Father was
a hard-working man who supported the entire family (all six of us). He had been
a line supervisor for one of the biggest factory in Buenos Aires since the early
1920s. After the communist executions started, it wasn’t long before the
factory was shut down. We didn’t understand why at the time – we didn’t know
this time would go on to be called the Great Depression. Knowing that now, it
seems fitting.
It was a
Sunday. Father had been out of work for over a year, and we were sitting around
the kitchen table, all of us, listening to the radio. It was the election, and we
were being given a new president. Perhaps we were hopeful that this would bring
about change for us, that maybe some of the factories would re-open and father
could have his job again (that wasn’t what happened at all – the Great
Depression would continue for tears to come, although I would eventually leave
the city before the end of it). Arturo was only 4 at this time, and he had been
crying on and off all day for hunger. Mother could only give him water and
cradle him, trying not to cry herself. (She never did; I think she was the strongest of all of us.)
I don’t know why this image remains burned in my mind, but I’ll never forget that day, sitting around the table, silent as the radio droned in Spanish. People were cheering for the new president but nobody at our table even smiled, even reacted. I don’t think we really had any hope. What remains so vivid to this day was the teacup in the middle of the table. We didn’t bother bringing out the kettle anymore, as we had no tea. But the cup was there, a harsh reminder of that painful period of my life, empty, collecting dust. How strange it is to look back on times of great difficulty to see how they shaped you.
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