish rights.

  It was, most likely, an enlightened, combative community inasmuch as the Jews of Bar, by 1556, had reached an agreement with their townsmen that allowed them to own buildings and granted them the same rights and obligations as the other residents, including travel to other cities in the district for family or business reasons.

  When the Cossack chief Chmielnitski passed through Bar in 1648-49, he of course massacred all the Jews he could capture. The community recovered, however, and assumed that something as brutal as the existence of Cossack murderers could only be God’s final test before the coming of the Messiah. So staunch was their conviction that in 1717 they constructed their Great Synagogue, receiving permission beforehand from the bishop. I attended that synagogue with my father, his six brothers, and all my cousins, and bear within me still a vague longing for those tall, bearded, unsmiling men.

  In 1941, when the Nazis entered Bar, they set that synagogue on fire, burning many Jews to death. All the other Jews of Bar plus others from the environs, including the Timer-mans, who had survived the sufferings—which according to their rabbis had been imposed by God to herald the Messiah’s arrival—were killed by the Nazis in October of 1942. Some twelve thousand within a couple of days. My father, happily, had left Bar for Argentina in 1928.

  In 1977, in Argentina, the same ideological conviction that impelled Chmielnitski and the Nazis reverberated in the questions posed by my interrogators inside the army’s clandestine prisons.

  And in their methods of torture as well.

  But I have survived, to give testimony. And I’m doing so, at age fifty-seven, in the land of Israel, where I’m beginning this book a few days after the birth of the first Israeli Timer-man, whose name is Nahum ben Nathan ben Jacob. That is, Nahum (he who brings solace), son of Nathan, who is the son of Jacob, who is the son of that other Nathan in Bar who was the son of Jacob, whose grave he left when departing for Argentina.

  We have completed our voyage.

  * * *

  J.T.

  Tel Aviv

  January-July 1980

  1

  The cell is narrow. When I stand at its center, facing the steel door, I can’t extend my arms. But it is long, and when I lie down, I can stretch out my entire body. A stroke of luck, for in the cell I previously occupied—for how long?—I was forced to huddle up when seated and keep my knees bent while lying down.

  The cell is quite high. When I jump, I’m unable to touch the ceiling. The white walls have been recently painted. Undoubtedly they once had names on them, messages, words of encouragement, dates. They are now bereft of any vestige or testimony.

  The floor of the cell is permanently wet. Somewhere there’s a leak. The mattress is also wet. I have a blanket, and to prevent that from getting wet I keep it on my shoulders constantly. If I lie down with the blanket on top of me, the part of my body touching the mattress gets soaked. I discover it’s best to roll up the mattress so that one part of it doesn’t touch the ground. In time, the top part dries. This means, though, that I can’t lie down, but must sleep seated. My life goes on during this period—for how long?—either standing or seated.

  The cell has a steel door with an opening that allows part of a face, a minimal part, to be visible. The guard has orders to keep the opening shut. Light enters from the outside through a small crack, which acts also as an air vent. This is the only ventilation and light. A faint glow, night and day, eliminating time. Producing a semi-penumbra within an atmosphere of contaminated air, semi-air.

  I miss my former cell—where was that?—because it had a hole in the ground into which to urinate and defecate. In my present one I must call the guard to take me to the bathroom. It’s a complicated procedure, and they’re not always in the mood. It requires that they open a door, the entrance to the ward where my cell is located, close it from the inside, announce that they’re about to open the door of my cell in order for me to turn my back to it, blindfold my eyes, guide me toward the bathroom, and bring me back, reversing the whole procedure. It amuses them sometimes to tell me that I’m alongside the latrine when I am not. Or to guide me— by one hand, or shoving me from behind—so that I stick one foot into the latrine. Eventually they tire of this game and don’t respond to my call. I do it on myself. Which is why I miss the cell with the hole in it.

  I do it on myself. And then must get special permission to have my clothes washed and must wait in the cell, naked, until they’re dry and are brought back to me. Sometimes days pass because—they claim—it’s raining. My isolation is so overwhelming that I prefer to believe what I’m told. Still, I miss the cell with the hole in it.

  The discipline of the guards is not very good. Often one will bring food to me without blindfolding my eyes. Then I can see his face. He smiles. Sentry duty wearies them, for they must also serve as torturers, interrogators, and perform the duties of kidnappers. They’re the only ones functioning in these clandestine prisons. On the other hand, they’re entitled to part of the booty in every arrest. One of the guards has my watch. During an interrogation another guard offered me a cigarette and lit it with my wife’s lighter. I later learned that they were under army orders not to steal anything from my house throughout the kidnapping but succumbed to temptation. Gold Rolex watches and Dupont cigarette lighters were almost an obsession with the Argentine security forces during that year of 1977.

  Tonight, a guard, not following the rules, leaves the peephole ajar. I wait a while to see what will happen but it remains open. Standing on tiptoe, I peer out. There’s a narrow corridor, and across from my cell I can see at least two other doors. Indeed, I have a full view of two doo
rs. What a sensation of freedom! An entire universe added to my Time, that elongated time which hovers over me oppressively in the cell. Time, that dangerous enemy of man, when its existence, duration, and eternity are virtually palpable.

  The light in the corridor is strong. Momentarily blinded, I step back, then hungrily return. I try to fill myself with the visible space. So long have I been deprived of a sense of distance and proportion that I feel suddenly unleashed. In order to look out, I must lean my face against the icy steel door. As the minutes pass, the cold becomes unbearable. My entire forehead is pressed against the steel and the cold makes my head ache. But it’s been a long time—how long? —without a celebration of space. I press my ear against the door, yet hear no sound. I resume looking.

  He is doing the same. I suddenly realize that the peephole in the door facing mine is also open and that there’s an eye behind it. I’m startled: They’ve laid a trap for me. Looking through the peephole is forbidden and they’ve seen me doing it. I step back and wait. I wait for some Time, more Time, and again more Time. And then return to the peephole.

  He is doing the same.

  And now I must talk about you, about that long night we spent together, during which you were my brother, my father, my son, my friend. Or, are you a woman? If so, we passed that night as lovers. You were merely an eye, yet you too remember that night, don’t you? Later, I was told that you’d died, that you had a weak heart and couldn’t survive the “machine,” but they didn’t mention whether you were a man or a woman. How can you have died, considering that that night we conquered death?

  You must remember, I need you to remember, for otherwise I’m obliged to remember for us both, and the beauty we experienced requires your testimony as well. You blinked. I clearly recall you blinking. And that flutter of movement proved conclusively that I was not the last human survivor on earth amid this universe of torturing custodians. At times, inside my cell, I’d move an arm or a leg merely to view a movement that was nonviolent, that differed from the ones employed when I was dragged or pushed by the guards. And you blinked. It was beautiful.

  You were—you are?—a person of high human qualities, endowed certainly with a profound knowledge of life, for you invented all sorts of games that night, creating Movement in our confined world. You’d suddenly move away, then return. At first I was frightened. But then I realized you were recreating the great human adventure of lost-and-found—and I played the game with you. Sometimes we’d return to the peephole at the same time, and our sense of triumph was so powerful we felt immortal. We were immortal.

  I was frightened a second time when you disappeared for a long interval. Desperately I pressed against the peephole, my forehead frozen on that cold night—it was night, wasn’t it?—and I took off my shirt and propped it under my forehead. When you returned I was furious, and you undoubtedly saw my fury for you didn’t disappear again. This must have been a great effort for you. A few days later, when taken for a session with the “machine,” I heard one guard comment to another about his having used your crutches for kindling. I’m sure that you’re aware, though, that such ruses were often used to soften up a prisoner before a “machine” session—a chat with Susan, as they called it. And I didn’t believe them. I swear to you I didn’t believe them. No one could destroy for me the mutual immortality created during that night of love and comradeship.

  You were—you are?—extremely intelligent. Only one possible outgoing act would have occurred to me: looking out, looking, ceaselessly looking. But you unexpectedly stuck your chin in front of the peephole. Then your mouth, or part of your forehead. I was very desperate. And frightened. I remained glued to the peephole, but only in order to peer out of it. I tried, I assure you, even if briefly, to put my cheek to the opening, whereupon the inside of my cell sprang into view and my spirits immediately dropped. The gap between life and solitude was so evident; knowing that you were nearby, I couldn’t bear gazing back toward my cell. You forgave me for this, retaining your vitality and mobility. I realized that you were consoling me, and I started to cry. In silence, of course. You needn’t worry. I knew that I couldn’t risk uttering a sound. You saw me crying, though, didn’t you? You did see that. It did me good, crying in front of you. You know how dismal it is to be in a cell and to say to yourself, It’s time to cry a bit, whereupon you cry hoarsely, wretchedly, heedlessly. With you I was able to cry serenely, peacefully, as if allowed to cry. As if everything might be poured into that sobbing, converting it into a prayer rather than tears. You can’t imagine how I detested that fitful sobbing of mine inside the cell. That night, you taught me how we could be comrades-in-tears.

  I don’t know why, but I’m sure that you are—that you were?—a young man of medium height. Let’s say thirty-five years old, with a great sense of humor. A few days later a guard came to my cell to soften me up. He gave me a cigarette: it was his turn to play the good guy. He advised me to spill everything, told me that he’d had plenty of experience and that a person my age winds up dying in Susan’s arms because his heart can’t withstand the electric shocks for long. And he informed me that you’d been “cooled out.’’ This is how he put it: “Look, Jacobo, the only obligation you have is to survive. Politics change. You’ll be getting out, you Jews help one another. You’ll make a fortune again. You have children. In the cell facing yours there was a crazy guy. We cooled him out. Look, Jacobo . . .”

  I didn’t believe him. If I was able to withstand it, certainly you were. Did you have a weak heart? Impossible. You were strong-hearted, generous, brave. Such hearts are not destroyed by Susan. Do you remember once how the lights went off? Do you know what I did? I sat down on the mattress, wrapped myself in the blanket, and pretended to sleep. I was very frightened. Suddenly I realized that I hadn’t put on my shirt. I did so hastily. But the lights went on again. And I remembered that the guards sometimes amused themselves by turning the lights off and on. It’s possible, of course, that a large amount of current was being consumed by Susan. Undoubtedly several new prisoners had arrived, and the first thing automatically done to them was to put them through the machine, even before they were asked who they were. The prisoner’s first sensation had to be a session of electric shocks in order to lower his defenses on admittance. I found out later that this technique was changed after some individuals were cooled out before they could even be questioned. Not even the doctor on duty—by the way, do you remember how that doctor kept letting his beard grow, then after a few weeks would shave it off, then let his mustache grow, then only his sideburns, then he’d wear his hair long, then short, all because he was so scared of being identified? —no, not even the doctor was always able to save them.

  Yet both of us survived. Do you remember when I got a cramp in my leg while they were torturing me and suddenly my outcries ceased? They thought I had “gone,” and were alarmed. They had orders to get me to confess because they wanted to build a big case around me. I wasn’t any use to them dead. Yes, I was paralyzed for a moment due to the cramp. It’s curious how one can experience pain and joy simultaneously. Although my eyes were blindfolded, I sensed their fear—and rejoiced. Then I began moaning again on account of Susan.

  No, I don’t think you remember this, though I tried to tell you about it. Yet your eye was much more expressive than mine. I tried to convey the episode to you, for it was as if a battle had been won against them. But at that point I was terribly confused, and it’s possible that I meant to tell it to you without actually having done so.

  My friend, my brother, how much I learned that night from you. According to my calculations, it must have been April or May of 1977. Suddenly you put your nose in front of the peephole and rubbed it. It was a caress, wasn’t it? Yes, a caress. You’d already incorporated so many levels of experience into our captivity, yet persisted in the restoration of our humanity. At that moment you were suggesting tenderness, caressing your nose, gazing at me. You repeated it several times. A caress, then your eye. Another caress, an
d your eye. You may have thought that I didn’t understand. But we understood each other from the start. I knew clearly you were telling me that tenderness would reappear. I don’t know why you felt the urgency that night to affirm the equal importance, or even greater importance, of tenderness over love. Is it because tenderness contains an element of resignation, and perhaps that night you were feeling resigned? Is it because tenderness is consoling to someone already resigned? Tenderness is indeed a consolation, whereas love is a need. And you assuredly needed to be consoled. I didn’t understand that, but you, my brother, my friend, my companion-in-tears, were you already aware of this and resigned to it? If so, why and for whom am I uttering all these inanities? Am I babbling to myself like a fool? Is there no eye gazing at me?

  At dawn one morning in April 1977, some twenty civilians besieged my apartment in midtown Buenos Aires. They said they were obeying orders from the Tenth Infantry Brigade of the First Army Corps. The following day my wife sought information at the First Army Corps and was informed that they knew nothing of my whereabouts.

  They uprooted our telephone lines, took possession of our automobile keys, handcuffed me from behind. They covered my head with a blanket, rode down with me to the basement, removed the blanket, and asked me to point out my automobile. They threw me to the floor in the back of the car, covered me with the blanket, stuck their feet on top of me, and jammed into me what felt like the butt of a gun.

  No one spoke.

  We arrived at a certain place. A pair of large doors opened up. They squeaked. Dogs barked quite close by. Someone said, “I feel fulfilled.,, I was taken out of the car and flung onto the ground.

  A long interval elapsed. I could hear only footsteps. Suddenly, some bursts of laughter. Someone approached and placed what seemed to be the barrel of a revolver against my head. He put one hand on my head and from up close, perhaps leaning over me, said, “I'm going to count to ten. Say goodbye, Jacobo dear. It’s all up with you.” I said nothing. Again he spoke: “Don’t you want to say your prayers?” I said nothing. He started to count.