38 Londres Street, page 39
Silva was unhappy that the broadcast caused a judge in Santiago to contact him. ‘If I speak to you, the judge will call me again,’ he said, which he didn’t want. He answered Judge Guillermo del Barra’s questions for ten minutes, over a Zoom call. ‘I wasn’t shown a photo of Rauff. He never asked about the vans, or what happened to me. All he wanted to know about was Rauff.’
Will you go to the Memorial at Santo Domingo? Silva asked me.
In the afternoon, I said.
‘I’ll go with you,’ he said.
I’m not alone, I explained. I’m here with others.
‘Who?’
Jorgelino Vergara, El Mocito.
‘Go without me,’ said Jorge Silva. ‘You write your book, it’s important, because judges don’t look at these cases, but I have no interest in Rauff. What I want is for the people who did these things to us to go to prison.’
He didn’t wish to spend time with Vergara. The conversation was over.
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After leaving Jorge Silva, I drove with Fuenzalida, Vergara and Monserrat to the port of San Antonio. Extensively rebuilt after the earthquake of 1985, it is today dominated by the vast and garish Arauco San Antonio shopping mall. Opened in 2009, its name honours the Chilean real-estate company that runs it. There is no suggestion that the company has any connection with the Pesquera Arauco.
The Pesquera Arauco’s facilities were on the south side of the port, off Bernardo O’Higgins street. The buildings and plant were gone, today there are just barren spaces occupied by a few colourful shipping containers. The site was well located, the Tejas Verdes barracks just five minutes away, the cabins at Santo Domingo a few minutes further south. The Bahía Hotel in Cartagena, to the north, mentioned by Vergara, was a fifteen-minute drive.
We went to the site of the cabins at Santo Domingo. It’s a bucolic spot, this former concentration camp by the sea, the sound of waves and gulls, and children shouting as they weaved their way around the parasols on the beach. This was where Jorge Silva was held, and Vergara ran barefoot, impressing Manuel Contreras’s daughter.
There’s not much left today. Bright-blue signs mark the National Monument, the ‘former Detention Centre of the Popular Beach at Rocas de Santo Domingo’. A large black-and-white photograph shows how it was, buildings and dunes to the horizon. The holiday cabins put up by Allende, and later used for torture, were gone. What remained were ghostly posts on which the huts once rested, steps that led nowhere, a few scattered remnants of porcelain toilet bowls, and the concrete bases for the toilets. ‘This was where I walked the Contreras family dog, a German shepherd called “Kazán”, my favourite,’ said Vergara. ‘At the same time, many people died here, prisoners who were tortured, then…goodbye.’
That was long ago. Today, the beach has a simple café, on an elevated wooden platform with a fine view of the ocean, the beach and the remnants of the cabins. We ate ice cream. Contreras lived on the hill behind us, Vergara said, a few minutes away. He took us there, to a building that had been rebuilt. ‘This man Rauff, who was called El Chacal, came here to visit Manuel Contreras. Back then it was in the forest, very secluded. This was where he came, where I saw him, more than once. And at La Bahía hotel. Let’s go and find it.’
* * *
***
We drove to Cartagena, back through San Antonio, on the coast road. We passed the Punta Panal lighthouse, a police recreational centre, and a sign for the tomb of the avant-garde writer Vicente Huidobro, whose nephew Miguel Serrano offered a Nazi salute and greeting at Walther Rauff’s funeral in 1984. Recognised as one of Chile’s four great poets, Huidobro lived his last years in the seaside town, fashionable among the literati. Long ago, Cartagena must have been magical.
Vergara had mentioned a meeting between Rauff and Contreras at a hotel called La Bahía, near San Antonio. I found one establishment with that name, on the Avenida Playa Chica in Cartagena, overlook-ing the beach. This couldn’t be it, Vergara thought. His memory was of a place up in the hills. In the 1970s, the hotel was owned by Benito Tricio. His name turned up in a newspaper article, about a case at the Supreme Court, reporting that in 1975 Tricio ‘collected several payments from the DINA in cheques signed by Manuel Contreras’. The hotel La Bahía was a place where money was exchanged and deals were done. Not long after, Tricio became Spain’s Honorary Consul in San Antonio.
Vergara told us about a car journey he once took. ‘I was in Santiago and travelled back to Santo Domingo with Mamo,’ he said:
Usually I went with the family, but this time it was just the two of us. Another car followed, with guards. Mamo wanted to drive, as it was a new car, a Ford Mercury, given to him by his friend Pinochet. That’s why he wasn’t with a driver, it was just Mamo and me. While we were driving he called this man in the photograph on the radio phone. Well, he called someone, and said he wanted to meet this man. It was arranged. We stopped at a hotel, I think it was the Bahía.
The photograph he spoke of was the one I had shown him first, Rauff in Kissinger-style glasses, sitting with Nena as she leaned in, boats bobbing on the sea behind them, a kind of paradise. ‘There, at La Bahía Hotel, this man in the picture was waiting for us, with a cigarette, he was a heavy smoker.’
Vergara remembered the man. ‘He looked exactly the same, I saw him on several occasions, a sinister man.’ He paused. ‘That photograph wasn’t taken at the Hotel La Bahía, which was further from the sea, it would be a different place.’
‘We got to the hotel,’ he continued. ‘I went to the restroom, then came down to the table where they were sitting in a large room, the two of them. They gave me a soda, told me to go out and wait in the car. I didn’t sit with them. I drank the soda, went back to the car. This was 1974, in the summer.’
We arrived at the hotel. Like the town, it had seen better days, was shuttered. ‘Yes, this was it,’ said Vergara. ‘Funny thing, I was sure it was in the hills, but this was it, where I saw Rauff.’
Even though the place was shuttered, there was a telephone number above the door. Vergara called, someone picked up, he made up a story, that he was passing through, might want to hire the place for a party, a book party. I’ll meet you at six, the owner said, later in the afternoon. We hung around, ate more ice cream, walked along the sea front. The town was filled with fine buildings and mansions, old and new, now dilapidated. In the 1970s, the social scene would have been exhilarating.
At the northern end of the beach, on a modest promontory, up a few steps, on a pedestal, we stood and admired the statue of the Virgen del Suspiro (the Virgin of the Sighs). I sat there for a bit, as Fuenzalida and Vergara wandered around. It was a long day, a heavy day, they never stopped talking.
A man approached me. ‘Where are you from?’ he enquired. We got to talking. ‘I’m Sergio, from Baltimore, but I was born here in 1961, I’m visiting my mother.’
He noticed me admiring a modernist building carved into the rocks, just above us. ‘It was a night club, owned by a leftist, they took him away after 11 September.’ Sergio said this pointedly. ‘I’m very pro-Pinochet,’ he added. ‘And yes, I knew the owner of the hotel, Tricio. And yes, Contreras used to go there, he was a friend of Tricio’s, and of my father. I was friendly with Contreras’s son. Many important people would go there, it was a big place, especially in the holidays, at New Year.’ He laughed. ‘Maybe even Michael Townley came! He lives in Ohio now.’
I wasn’t sure how Sergio knew this, but he wasn’t about to say more.
Six o’clock came and went, the hotel owner didn’t show. Vergara called him. I’ll come later, he said. We didn’t want to wait, so headed back to the car, parked in front of the hotel La Bahía. At that moment, on the roof terrace, a man emerged. We shouted up. He was the caretaker, he came down and let us in.
‘Yes, this is the place, I remember everything.’ Vergara said this in hushed tones. ‘I was here three times, and twice Rauff was here, in this room. They drank together, Rauff smoked.’
Do you know what they talked about?
‘They spent an hour and a half together. I don’t know what it was about.’
He overheard some words though. ‘They spoke of “packages”, to be eliminated, no trace.’ Rauff’s role was ‘to make them disappear forever’.
I mentioned Jorge Silva’s conversation with the German journalist, who Vergara had also spoken with. They talked about the perrera, the incinerator in a Santiago park used to exterminate stray dogs, in the Quinta Normal district, now the Park of the Kings.
‘The incinerator was used to disappear bodies, more than three hundred,’ said Vergara.
Fuenzalida had heard rumours that Rauff went to the perrera, that he was part of the ‘Final Solution’ group.
Could this be true?
Jorgelino Vergara looked out towards the sea and the sun. He nodded. Yes, he’d heard about it but from others, he hadn’t seen the place himself. ‘It’s not like this room. Rauff sat here, with Contreras.’ He pointed to the windows. ‘I saw them, I was with them. It was work, it was not a social meeting.’
He had no doubt that Rauff worked with Contreras.
‘That’s what I told the judge,’ he said.
The Judge
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The day in and around San Antonio was long, and it left many impressions and thoughts to digest. We drove back in near silence, me and Monserrat and two men who had either witnessed or participated in terrible crimes, who gave testimony that caused many to be prosecuted and imprisoned, and who faced threats because of what they’d done. I thought about Jorge Silva, and his brief, unsatisfactory interview with a judge. I thought too about Anatolio Zárate, and Walther Rauff’s distinct voice and German accent.
Back in Santiago, I met with another judge, one about whom many spoke with great respect, reverence even. The name was familiar: Mario Carroza, who opened the investigation into the Pesquera Arauco, whose work was then taken up by Judge Paola Plaza, and then by Judge de la Barra. ‘No judge has played a more significant role in the investigation of Pinochet-era crimes than Mario Carroza,’ a distinguished journalist told me. He was involved in many of the biggest cases, including those of Carmelo Soria and Alfonso Chanfreau, and the ‘Caravan of Death’ and Operation Condor cases. In 2015, as investigating judge at the Court of Appeal, it was Carroza who opened the two cases about the Pesquera Arauco. He had recently been promoted to the Supreme Court.
We spoke first by Zoom, then Carroza invited me to meet him at the Supreme Court, in Santiago, a fabulously gothic building that his legal assistant showed us around. We visited the courtroom where Pinochet’s lawyers lost their argument on immunity and, in the basement, portraits of Supreme Court presidents whose names were familiar, for refusing to extradite Contreras, for convicting Contreras, for limiting the application of the Amnesty Law, and for the decisions on Carmelo Soria and on Pinochet.
Mario Carroza took me to a small office. He came to the law after taking a degree in philosophy, he explained, and obtained his legal qualifications at night school. From the outset he always wanted to be a judge. In Chile, like other continental legal systems, that is a professional career path.
He wanted to talk about Rauff. He knew about his past, although the name had not emerged in his Pesquera Arauco investigations. I told him what information I had.
No documents could confirm or refute that Rauff worked for the DINA.
No one actually saw him at Colonia Dignidad or on Dawson Island, although there were many rumours.
A prisoner who recognised the voice of Rauff as his interrogator and torturer at Tejas Verdes. Anatolio Zárate.
A DINA agent who saw Rauff at the DINA headquarters in Santiago, and was told he worked for the Pesquera Arauco in San Antonio, but did not know his name. Samuel Fuenzalida.
A junior waiter who saw Rauff with Manuel Contreras in Santo Domingo and in Cartagena, near San Antonio, but did not know his name. Jorgelino Vergara.
A nephew (of Rauff’s ‘carer’ Nena) who saw him in Punta Arenas, and knew that he took military flights between there and Santiago. Raúl Donoso.
A fisherman who saw Rauff at one of the San Antonio fisheries. Jorge Silva.
A grandson in whose room Rauff stayed, in Santiago, who saw Rauff leave each day, in a suit and tie, looking for work. Walther III.
A prisoner who recognised Rauff as his interrogator at Londres 38, in Santiago. León Gómez.
‘I know León Gómez,’ Judge Carroza interrupted. ‘He was a witness in many cases, and a cousin of mine married him, when he was a history teacher.’ He knew of his detention at Londres 38, and his books and testimony in many cases. ‘I cannot say that everything León Gómez writes is accurate, but he accurately described many facts that occurred. In essence, the facts are as he describes them. He is credible. Many investigations began with his accounts, and many members of the armed forces have been convicted on the basis of his testimony.’
He was not in a position to know how credible was León Gómez’s recognition of Rauff at Londres 38. However, Gómez had recognised others who tortured him and his evidence proved to be reliable. ‘He provided accurate identifications of Miguel Krassnoff at Londres 38.’ Judge Carroza was not sceptical about León Gómez’s claim to have been interrogated by Rauff. ‘If there were Germans there, it would be easy to identify them. The place was very small, so you could hear everything, the voices and their conversation.’
Judge Carroza did not immediately recall the affidavit that was said to have mentioned Rauff. The link between Londres 38 and Colonia Dignidad was, however, well established. The testimony of Samuel Fuenzalida confirmed it, and investigations into the connection were continuing. ‘León gave many affidavits, so there could be one where he mentions Walther Rauff, but I’m not sure.’ They were kept at the Museo Histórico Nacional.
A man of obvious diligence, Judge Carroza raised one issue that had always troubled him about León Gómez:
You never know why someone would be released from detention, while others were disappeared. If you cooperated, you had better chances. For example, León Gómez did not go to Villa Grimaldi, but directly to Cuatro Álamos. These were places where people were held incommunicado, often before being expelled from Chile. I never knew the circumstances of the release of León Gómez, but throughout the years I had much contact with him in different cases.
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Do you think there was a relationship between Rauff and the DINA?
‘I would not be surprised,’ replied Judge Carroza. ‘There was a very strong link between Londres 38 and Colonia Dignidad, with frequent prisoner exchanges, and cooperation on methods of torture.’ Carroza had visited Londres 38 many times, it was a small place. ‘León was there when it was the only torture centre,’ he explained:
When Londres 38 was exposed internationally, revealed to be a torture centre, the DINA had to open other facilities, like Villa Grimaldi and José Domingo Cañas. Many people held at Londres 38 were transported to other locations. For this they would use the Pesquera vans, which were refrigerated. However, there is great uncertainty, because there is no one who was transported and then set free. So, it is very likely that those transported in the vans were being taken to a final destination.
For this, he thought, the Pesquera played a central role.
‘The vans went to San Antonio or Valparaíso,’ Carroza said. ‘It has not been proven, but there are two theses. The first is that the destination was the fishing company, where they could be disposed as fishmeal, but I never got a technical explanation of this. The second is that they were dropped into the sea, using rails.’ This was what happened to Marta Ugarte, whose body washed up on a beach near Valparaíso. ‘When I left the investigation, that was where things were: the fishing company, or disposal at sea.’
As an experienced investigating judge, did he have an instinct about the rumours of the fishmeal?
‘The use of Pesquera Arauco refrigerated vans is confirmed. They were used to transport people, living and dead. They were used to carry dead bodies to Patio 29, in the Cementerio General.’ This was a plot I had visited in Santiago’s main cemetery, where many detainees were clandestinely buried – like the singer-songwriter Víctor Jara – or where those killed and for whom no body was found are memorialised.
‘It is clear that the refrigerated vans were used to dispose of bodies.’ This was confirmed in the ‘Patio 29’ case, investigated by Paola Plaza, where the aim was mainly to locate the bodies and try to identify them, not to prosecute people.
Your instinct?
Several elements gave credence to the fishmeal story, he thought. ‘The DINA was keen to find a way to dispose of bodies. They buried them, but finding traces of human remains became problematic. That was why they worked with Colonia Dignidad, to exhume and dispose of bodies, without leaving a trace.’
The judge paused. ‘There is another element that makes me think the fishmeal theory could be true. It is what happened with the Hornos de Lonquén, where they used an oven as a crematorium to dispose of bodies.’ This was a reference to the cremation of fifteen men, arrested within weeks of the Coup, whose remains were found in locations between Santiago and San Antonio. ‘They used the same system that was used in Germany,’ Carroza explained. ‘That was one of the reasons we always thought these ideas came from foreigners, not from Chileans. It makes sense.’
