I knew who her grandfather was as they led us to the firing squad. I saw her in the distance hurrying towards a jeep with a military jacket draped over her shoulders. I and twenty others were about to be shot and buried in a mass grave. All I could think about was her grandfather and how injustice is a part of every generation and that hate is powerful and seems to win with little repercussion.
She was from Bariloche in Patagonia. Her mother was German and her father was Spanish and Indian. She spoke fluent German and Spanish. She was a pretty girl but you only noticed it if you stared at her for several minutes. She had a quiet prettiness. After graduating from the European school (there were so many in Argentina) she started working in a fondue restaurant. The cuisine was Alpine in Bariloche. Outside the city, you could find many restaurants where they grilled meat for hours. Argentinian style. She told me she dreamed of Buenos Aires. Tangled dreams that did not untangle in the day. After a year she asked her grandfather for money. She wanted to go to Buenos Aires.
Three buses and one train. Four days of travel. She arrived in the city. A suitcase, a purse, and cash from her grandfather. She got a room in a rooming house and shared a bathroom with five others. She found a job as a tango dancer. I should tell you she studied ballet and the violin in Bariloche. She was as quietly talented as she was pretty. After a few weeks, she met Manuel. He was a history professor at the University. They fell in love.
When she arrived in Buenos Aires it was the middle of the Dirty Wars. One night, when they were making love, they came for him. He was accused of being a Socialist. She was arrested and imprisoned. They placed her in my cell. I was also accused of being a Socialist.
She told me her life. Her grandfather was Hans von Richter. She showed me a small Polaroid. He was wonderful she said. She demanded a phone call and she called him. The next morning I was led to my death and I saw her being led to a jeep. She was being freed. And then I knew. From the photo. Her grandfather was not Hans von Richter. He was Josef Klein. The Butcher of Treblinka. I realized two things when they aimed the gun at me. I would never be able to alert the Israelis and the perpetrators of the Dirty Wars were truly fascists. I learned this from a tango dancer.