Dan Newland celebrates his addiction to writing and the right to life, literature and the (sometimes desperate) pursuit of happiness. Essays, stories and comments on writers, writing and life in general, in a twice-monthly blog published on the 13th and 27th of every month..."or any other time the spirit moves me."
The following is a new
excerpt from the autobiographical book I’m currently writing, entitled “Voices
in the Storm: A Journalist’s Memoir”, about my early days working for a newspaper
in Buenos Aires.It is taken from a chapter called
“Cops on My Door”.
The first personal threats I got started coming even before the Herald’s
editor-in-chief Bob Cox had time to leave the country. His ten-year-old son
Peter had already received a threatening letter, warning him to “tell Daddy to
leave”, but Bob and his family were still tying up loose ends and preparing for
what they thought would be “temporary exile”. It wasn’t like these were the
first threats Bob had received, nor was it the first time he and his wife had
had a scare. But now the anonymous cowards in the military’s undercover
operations were going for the throat and attacking the Coxes’ children—and,
ironically, blaming it on the by this time disjointed Montoneros guerrilla
organization. Bob finally decided enough was enough. It was one thing to risk his
own life, but it was quite another to risk his family’s, especially when he was
a father of five.
The first telephone threat that I got came a few days after Bob had
called Jim Neilson and me in to tell us of his decision to leave. Jim had
already received a personalized phone threat and a couple of bomb scares had
been called into the editorial department. The Proceso was apparently turning up the heat in hopes of getting rid
of all editorial page by-lines at once. Now it was my turn. It was almost as if
they had overheard Neilson’s conversation with me when he told me that Bob had
asked him to take over as editor and that he wanted me to second him.
This first call came in early that evening, before the women on the
reception and classified ads desk downstairs had gone home. Evidently, the
caller had asked for me by name and whoever took the call passed it through
directly to my extension.
“Señor Dan Newland?” the
official-sounding male voice at the other end asked.
“Am I speaking to señor Dan Newland?”
the voice asked again, as if to definitely confirm my identity.
“Yes, this is Dan Newland,” I said in Spanish. “What can I do for you?”
Then the voice changed and in a clipped, vicious tone, the man said,
“We’re giving you seventy-two hours to get out of the country. Otherwise, you
will be executed on your way to or from work. Do you understand the message?”
But before I could say anything, he cut off.
I immediately went to Bob and Jim and told them about the call. Neilson,
who seemed a little rattled by the ones he had already received, appeared as
concerned as I was. This was obviously a pressure campaign, but who knew how
sincere the perpetrators were in their intentions? It wasn’t like threats of
this sort never had material consequences. By this time, some eighty newspeople
were among the thousands of “missing” or murdered in Argentina, spanning the
entire range of journalists from simple reporters to well-known political
writers like Haroldo Conti and Rodolfo Walsh. Still others, like Osvaldo Soriano,
our own Stuart Stirling (who was also the London
Times correspondent), Andrew Graham-Yooll (whose job as news editor I had
taken over), and now, Cox himself, had all opted for exile. And countless
others had been the victims of intimidation tactics, temporary detentions and
Then too, there were the ones like ‘El Gordo’ Blasco, a friend of a
friend and an excellent photo journalist and musician, who was murdered in a
parking lot after an altercation with a drunk who picked a fight with him in a
jazz club and who, according to my friend, later turned out to be a government
agent. Obviously, that crime went unsolved like all the others.
But Cox sought to reassure us. “This is about me,” Bob said. “They’re
trying to put on more pressure. They’re not after you.”
“They were pretty specific. Even the nice touch about when and where
they would kill me,” I said dubiously.
“It’s me they want out of here,” Bob repeated shaking his head. “They’re
just trying to scare you.”
“And doing a pretty good job,” I muttered. “I mean, killing me would let you know they meant business, wouldn’t it?”
Bob looked doubtful and shook his head again. “No, they just want to
The threats to Cox and his family had been reported to the police and to
a federal judge. This was pretty much Herald
SOP: If somebody was threatened, attacked, kidnapped, detained or otherwise
placed at risk, the idea was to 'officialize' the occurrence as quickly as
possible, so that if things escalated there would be a record, no matter how
tenuous, with the police and the courts. The hope was that, if they grabbed
you, they would be more likely to hold you legally and openly—even if at the
disposal of the Executive Branch—if there were a record of previous threats or
other intimidation. You wouldn’t enjoy many more rights in such cases, but at
least you wouldn’t just become an N.N. (no name or ‘Natalia-Natalia’ in police jargon) snatched off the street by a
paramilitary hit squad and dumped from a helicopter into the River Plate
estuary. Your name figured on a list of detainees somewhere. Secondly, if they
actually killed you, the fact that the threats were on record made it clearer
who had done it. In the end, of course, it was all a rather sterile exercise
since you would be just as screwed or just as dead either way, but it was what
passed for sanity in the demented and dangerous game in which we were players.
So I asked Bob if he thought I should report it. He shrugged and said I
could if I wanted to, or if I thought it would do any good. He was ‘short’, as
we used to say when I was in the Army when someone was close to shipping out,
and his impending exit seemed to be making him wax more philosophical.
I decided I would, and took the trouble of going to the Federal Police
Twenty-Second Precinct a few blocks away from the paper, on Avenida Huergo, next to the old port.
There, I went through the formality of filling out a police report with the
duty officer. I got the feeling that the only reason they were taking my
complaint was because the Herald had
off-duty cops from that precinct as its security crew (an irony to be sure).
But the report quickly found its way to the judge handling Cox’s case. That
same week, before leaving the country, Bob told me that the judge had been in
touch and suggested that “the other journalist” (moi) go to the local precinct for his home neighborhood and
formally ask for police protection. The judge’s secretary was supposedly going
to contact the Federal Police captain in my neighborhood to give them a heads-up.
I lost no time, going the next day to see the precinct captain in my
midtown neighborhood of Almagro. I lived three blocks from the park, Parque Centenario, which is sometimes
cited as the geographic center of Buenos Aires. It was also a place where the
bodies of more than one ‘Natalia-Natalia’
had been dumped into the carcass of one of the abandoned cars that littered the
park’s side streets, before being doused with gasoline and burned. This seemed
a rather too strange coincidence considering the location of the police
station. The Eleventh Precinct was right in front of the park at Avenida Díaz Velez 5152. When I arrived,
I stated my business and was told to wait, that the comisario was busy. When he finally deigned to see me, the precinct
captain, a cynical, sarcastic, poker-stiff, storm trooper type by the name of
Ricciardi, gave me a perfunctory handshake and didn’t ask me to take a seat,
attending me in the hallway instead. With barely veiled impatience, he listened
to my story of the threat and of what was going on in the newspaper. He wore a
kind of half smirk on his lips, eyes squinted, head cocked to one side, in a
pose not unlike that of a bird of prey. When I told him that the federal judge
handling the case had suggested I come to the police for protection, he shook
“Look,” he said, “you’re getting threats for the same reason your boss
is—for what you write. Maybe you should have thought of that before you wrote
what you wrote? You’ve made somebody angry.”
His condescending attitude was beginning to irritate me, so, despite
knowing all too well that police precincts tended to be places from which
people disappeared, I said, “Comisario,
I didn’t come here for a lesson in ethics or on journalism. I came for
protection because this is what the judge told me to do. Didn’t his office get
in touch with you?”
“No,” he said, “and it wouldn’t matter if they did. I decide what
happens in my jurisdiction. Listen, señor,
if they decide to kill you, it won’t make any difference if I put a guard on
your door. If they have to go over my men to get to you, they will. Then you
will be dead and so will my men. And what fault is it of theirs?”
“Well, I thought it was their job to protect and serve, and I know
that I can be killed if they set out to kill me, but I want my building
protected so that they don’t kill anybody else in the process. Let them gun me
down on the street, not at my house!” I said, beginning to lose my temper.
“Their job’s whatever I say it is,” he countered, “and I won’t risk it.”
Then he held out his hand, gave mine another perfunctory shake and said, “Good
day, señor,” turning on his heel and
marching off up the hallway.
When I got back to the paper that evening, I reported the experience to
Cox while we were having a cup of coffee together around the corner on Avenida Belgrano at El Nido. I told him that what worried me was that if the comisario could simply choose to ignore
a federal judge, perhaps my apartment building had already been declared a
“liberated zone” by the military, so that a hit squad could take me out at any
time. Cox tried to reassure me, hinting that I maybe shouldn’t take myself so
seriously, that they probably had better things to do than kill me, but I was unconvinced.
So Bob suggested I go see General Antonio Llamas, who, at the time, was
Public Information Secretary for the military Junta. In fact, Bob got me an
appointment to see the general.
Llamas was about the closest thing to a public relations manager that
the Junta had. But his day job was more like being the head of an Orwellian
‘ministry of truth’, with its own brand of ‘thought police’ that amassed
studies on the press and on individual newsmen, and crafted policies to twist
cultural expression to fit the Junta’s needs, while finding ways to suppress
whoever didn’t want to play ball. The real
public relations work was done by the nefarious, dictator-friendly,
devil’s-advocate New York PR agency, Burson-Marstellar. Ranked among the
world’s largest PR and marketing groups, one of their specialties was defending
the indefensible and the Park Avenue agency was already notorious by that time
for making big bucks pampering other clearly deplorable regimes around the
General Jorge Rafael Videla
The hype that the Junta was trying to push internationally was that the
National Reorganization Process was the last frontier in the fight against
communism, a true defender of Western and Christian ideals, and that, instead
of criticizing it, countries like the United States and those of Western Europe
would do well to thank the military government of Argentina and support it in
its struggle to stamp out godless Marxist terrorism in America’s own backyard.
Burson-Marstellar’s job was apparently to help the government articulate this
friend-of-Western democracy trompe l'oeil on an international
scale, in order to provide Argentina with a palatable enough image to permit
the country’s civilian Economy Minister José Alfredo Martínez de Hoz to attract
foreign investment and shore up the sagging economy.
There was little doubt among us that Llamas had sought to ostensibly
‘protect’ the Herald to the extent
that this served the purposes of his boss, Lieutenant General Jorge Rafael Videla.
For the moment, Videla headed the administration and represented the so-called
‘moderate’ line that was working with Burson-Marstellar on projecting an image
of a reluctant caretaker Junta that was “fighting a dirty war” to protect
Argentina’s Constitution and democratic way of life—paradoxically, it’s worth
noting, suspending democracy in order to ‘save it’. In ‘saving’ Argentina, the National
Reorganization Process had clearly ignored the words of eighteenth and
nineteenth-century Argentine journalist, politician and revolutionary patriot
Mariano Moreno who said he would “prefer dangerous liberty to tranquil
servitude”. Had the Proceso been in
charge back then, Moreno would very likely have been among its first victims.
Early on, the Junta—or at least Videla—had been under the mistaken
impression that the Herald, as a
small English-language daily, was no threat to the dictatorship at a local
level, and that by not killing the editor or shutting it down, the government
might use it as a showcase to attain an international image as being “tolerant
of free expression”. Indeed, on more than one occasion government officials had
countered international accusations of censorship and strong-arm tactics by
pointing to the Herald and saying,
“Censorship, what censorship? Look at the criticism the Herald’s publishing!”
By this time, however, it was becoming clear that the Herald’s burgeoning local and
international influence in reporting and denouncing gross human rights abuses
was turning into a major thorn in the Junta’s side. Informal data tended to
suggest that the Herald’s ten
thousand-copy press run swelled to a hundred-thousand-strong readership even
locally, since it was a paper that was quoted by other publications, as well as
being passed hand to hand among people for whom English was a second language.
Then too, there were those who knew no English, but sought out the paper simply
to read the unsigned editorial, which was the only item in the Herald that was published in both
English and Spanish. Since no few of the Herald’s
staffers were also stringers for international newspapers and magazines, many
of the stories it carried gained access to worldwide coverage. Its influence
was also bolstered by the fact that it was the lingua franca publication that got passed around the offices of
multinational firms and foreign embassies of every origin in Buenos Aires.
General Ibérico Saint Jean
Such influence meant that military moderates feared the international
consequences of taking decisive action against us. But they also feared the
increasingly infuriated Army hardliners for whom this was not the case, and who
would long ago have gladly shut us up, one way or another, with no compunction
whatsoever about what the rest of the world thought. By now, these more radical
generals like Third Army Corps Commander Luciano Benjamín Menéndez and First
Army Corps Commander Guillermo Suárez Mason, among others, were making their
presence felt, accusing the central government of being “soft on subversion”.
These were mad dog war lords whose attitudes and desires were best summed up by
their colleague, General Ibérico Saint Jean, who served as military governor of
Buenos Aires Province and who, two years earlier, had openly stated, “First
we’ll kill all of the subversives, and then, their sympathizers, and then, all
of those who remain indifferent, and, finally, we’ll kill the faint of heart.”
Whitie was dying. That was clear by now. The Big C. I tried to comfort
myself by saying, “Yeah, well, aren’t we all?” Dying, I mean. You never really
knew who’d go first. Maybe I’d go before my dad did. You just didn’t know.
But it was clearly a self-deluding ruse. Whitie was on his way out.
They’d originally guessed six months, after he first started complaining about excruciating,
cramping type pains up under his ribs, and the tests they ran—hundreds of them,
it seemed—showed the problem to be rapidly advancing lung cancer. But he’d
already defied them on that count and lived a couple of years. Survival was
getting tough, however, an uphill battle, wearing on his resolve, badgering him
with severe pain and the adverse effects of the dope they were giving him to
make it more bearable. He was a tough old bird, but everybody had a limit, even
Up to now, I had put on a positive face, avoided talking about the
obvious, tried to keep the patter upbeat. It helped that my brother Jim was there.
He’d left his life in Saint Louis and moved back home to Ohio, moved to
Wapakoneta, our home town, and in with our parents to help take care of Whitie
and give moral support to our mother, Reba Mae. I was so indescribably grateful
to him, even though every time I tried to tell him so, he’d shrug it off and
say, “Forget it, bro, I’ve got it. No sweat.” But I could tell it was eating
him up. And our sister Darla got down from her life in Cleveland as often as
should could as well, despite the obvious pressures of her job and family. She
was there often to take up the slack for Jim and our mother.
They’d been there during the tests, during the exploratory surgery. That
was when the surgeon had told Whitie that if he woke up and saw a lot of tubes
coming out of him everywhere, it would be because they’d been able to take out
a lung and stop the cancer’s advance. If not, it would be because, surgically,
there was nothing they could do. When he woke up there were no tubes. The news
was not good. But his family, minus me, was there. And he lightened the mood for them,
I was told, by croaking out a few of the nonsense songs he’d sung to us to make
us laugh when we were kids.
Way up in the mountains
Where all the snakes have legs,
The bullfrogs speak in English
And the roosters lay square eggs,
I shaved my beard and mustache
The morning I was born.
That night I beat up my ol’ man
And drank his rye and corn...
I felt bad. Helpless, guilty, and alien, since my life had for years
been unfolding thousands of miles away in South America. But I was trying to get back as often as
possible, which wasn’t very often within the timeframe of a dying man.
Right now, I was on one of those recently more frequent trips back home.
I’d already been around for a few weeks. In another week, I’d be going back to
Argentina, back to Patagonia. It got harder every time—harder to face coming
back, harder to face leaving when it was time to go. A few nights earlier, he'd grabbed hold of my arm when we were alone for a minute and said, "If I promise to hang on a while, will you promise to come back again before I die?" It was a tough question to answer and I didn't trust my voice to answer it, but I managed to say I would, that I'd be back real soon. "Good," he said, "cause this ain't gettin' any easier." All my life, there had been issues between
Whitie and me. When I was young, the hostility between us had been manifest.
Back then I’d thought we were nothing alike. And truth be
told, from politics, to religion, to lifestyle, there was little we agreed on.
But now that I was fifty, I had begun to realize that there were a lot of ways
in which we were exactly alike—stubborn, married to our
convictions, combative, unwilling to give an inch when confronted, only giving
up ground when it was taken from us by force and, even then, bent on taking it
back, no matter how futile the battle.
Nevertheless, we’d reached a sort of truce, an understanding, an
agreement that there was no longer anything pending between us. In fact, we’d
reached it on this particular visit, in unusually quiet talks we’d shared
whenever we were alone together.
Clearly the tacit mediator in those “peace negotiations” was impending
death. Not the theoretical death that each person lives with daily as an idea,
as an inescapable reality, as a “someday” event, a bridge to be crossed when we
come to it, but as an “announced death”, in the words of Colombian writer
Gabriel García Márquez, one that was definitely coming sooner than later. It
was the great equalizer, the factor that rendered all other points moot.
Far from clarifying and alleviating what I was feeling, however, this new
common ground between my father and me only served to complicate still more the
whirlwind raging in my head and heart and it appeared as if I were seeing
everything unfold from behind a kind of barrier, a place from which I couldn’t
seem to get in touch with myself. It was hard to explain, harder still to
resolve. A sort of numbness, like a blow so hard that, for an instant, it
obliterates pain, but infinitely less easy to withstand.
That answered, to a certain extent, the question of why I felt a need to
get out for a few hours during the day, when Whitie was resting, and visit old
haunts—roads, streets, stores, bars, parks and other points of interest that
held youthful memories for me. In that vein, on a golden autumn afternoon, near
sunset, with nostalgia sitting on my chest like an anvil, I drove out around
Horseshoe Bend. This was a set of hairpin curves where then still picturesque
Glynwood Road followed the sharp twists and turns of the Auglaize River, which,
here, in its meanderings from south to west, through and around Wapakoneta, was
still trying to decide to finally break north and flow to the clear destiny of its
distant confluence with the Maumee and Lake Erie.
This was “the long way” to high school that my best friend Mark and I would
often take in the morning after I bought my first car. I lived on the treeless
outer edge of the “Oakwood Hills addition” and he among the exquisite hardwoods
of “Kelley’s Woods”, from which those more modest hills took their name. I
would pick him up in my rusted out ’57 Dodge and we would make a quick dash out
of the woods, onto Glynwood, out away from town into the country, smoking as
many pre-class cigarettes as we could fit in along the way—through the sharp
curves of Horseshoe Bend, to a piece of country pike that split cornfields on
either side, backtracking on old Infirmary Road to Route 198 and on into town
and to the high school, where we would arrive on the heels of the first bell, our
clothes reeking like we’d just put out a grass fire. Our daily rebellion before
surrendering to the obligation of education.
Three and a half decades later, I take that route again, in a shiny new
rented car and in no particular hurry. This is emotional reconnaissance, an
attempt to rediscover myself, to remember that rebellious teen, to feel
something other than stunned. I couldn’t be more alone on the road. Almost
Twilight Zone alone, as if everybody else has been placed in a state of
suspended animation while I live this moment. It’s eerie and I’m suddenly in a
It’s as I’m coming out of the last curve of Horseshoe Bend and taking
the narrow country road that forks off of Glynwood and separates harvested
cornfields on either side that I catch a glimpse of movement out the corner of
my right eye and turn to see a large whitetail stag galloping up on my vehicle with
sure-footed agility through the corn stubble and broken stalks of the harvested
land. He’s making a run for it, to vault the road in front of me before I come
even with him. He won’t make it if I keep going, an encounter we’ll
both regret. So I pull to the berm and stop cold. A few short yards in front of
me, he vaults the seven-strand fence in an easy leap, his hooves skittering and
clattering on the blacktop, and then he neatly vaults the ditch and fence on
the opposite side of the road, and continues his spirited flight across the
other open field toward a nearby woodlot and cover.
Stopped here alone by the road, seeing him in the sharp-slanted golden
light of a late autumn afternoon, is almost dream-like. And he is a splendid
specimen, tall, muscular, fully grown with a rack of wide-branching antlers and
the greying coat of a well-matured buck, wise enough to have avoided getting shot
or hit by a car up to now. The scene is so extraordinary that I sit there in
the driver’s seat by the road for a few moments, only the soft clicking of my
flashers breaking the silence. The encounter suddenly seems to have unleashed
all the pent up feelings inside me, and, awash in this powerful moment, I find
myself recalling the advice of Ernest Hemingway, something like, “Whatever you
had to do, men had always done. If they had done it, then you could do it too.”
Like much of what Hemingway wrote, it wasn’t meant to be a comfort, just
a fact, a truth, stripped of all the bromides we availed ourselves of to make
things seem less dramatic. Life was indeed dramatic, however, and what
Hemingway had said was applicable to us all, to Whitie and me, to fathers and
sons like us everywhere.
The news wasn’t any better than it had been, but now I was better
prepared to deal with it. This was a new stage.
The next day, I drove to nearby Lima, Ohio, to pick up some prescription
refills for Whitie and to do some shopping. Again I took some time to revisit
old haunts. Most of the nightclubs I’d played as a young musician were long
gone, victims of steel belt turned rust belt. One, where I was part of the house band for over a year, was abandoned,
the doors boarded up, a weathered, fading "for sale" sign hanging above the door.
Another, which had once been the swankest place in town, and where I’d played
my first New Year’s jazz gig, was now a parking lot. The music store a
half-block from the Square, where I’d been a musical instrument salesman and
percussion teacher while still in my teens had, at some point, gone belly up
and now was a vacant lot. These, I thought, were the things that happened if
you lived long enough. Places and people who had been part of a reality that,
when you were young, seemed permanent, as if it would last forever, eventually
only existed in your memories and the yearning for them became something
personal that you couldn’t share with anyone but your fellow survivors, for as
long as you all stayed alive.
I remembered Bruce Sims, the man who had given me that job in the music
store and who had given me lots of lessons as well, about music, about
instruments, but also about people and about life. I remembered that he had
opened an instrument repair shop on East Kibby Street on the south side of
town, where he and Whitie and my uncles had grown up in the same tough block. I
figured he would surely be retired by now. He had to be close to eighty. But I
swung by anyway.
The shop still had a faded sign reading LIMA INTRUMENT REPAIR, but the
lights were out and there was a bar across the inside of the glass and wood front
door. But the place didn’t look abandoned—the sidewalks swept, the windows
clean. I decided to do my shopping and make another pass later.
When I came back, the bar was off the door. I parked along the side of
the building and went inside. Despite his age and the passing of at least thirty
years since the last time I’d seen him, I recognized Bruce right away. He was
sitting in a chair behind the counter, arms folded over his chest, eyes closed,
having a nap. My closing the heavy old door made him start awake, but he merely
snapped open his still piercing eyes and gruffly barked, “Can I help you, sir?”
Remembering an old joke that the regulars at the old music store always
shared, I said, “Yeah, maybe. I’ve got this bull-kazoo I’d like to get re-plated.”
Standing and facing me then, he said, “Well, you’re outa luck, pal. I guess
you’ll just have to take it back to South America with you!” Then we both
laughed and shook hands and he told me how good I looked.
“Fat, you mean,” I said. “You
look just like always!” I added.
But he waved the compliment off frowning and shaking his head. And then
he said, “Here, pull up a chair.” And we sat there for the better part of an
hour talking about all the crazy musicians we’d known back in the day, and the
places we’d played and the club-owners who had once been famous locally and who
now were no more. We shared old jokes and stories, and laughed at them the same
way we had back then.
And as we talked, I realized, suddenly, what all of this—the barrier I’d
felt, the threshold I’d been trying to step over—was about. I was on the verge
of becoming part of “the older generation” as this one took its leave.
When I finally got up to go, Bruce said, “Jack’s still around. He’s down
in Florida. We still take turns calling each other. Wednesday’s my turn to call
him. Stop by about noon and I’ll let you talk to him.” I thanked Bruce and said
I’d try, but I knew that wasn’t happening. When I walked out that door it would
be for the last time.
When we shook hands at the door, Bruce smiled that wry smile of his and
said, “We sure had fun back then, didn’t we?”
“We sure did, Bruce,” I said, “we sure as hell did.”
Dear Friends, A work deadline beyond my control has made it necessary for me to postpone the blog entry that should have been posted today. It will, instead, be posted tomorrow, August 14. Sorry for the inconvenience and many thanks for your patience.