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I Killed Che
___________________
Víctor Montoya
(Translation
by Elizabeth Gamble Miller)
When I got the
order to eliminate Che, a decision of the Bolivian military, I was seized by a
fear that disarmed me. I began to tremble from head to foot and felt like peeing
in my pants. The fear was so great at times, I could only think of my family,
God, and the Virgin.
However, I had to
recognize that, from the time we captured him in the Quebrada del Churo and took
him to La Higuera, he had circles under his eyes and wanted to take his own
life. So at least I would have the enormous satisfaction that finally, in my
career as a subordinate officer, I would shoot a man who was important after
wasting so much powder on turkeys.
The day I went
into the room where Che was, sitting on a bench, his head down and his ponytail
falling across his face, I took a few slugs to build up my courage to do my duty
and chill his blood.
Che stood up
within seconds of my getting to the door, raised his head and shot me a look
that made me lose my balance right then. He was impressive, like anybody who is
charismatic and fearsome at the same time; his clothes were ragged and he looked
pale from his life as a guerrilla fighter.
Once I had him up
close, not far from my eyes, I took a deep breath and spit on the floor, while I
went into a cold sweat. Che, when we saw I was nervous, my hands clutching my
M-2 rifle and legs set ready to shoot, quietly said, "Shoot. It's not much of
a man you're killing." His voice, hoarse from tobacco and asthma, hit
me hard, while his words made me feel a combination of hate and doubt and pity.
I couldn't understand how a prisoner calmly waiting to die could raise his
assassin's spirits.
I put the rifle to
my chest and hardly aiming shot the first round which destroyed his legs and
doubled him over, without any complaints before the second round tumbled him
into the benches, his lips half open, like he was going to say something, and
his eyes still looking at me from the other side of life.
The order done and
while the blood pooled on the scarred floor, I left the room leaving the door
open behind me. The blast of the shots took over my brain and the liquor ran
through my veins. My body was shaking in the olive green uniform, and my
speckled shirt was soaked in fear, sweat, and gunpowder.
Many years have
gone by, but I remember the episode as if was yesterday. I see Che with his
impressive look, his wild beard, tangled ponytail and eyes, as big and light as
his huge soul.
The execution of
Che was the most serious stupidity in my life, and as you will understand I
don't feel good, day or night. I'm a vile assassin, a miserable, unpardonable
human being, a human being incapable of yelling with pride: I killed Che!
Nobody would believe me, not even my friends; they'd make fun of my false
bragging, telling me over and over that Che didn't die, that he's more alive
than ever.
The worse thing is
that every 9th of October, I hardly wake up from this horrible nightmare, when
my kids remind me that the Che of America, whom I thought I killed in the little
school in La Higuera, is a flame lighted in the hearts of the people, because he
fit into that class of men whose death made them more alive than when they were
alive.
If I had known
this, in the light of history and experience, I would have refused to shoot Che,
and I would have had to pay the price of my life for betraying my country.
But it's too late, now it's too late…
Sometimes
just hearing his name, I feel like heaven is pressing down on me and the world
is sinking under my feet and making an abyss. Other times, like right now, I
can't keep on writing; my fingers get stiff, my heart pounds, and memories eat
away at my conscience, like they're yelling from deep inside me,
Assassin!
That's why I'm
asking you to finish this story, for whatever end it might have, and you'll know
that moral death is more painful than physical death and that the man who really
died at La Higuera wasn't Che, but me, a simple sergeant in the Bolivian army,
whose only merit –if you can call it that– is having shot at immortality.
© Víctor Montoya, Elizabeth
Gamble Miller (2007)
_____________________
VÍCTOR MONTOYA
nació en La Paz (Bolivia), en 1958. Su infancia y primera juventud discurrieron
en el pueblo minero de Siglo XX-Llallagua, al norte de Potosí, donde se
descubrió la veta de estaño más grande del mundo. En 1976 fue perseguido,
torturado y encarcelado. Permaneció en el campo de concentración de Chonchocoro-Viacha
hasta que, en 1977, fue liberado tras una campaña de Amnistía Internacional.
Desde entonces reside en Suecia donde se dedica profesionalmente a la escritura.
Original en castellano
Versión en francés de este relato
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En italiano
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