Advent Calendar Day 10 - November 21
Excerpt from A Soliloquy of Some Disconnected Tales, a book of stories by Thomas E. Chávez.
Plus, today only, get 21% off this title in our bookstore—no code required.
“Survival (El Gran Jefe)”
In San Juan, a city in western Argentina at the foot of the Andes Mountains, a young Vicente López was hanging out with friends avoiding the summer’s heat in a courtyard during the evening of January 15, 1944. At 8:52 PM an earthquake struck, and his life changed forever.
At the time, San Juan had a population of ninety thousand inhabitants and was a town of mostly adobe structures that could not withstand the force of a seven- to eight-magnitude on the Richter scale. Ninety percent of the buildings were destroyed, ten thousand people died, and an approximate one third of the remaining population was left homeless. The catastrophe caused many families to scatter in confusion. Around one thousand children suddenly became orphans. People in despair roamed the street looking for missing family members or friends. Some painted names of their missing family members on walls.
Young Vicente, who was twelve years old, had been left in a children’s home by his mother, whose husband had abandoned her. She was unable to provide for the child and thought it best to take this action. As was customary during the height of summer in that arid, hot place, the children were outside playing when they were interrupted by a sudden roar that quickly culminated with a loud boom when the earth jolted and shook. As a result of being outdoors, the children survived. Vicente and the others were brought together by obviously frightened and preoccupied caretakers. They would spend the night outdoors, without food and wondering what would happen next.
Vicente did not remember what happened next, except that he and another boy, whose name was Rafael, were the oldest, so they were designated by some adults to go out into the streets to learn more about what had happened. When they left the property, they saw the horrible results of the earthquake. Vicente remembers that he and Rafael were set to work scrambling through the rubble and into spaces looking for survivors, encountering some of the dead. They saw maimed and mangled people both alive and not. Then, Vicente was tasked with assisting nuns who were working in outdoor makeshift hospitals. He helped wrap bandages, set splints, replace gauze, do anything the sisters asked of him. He saw people maimed, in pain, some desperate, others determined. It was an experience that he would never forget.
Nor was he forgotten, because his mother survived and thought only about her son. She went to the children’s home to find a partial building with nobody around. She was told that no bodies were found there and little else. What had become of the children? she wondered. She wanted her child back, but it was not to happen in the immediate aftermath of the town’s destruction. With no help, she could only do what many others did: wonder about him, call out his name, search among homeless children, and check the posted casualty lists. In her desperation, she did not think to go to the authorities, who had put Vicente to work.
Eventually, Vicente and the other children were sent to the care of an orphanage in Mendoza, approximately eighty miles south of San Juan. With any luck he would be adopted and be able to live a somewhat normal life. However, a couple of opportunities did not work out. For one reason or another, the families or Vicente did not get along, so he was returned to the orphanage.
The third attempt, however, succeeded. An upper middle-class couple took him home for a “test period” over a weekend. They liked the boy, and he liked them. They understood what he had been through. They wanted to make a home for him, and they set a date to sign the adoption papers before a judge in court. Life for Vicente had improved, and he was happy. Thoughts about his mother, while always there, had faded. A new chapter in his life was about to begin.
Still, his mother persisted. Back in San Juan, every day she poured over government lists of newly identified survivors. Then, the government started publishing lists of orphaned children and, as the information became available, what had become of them. After months that seemed like years, his mother saw listed the name of Vicente López. Could this be her son? She immediately followed up and found that this Vicente had been placed in a Mendoza orphanage. With the address written down and tucked safely into her purse, she boarded a bus for the hour-and-a-half trip to Mendoza.
A taxi took her to the orphanage. There, she learned that the boy, if he was her son, was about to be adopted. He had already spent a weekend with his new family. When she asked for more information, she was surprised to hear that the date and time for signing the adoption papers was that very day!
Exasperated, the mother asked, “Where is he now?”
A staff member quickly transported her to the court house, where she easily found the chamber where the ceremony was taking place. She opened the door and saw her son—or so she thought. He faced away from her, standing among some adults.
“Vicente?” she shouted.
Everyone turned to see the source of the question as she rushed toward them, but it was Vicente who answered.
“Mama!” he yelled, and he rushed into her arms.
They would never be parted again. Still, Vicente could not forget the couple who had almost adopted him.
◊ ◊ ◊
Then came a pause, as if the story had ended. But the voice, as was its owner’s want, bellowed, “Bueno, continua. ¡Hay más! Well, go on. There is more!”
“Bueno. Vicente grew into a relatively handsome man.”
“¡Espera! ¿Qué dice? Wait! What did you say?”
“Okay, a handsome man.”
Vicente fell in love with and married Celia Camporo. He became an electrician working in a large bank building, and she taught primary school. They gave birth to and raised three daughters, one who went to Europe where she received a Doctorate of Philosophy and taught Honors courses at a major university in the United States. Her two sisters both went to college, one becoming a phycologist and the other, like her mother, a primary school teacher.
Vicente danced tango, loved music of all kinds—especially the folk music of the local Peñas, a get-together with an open stage. He recited poetry from memory, read the daily newspaper, and religiously watched the news on television. He and his family lived in a modest house with a garage that Vicente converted into a work shed. He created a patio replete with an horno and permanent barbeque. And, he became famous for his asados, including his recipe for pollo injectado. Instead of barbecuing chicken with the sauce on the outside, Vicente developed a whiskey and lemon-based concoction that he injected into the chicken before putting it on the grill. His culinary fame spread enough that when a papal legation came to town, he was asked to do the barbeque for the special dinner for nearly a hundred guests.
When his daughters were little, the oldest around seven years old, he loaded the family in their car and drove to Mendoza. Vicente wanted to thank his almost adopted parents and share with them what had become of him. He wanted them to see that now he had a family. They had a happy reunion over food and wine. They traded their respective memories of that long-ago time and, then, what became of them.
Years after that, Vicente went to a pharmacy to pick up some medicine. As usual, Vicente had to wait with other customers. Then, the pharmacist called out his name. Just as he rose from his seat, a man rushed up to him.
“Vicente Romero! Vicente Romero! I know you. You knew my brother, Rafael Sosa. He was in the orphanage with you. He went with you to Mendoza. What happened to him? I have been looking for years. Do you know anything about him?”
Vicente’s answer was a disappointment to him and the man. He explained how he and Rafael were recruited to look for bodies and then transported to Mendoza. The boy was still at the orphanage when Vicente and his mother were reunited.
He could only whisper, “No, friend. I never went back to the orphanage. I never saw him again. I don’t know. He survived the quake. Probably he was adopted. I am sorry, but I can’t tell you anything more.”
◊ ◊ ◊
“There, Grand Jefe. There is your story. The first time I met you was in the patio of your house. You organized an asado for the extended family and friends. With the meat done, you sat at the end of a long table. The family buzzed around you as they took their seats. Your wine glass was filled merely by the wave of a finger. There was no question who the family patriarch was. And you welcomed me and we became friends when I answered a request from you with, ‘Sí, mi jefe! Como me mande. Yes, my boss! At your command!’ From that afternoon, you became El Gran Jefe and you referred to me as El Jefe. It was our joke and mutual admiration.”
“You were the master of the open-fire grill, which, in Argentina, is saying something. Once the meat was over the coals, you taught me that the two most important things for a good outcome was low heat and patience.”
“And you and Celia travelled to the United States to visit your oldest daughter. Celia had suffered a stroke and was sick. But you went anyway. You picked weeds in your daughter’s garden, happy for the solitude and to help.”
“You are worthy of admiration and more. Your spirit cannot be forgotten. You live in my memory and in the lives of your daughters, two of whom published books, one of which contains a short story about you.”
“Your life is the extreme opposite of a man born in riches. You were left in an orphanage, alone during the devastation of an earthquake, and found again by your mother. From childhood you grew to immortality in spirit and memory. How you suffered the death of Celia! You kept her framed photograph and would not forget her. You lived beyond the physical deaths. Your daughters buried both of your ashes under a tree, giving it the same nourishment that your spirits give us.”
“And that is the point, verdad?”
“Sí, y buena escuchar. Yes, and good to hear.”
Read more of these historical stories by the renowned historian Thomas E. Chávez in the new release A SOLILOQUY OF SOME DISCONNECTED TALES.
Get 21% off this title until midnight Mountain time tonight, Friday, November 21.
About the Author
Thomas E. Chávez is a member of Spain’s Royal Academy of History and the Historical Society of New Mexico. He has received the National History Medal from the Daughters of the American Revolution and the Zia Award from the University of New Mexico Alumni Association. He is the author of fourteen books to date. Chávez was born in New Mexico, where he continues to live.