Only a Man
The schoolhouse was old and had fallen into a state of disrepair. In recent times even its utilitarian qualities had started to deteriorate. Holes had begun to develop in the thatched roof and the outer layers of the mud walls had begun to chip and crumble away. The sun beat down on the schoolhouse and the hard ground around it without reprieve for weeks on end. Currently the schoolhouse was empty of children. Its sole occupant lay on his side in the rearmost room. He stayed in the corner, avoiding the harsh rays of sunlight allowed in by the barred slit that served as a window high up in the back wall, which succeeded in warming the room but failed to illuminate it.
The man’s hands and feet were bound. He lay with his cheek pressed to the dirt floor, which contained slightly more moisture than the ground outside and was cool to the touch. It was his only reprieve from the dusty, stifling heat and stench in the room. He also faced the wall so he would not be forced to stare at the corpses of two men he had once known well, who were sprawled out in the opposite corner. Flies had started to swarm around them. From his position point on the floor, the bound man could hear the voices of men speaking outside in serious tones. He realized the time had come, and rolled himself into a sitting position on the floor to wait.
A soldier appeared in the doorway and stood for a minute looking at the bound man. The soldier was well groomed, wearing a thick mustache and a military cap that matched his ubiquitous camouflage uniform. He seemed to radiate authority without any noticeable display of rank. Perhaps it was the rigidness of his stance or the look on his face. His jaw was set and his eyes stern, but this expression required great effort to keep from softening. For a split second the mustached soldier looked as if he was about to start sobbing from an upwelling of inner sorrow, sorrow that the soldier himself did not quite understand. But the sorrow was gone from his face as quickly as it had come. The bound man looked up suddenly, as if seized with a new source of energy, and met the soldier’s gaze.
“Commandante,” the soldier said, “I’m afraid orders have come in and I have no choice-“
“It’s better this way, Felix,” said the bound man, who had begun struggling to get to his feet. The soldier stepped forward and grabbed his arm to hoist him up. He pulled a knife from his belt and severed the rope that held the man’s feet, while keeping a firm hold on the rope that bound his hands. Both men now standing, the soldier was a good bit taller than his prisoner. As the soldier sheathed his knife the other man stared straight ahead and said, “I never should have been captured alive.”
The soldier’s expression softened again, letting a little more of that sorrow seep through, and he asked the prisoner if he had any message for his family. Still staring straight ahead, out the door to the sun-drenched patch of red earth and the jungle beyond, he said, “Tell Fidel that before long we will see a triumphant revolution in America.” He broke his gaze and added, “And tell my wife to get remarried. And to try to be happy.”
The soldier nodded and led the man by his arm outside into the blistering sun. A group of soldiers standing to the side of the schoolhouse, who had been talking quietly amongst themselves, fell silent when they saw the prisoner. They watched with grim faces as he was led a short distance away from the schoolhouse. They noticed the evenness of his steps, the purposefulness of his gait. It was the walk of a man who knows with absolute certainty exactly what is coming, and that there is nothing that can be done to change it. It was the walk of a condemned man.
One of the soldiers broke away from the group and walked hesitantly toward where the condemned man was standing with the other soldier. This soldier had something tightly gripped in his hand, as if he either feared its loss or loathed its existence. It was a blade of grass, and upon closer inspection every soldier in that group was holding one. All the blades the others’ held were much longer than the one this soldier held.
When he got close the soldier holding the blade of grass produced a pack of cigarettes and offered it to the condemned man. He ignored it, and met the soldier’s eyes. His gaze bored deeply as if he could fend off opponents with it alone. Finally he spoke, and though he didn’t shout, his voice did not quiver and its glacial confidence reverberated through every inch of this small clearing in the jungle. He said, “I know you are here to kill me. Shoot, coward, you are only going to kill a man.”
The soldier glanced at his comrade, who still gripped the condemned man’s arm, then dropped his gaze to the ground. The mustached soldier released the prisoner’s arm and stepped close to the executioner. He whispered, “Shoot him only from the neck down. We need his face identifiable for pictures. The world must know with certainty that he is dead.” He then turned his back on both men and walked away, never looking back.
Sgt. Mario Teran, the Bolivian soldier whom chance had appointed as executioner on this the ninth of October 1967, brought his rifle to his shoulder and took aim at the condemned man. Ernesto “Che” Guevara, Marxist revolutionary and leader of numerous Cuban guerrilla campaigns, stood defiantly alone in front of the gun’s barrel with his back straight and eyes open. For just a second he was able to enjoy a cool breeze, uncommon in this place, that sailed through the weave of his clothes and caressed the sweat on his neck and brow. For just a second, everything was peaceful.
