21 DG: Chain of sports and social clubs founded in the mid-nineteenth century in response to the growing German-Argentine population.
23. The Slaughter
. . . The moment has come. It is signaled by a short, remarkable exchange:
—What are you going to do to us? —one of them asks.
—Keep walking! —they reply.
—We are innocent! —a number of them shout.
—Don’t be afraid —they answer.— We’re not going to do anything to you.
WE'RE NOT GOING TO DO ANYTHING TO YOU!
The guards steer them like a terrified herd toward the garbage dump. The van comes to a stop, shining its headlights on them. The prisoners seem to be floating in a glowing pool of light. Rodríguez Moreno steps out, gun in hand.
At this moment, the story ruptures, explodes into twelve or thirteen nodules of panic.
—Let’s make a run for it, Carranza —Gavino says.— I think they’re going to kill us.
Carranza knows it’s true. But the slightest hope that he’s mistaken keeps him walking.
—Let’s stay . . . —he murmurs.— If we run, they’ll shoot for sure.
Giunta is walking sluggishly, looking back with one arm raised to his brow to shield his eyes from the blinding glare.
Livraga is stealthily making his way over to the left. Step by step. Dressed in black. Suddenly, it’s like a miracle: the headlights leave him alone. He has stepped outside their range. He is alone and almost invisible in the dark. Ten meters ahead, he can make out a ditch. If he’s able to reach . . .
Brión’s cardigan shines in the light, an almost incandescent white.
In the assault car, Troxler is sitting with his hands resting on his knees and his body leaning forward. He looks out of the corners of his eyes at the two guards who are watching the nearest door. He’s going to jump . . .
Facing him, Benavídez is looking at the other door.
Carlitos, bewildered, can only muster a whisper:
—But how . . . They’re going to kill us like this?
Vicente Rodríguez is walking slowly along the rough and unfamiliar terrain below. Livraga is five meters away from the ditch. Mr. Horacio, who was the first to get off, has also managed to make his way ever so slightly in the opposite direction.
—Halt! —a voice commands.
Some of them stop. Others take a few more steps. The guards, on their part, start to retreat, taking some distance, the bolts of their Mausers in hand.
Livraga doesn’t look back, but hears the turn of a crank. There’s no time to make it to the ditch. He’s going to throw himself on the ground.
—Forward, line up side by side! —shouts Rodríguez Moreno.
Carranza turns around, his face contorted. He drops to his knees before the firing squad.
—For my children . . . —he weeps.— For my chil . . .
Violent vomiting cuts his plea short.
In the truck, Troxler has pulled the bow and arrow of his body taut. His jaw is almost touching his knees.
—Now! —he howls and hurls himself at the two guards.