📸 Photo

telephone my parents as soon as possible, but the commandante wasn't in any hurry. He insisted upon hearing what had happened to me, and as he listened, he filled in forms with my name and passport number. He was about forty years old, pleasant looking, and kind, wearing blue work clothes, void of the formality and arrogance that characterises many South American military men. He referred me to his unit's doctor and promised to call the Israeli embassy in La Paz in the meantime.

The doctor, a cheerful, bespectacled man, informed me that he couldn't possibly examine me until I had had a thorough scrubbing. The shower, behind a partition in the patio, wasn't really a shower at all. A conscript ran to a faucet to fill a pail with water, set the pail down next to me, lathered my body, and poured bowlfuls of water over me until the pail was empty, and then went back for another pail.

The doctor checked my blood pressure and took my pulse. He checked my hair for lice and with a pair of tweezers pulled off the remaining leeches. He said my feet were in horrible condition and gave me a cream to use. He advised that I rest and eat well and promised that I would soon be back in good health. I told him that I suffered from painful headaches, and he gave me some pills.

The doctor and the nurse who assisted him insisted that I tell them what had happened to