Orlando Letelier, murdered on September 21: A biographical sketch

Jan Joost Teunissen  

Septiembre 21, 2018

Again I think of Orlando Letelier, whom the Chilean regime murdered with a bomb under his car in the middle of Washington. He was murdered on September 21, 1976, and that same year I met him because of his visits to the Netherlands and our cooperation to try to politically and economically isolate the Chilean military civic regime. At that time he lived in Washington and I lived in a boat in Amsterdam. 
Orlando was 44 years old when he was murdered. I was 28 years old in September 1976. I learned of his death while making a bicycle ride through the province where Aafke and I got married and where we lived until September 1974. Today is the official start of autumn. Yesterday it seemed like summer.

Jan Joost Teunissen, the author

In January of 1973 I went with my wife to Chile, because I wanted to work there in the agrarian reform, first a few months and then several years. Chile was one of the few countries in Latin America where agrarian reform was not a motto, but was put into practice. We lived in the south of Chile, near Temuco, in cooperative farms. I wanted to sense closely the problems of self-management and rural development. It rained and the wind blew a lot, life was like in Holland in the past, quiet. 
I traveled in old train carriages with wooden benches, full of rural inhabitants with their bags, slowly sliding down the gently sloping ground, dragged by an old-fashioned steam locomotive. He stopped at each station. I thought about how in my youth I had looked at the steam locomotives that came from Germany through the railway valley. 
During the day I worked with the men and at night I sat together with families at a wood fire talking or drinking mate, a kind of tea sucked in a dried pumpkin or an iron pot with a thin silver pipe. At night my wife and I slept together in wool ponchos that we had spread on the wooden floor. 
We returned after seven months. I did not want to return, I felt at home in Chile, but my wife organized a vacation with her mother and siblings in the Netherlands and then I had to come. In retrospect, fortunately, because even before the military coup, the army raided our cooperative. A report in a Chilean newspaper declared that they were looking for 'foreigners'. 
Later I heard that they were looking for us. I went to work in Holland for the solidarity committee that I had helped establish a year before the coup. I researched the possibilities of boycotting the Chilean regime, I maintained contact with politicians and journalists, I wrote articles, I gave lectures and I edited a magazine. 

One day, when I was twenty-seven, they called me from the Transnational Institute and asked me if I wanted to help Orlando establish contacts in the Netherlands.
Orlando was about the same age as my father when he died. He had a warm voice, sensitive eyes and could tell stories beautifully. He was Chilean, had worked abroad for a long time and was Minister of Defense at the time of the coup. He had been in concentration camps and prisons after the coup of 9/11 (1973) and was expelled abroad after a year in prison. 
We were in a car on the road from Amsterdam, my new home, to The Hague. Orlando was sitting next to the driver in the front seat, I was in the back seat. He leaned back, bent his head to the side, closed his eyes and said he was going to sleep for a while. When he opened his eyes, he turned to me and asked, "What should I ask for later?"
Orlando was the first Chilean to come to the Netherlands on behalf of the resistance, who asked me for advice. He had held important positions, but he saw me as someone who knew better than he what he could ask of the Dutch politicians. I liked that. What I also liked was his immediacy and charm.Orlando came to Holland a couple of times that year and every time I saw him, the last time on September 4th. I bought an Italian suit and while walking through Amsterdam he looked with approval at my new suit, he gave me a pat on the shoulder and said: "It fits you well". 
A week later we had the great annual demonstration in Amsterdam against the Chilean dictatorship and Orlando would be the main speaker. At the last moment he canceled it because they also wanted him in Washington as a speaker. 
On September 10, I received a call from the Dutch news agency ANP asking me to comment on the decision of the Chilean regime to deprive the Chilean speaker of his nationality the following day. The journalist read the decree law of the deprivation of his nationality and it became clear that the regime had taken the sanction because Orlando was involved in boycott actions in the Netherlands. I said Orlando would not come to the event the next day because he was asked to speak at a meeting in Washington. A few days before he had called me and apologized for his late cancellation. 
After the ANP reporter's call, I was in an euphoric mood. Not only had we had success in the Netherlands, because the largest foreign investor had withdrawn from Chile, but it also proved that the Chilean regime was sensitive to boycott actions. I was proud of the success, I had a large role in it.Twelve days later came the blow. 
My wife and I made a bike ride in the north of the Netherlands and spent a night with friends at a farm a few miles from the house where we got married seven years before. With binoculars you could see our house, in the meadows, to the left of the water mill. In the morning, after the coffee we said goodbye. We went down the driveway and at the moment when we would continue our journey on a secondary road, my wife realized that she had forgotten her purse. She went back and I waited for her at the entrance, enjoying the autumn sun. It was September 22. 
My wife was late in returning for a long time. I thought: she is certainly talking to her friend, as always. When she returned by bicycle, I saw that something bad had happened. 
She staggered: "Orlando is dead ... He was killed yesterday with a bomb under his car". 
I could not believe it. 
At the corner of the driveway, sitting on the bar of my bicycle, I started crying. The new pain settled into an old pain. A few years earlier I had heard that Bernardo, with whom I had lived in an agricultural cooperative in Chile, had been killed shortly after the coup. He was the father of two small children and had a sweet wife. Many nights we had sat by the fire, talking or staying in silence, sucking the mate from time to time. 
Francisco, from the same farm, was also killed. He was seventeen years old and strong. When we were going to harvest the wheat he placed with a big smile, along with another man, a bag of seventy kilos on my neck, which immediately fell on the ground. They put it back on my neck and I had quickly grasped the art of carrying bags. Like Bernardo, Francisco was killed by the military. 
For many years I heard Orlando's voice in my head and I felt his hand on my shoulder. For many years I thought of Francisco and Bernardo.

El descubrimiento de familia en Italia

Patrizia y yo, pintada por Aafke.

Teníamos una amiga en Roma, Patrizia, pequeña, exuberante, cálida, de mediana edad. Ella era una profesora de latín e historia, a veces viajaba en autobús todo el día por Roma para explorar la ciudad y descendía a todos lados. Nos quedamos con ella unas cuantas veces. 
Un día, yo tenía cuarenta y nueve años, Patrizia vino a visitarnos a nuestra casa construida encima de un dique en Amsterdam-Noord. Estaba en compañía de su esposo, Ottaviano, y una amiga. Nos sentamos a la mesa en la habitación de atrás, era primavera, el jardín estaba lleno de tulipanes. La luz del sol brillaba en la habitación. El ambiente era alegre, las mujeres estaban hablando entre ellas, en español y francés. Ottaviano, pequeño en estatura, se sentó en silencio. Solo hablaba italiano. 
Yo me encargué de él. No lo habíamos conocido antes, él había estado en prisión bajo sospecha de ser miembro de las Brigadas Rojas. Como mi italiano no era tan bueno, le mostré fotos de mi abuela italiana y su familia. Había uno de mi tatarabuelo, un hombre con barba y una mirada penetrante, Luigi de Ferrante.
"Que mirada tan feroz", dijo Ottaviano. "Él tiene los ojos claros. ¿Qué hizo él para su profesión?"
"Guardián del faro, se dice."
Dije que casi nada se sabía sobre mis antepasados ​​italianos. Se afirmó que descendíamos del rey de Nápoles o de un noble español al servicio del rey. Ese fondo mítico, mediterráneo continuó, muchos de mi familia estudiaron francés, español o italiano y, como yo, disfrutamos de viajar al sur. Lo que sabía con certeza era que el padre de mi abuela era médico, había estudiado en Nápoles y había muerto en 1899 a la edad de treinta y ocho años. Tal vez como resultado de un paro cardíaco cuando se dirigía a un paciente en su bicicleta. Pocos años después de su muerte, su esposa y sus cinco hijos emigraron a Lieja y luego a los Países Bajos.
Le mostré a Ottaviano una copia del diploma de médico de mi bisabuelo. Leyó el documento detenidamente, la copia no era tan buena y la escritura no estaba clara. De repente dijo: "Patrizia, ¿sabes dónde nació su bisabuelo?"
"'No ..."
"En Zambrone!" 
"¿Cómo es posible?", exclamó Patrizia. "Mi bisabuelo viene de Parghelia, un pueblo cercano. También estudió en Nápoles, arquitectura. ¿Cuándo estudió tu bisabuelo? Ese es el mismo tiempo. ¡Deben haberse conocido! "
"¿Dónde está Zambrone?", pregunté aturdida. "Pensé que venía del área de Nápoles". 
"No, él viene de Calabria, en el sur profundo, cerca de Sicilia".
Patrizia describió el paisaje: una escarpada costa rocosa, un mar azul verdoso, playas blancas, pueblos antiguos, olivares, campos. Inmediatamente me sentí como ir allí.
Ottaviano ya estaba absorto en el diploma de doctor, un papel con rulos ornamentados. Luego dijo: "Patrizia, ¿sabes cómo se llama la madre de su bisabuelo?"
Patrizia lo miró con curiosidad. 
"Pietropaolo". 
Ella se levantó de un salto y me abrazó: "¡Mi cugino, mi primo, somos familia! Mi bisabuelo también se llama Pietropaolo."

Esa noche estuve despierto durante mucho tiempo. Si Patrizia fuera familia mía, podría tener más familia en Italia. ¿Cómo podría averiguarlo? 
Una vez más, la coincidencia me ayudó. Mi hermana Barbara de Grecia vino a Holanda y me preguntó si me gustaría ir a Lieja con ella. Estaba escribiendo un libro sobre nuestra bisabuela y quería ver en Lieja la casa donde había vivido con sus cinco hijos. 
Caminamos por Lieja, buscamos en vano la calle donde debía estar la casa, cruzamos el Mosa y, de repente, vi un edificio donde tenían guías telefónicas de todo el mundo. Google no existía todavía. Entré y le pregunté a un hombre si tenían una guía en la que estaba Zambrone, en Italia. "¿En qué provincia está?", preguntó el hombre detrás del mostrador. "En el sur profundo", dije, "en Calabria". 
Encontró la guía en la que estaba Zambrone. Busqué un De Ferrante, el apellido de mi abuela. Sí, había alguien llamado Vincenzo de Ferrante. 
Al día siguiente marqué el número. No contestó. Unas horas después volví a llamar. De nuevo no contestó. Al día siguiente otra vez. No contestó. Después de una semana de intentos inútiles, llamé una mañana informaciones telefónicas y pregunté si me podría dar el número de teléfono de la municipalidad de Zambrone. 
"¿Cuál es el nombre de municipalidad en italiano?", preguntó la operadora telefónica. 
"Municipio". 
"¿Cómo se escribe eso?" 
Lo deletreé. Había un silencio por un tiempo, hasta que la operadora contestó alegremente: "Señor, lo tengo". 
Le di las gracias, marqué el número y hablé con un hombre por teléfono. Le dije que estaba buscando a un tal signore Vincenzo de Ferrante, que había encontrado su número de teléfono en la guía telefónica de Zambrone, pero que no contestó.
El funcionario municipal dijo que eso no era sorprendente porque il signore De Ferrante tenía una casa en Zambrone, pero poco llegó porque vivía en otro lugar. Si volviera a llamar por la tarde, podría darme otro número del signore De Ferrante. Pero cuando llamé por la tarde, él no tenía el número. Al día siguiente volví a llamar. No, todavía no tenían el número, pero sí conocían a un hombre que debería tenerlo. Tenía que volver a llamar por la tarde. Llamé por la tarde. Desafortunadamente, aún no habían podido hablar con ese hombre.
En el siguiente intento casi perdí la esperanza, hasta que escuché que alguien en la sala de la municipalidad gritó un número en el espacio vacío. "¿Puede repetir ese número?", le pregunté al funcionario. El lo hizo, marqué el número y contestó una mujer que me dijo con repulsión que estaba equivocado.
"No, no", le dije apresuradamente y le expliqué quién era yo.  
"Voy a llamar a mi marido", dijo ella.  
Tuve problemas para entenderla, ella tenía un fuerte acento y pronunció las palabras con dificultad. 
"¿Con quién estoy hablando?", me preguntó luego un hombre con una voz ligera y amistosa.
Mencioné mi nombre y le dije que vivía en los Países Bajos, que mi abuela venía de Nápoles y que su padre, Bernardo de Ferrante, había nacido en Zambrone y había estudiado medicina en Nápoles.
"¿Es usted un miembro de la familia del médico de Nápoles?", preguntó el hombre con asombro. "¿Pero sus hijos se emigraron a Bélgica?" 
Me quedé asombrado. ¿Cómo supo que mi bisabuelo era médico en Nápoles y que sus hijos habían emigrado a Bélgica? 
"Mi padre era primo de su bisabuelo Bernardo. Era mucho más joven y admiraba a su gran primo". 
Un mes después visitamos a Vincenzo de Ferrante, junto con nuestros hijos.

Films about my mother

I think it is exceptional that I have a film of my mother at age 18. Who else has a film about her or his mother as a young lady?

There are more films about my mother, also of when she was younger, and older, for example at the age when she married my father. Her marriage took place in the middle of the second world war. Daily life went on.

To what extent did people in the Netherlands feel, sense the war? What feeling did it give them, in what ways did it change their daily life?

I found a book with clippings of, what I think, are editorials written by the father of my mother. I glimpsed at them and felt lightly uncomfortable. Why? I don't know yet, it was just a light feeling of unease. I may come back to these editorials and either change my initial impression or stick to it.

The father of my mother was the one who made all these films. He filmed his daughter when she married my father, and he filmed her during a joint walk in nature, as you can see in the film below. He also filmed the scenes that I used in the film about my Italian grandmother. She was his wife. On the picture above she sits next to my father at the wedding dinner of my parents. A year later, in 1942, she died at age 49. She already had cancer when the picture above was taken. My mother was not aware that she had cancer, I think, or at least did not know what kind of cancer she had. How do I know? Because a younger sister of hers told me so. About that younger sister, Ellen, I made a film: La última visita a la casa de mi tía Ellen.

Here is the film about my mother as a young lady during a walk with her father: 

José Blink - Holanda en los años 1930