For most of the last 50 years, I have been afflicted with a perverse regret: that I did not die in Chile on Sept. 11, 1973, the day that a military junta overthrew Salvador Allende, our country's democratically elected president. Entranced by Allende's project to attain socialism without resorting to violence, I went to work for him in the presidential palace, La Moneda. I had asked Claudio Jimeno, an old buddy from university, if I could take his shift on Sunday, Sept. 9, so I could show my son, Rodrigo, the place where I worked.
It was Claudio, and not me, who had been alerted on that Tuesday dawn that the military was seizing power, Claudio who had resisted as the building was being demolished by tanks and bombs, Claudio who had been captured by troops and then tortured and executed. Those images haunted me during the interminable years of exile and through my many returns to dictatorial Chile.
The one that I kept picturing from that day was of Claudio by Allende's side, Claudio who had been loyal to the president to the very end. His body had been disposed of anonymously, never returned to his family for burial.
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