Tapestries

By Diana Clark

A young Jesuit priest returns to Chile and a politically divided Catholic Church. As part of the newly established Vicariate of Solidarity, he is assigned the task of guiding and protecting the women of a church-sponsored workshop.
At first reluctant to work with them, Father Alejandro Saavedra soon discovers the courage and wisdom of these lively women and the beauty of the arpilleras, or tapestries, they create to protest the violence of General Augusto Pinochet’s brutal regime.
The themes these women used in their artwork came from the daily tragedy of their lives-- missing or detained family members, murder, arrests and torture of husbands and sons, public protests against Pinochet, and the desperately poor conditions they live in.
The women of the Holy Rosary Workshop, brutally frank and disrespectful of all authority, gradually form a family with Father Saavedra and the three upper class women who assist them in surprising ways. For nearly sixteen years, young or old, they share their stories, learn from each other, and fight against a government that has done everything it can to destroy them and their children.
As this young, handsome priest from a privileged background guides and protects these women, he also raises their political consciousness and brings them a greater sense of community. In the process, they teach him to appreciate the strength and generosity of women and to respect their courage and dedication to each other and their families. Father Alejandro, as these women call him, also learns a humbling lesson in the many forms that love can take.
In time, the dictatorship ends and the workshop disbands, but their loyalty and friendship continues into the next decade. These women, Alejandro knows, will never simply return to their traditional roles. Instead, they will guide their children, male and female, toward a broader, more inclusive Chile.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Diana Clark
• Release date: Nov 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9780989912211

Book preview

Cover for Tapestries

Tapestries

Diana Clark

Smashwords Edition

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Copyright © 2013 by Diana Clark

All rights reserved.

Published in the U.S. by Diana Clark

Cover design by Joshua Wood

E-Book design and formatting by:

www.YourEBookBuilder.com

Dedication

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To my family for putting up with a nearly invisible

wife and mother for the last few years

Author’s Note

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Although the main characters in this book are fictional, many of the individuals you’ve met in these pages are not. I have tried always to respect their personal narratives and the historical record. Any errors of judgment are my own.

I wish I could say that the tragedy of Chile’s military coup did not happen or that the Vicariate of Solidarity existed only in my imagination, but I cannot. Chile’s tragic years of dictatorship continue to shape and darken that country’s history.

I honor all those who stood against Augusto Pinochet—especially those brave and dedicated men in Chile’s Catholic hierarchy who made a stand and a difference. Their story is too little known and understood outside Latin America. As a citizen of the United States, I am deeply ashamed of the role my own government played in supporting Augusto Pinochet’s regime. We need to remember, too.

Table of Contents

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Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Author's Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

About the Author

Chapter One

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Alejandro fastened his seat belt and looked around the cabin. First class, he thought to himself in amusement. My father must really have missed me. He settled in and opened his book of prayers. It was a long flight—San Francisco to Santiago—and the hours passed slowly. The businessman next to him, an American, either scribbled in his notebook or slept, taking no interest in a young Chilean priest.

Eventually, the woman across the aisle struck up a conversation. Señora Torres was returning to Chile after a month-long visit to her son in Oakland. A doctor, she told him proudly. After a lengthy and somewhat rambling family history, she asked him what had brought him to the States.

I’ve just finished my doctorate at the Jesuit School of Theology, Alejandro told her, hoping he’d kept the pride out of his voice. It was impossible not to feel it.

Now, why would such a handsome boy have to go and be a priest?

Her comment made him laugh though it wasn’t the first time he’d heard it. It’s always women, he thought, who say that. He lived in a world of men, and the subject never came up. It simply didn’t matter.

I’m not certain if it’s God’s will or my mother’s, he told her candidly. But I knew on my fourteenth birthday what my life’s work would be.

She looked at him thoughtfully, her eyes intent. The young man across from her was tall with thick auburn hair, soft brown eyes, and a confident smile.

I think you’ll do very well as a priest. You have kind eyes and a sweet smile. I’m sure your mother is very proud of you.

With that, she opened a novel and began reading. Abandoned to his own thoughts, Alejandro imagined the coming reunion. As eager as he was to see his mother, he knew it would be his father and older brother who would meet him at the airport. He sighed softly and closed his eyes.

The young priest awoke with a start as the stewardess announced landing instructions. He looked out the window and saw the city, his city, below. He was home after nearly four years. It sounded longer than it felt, and he repressed a sudden sadness. He’d boarded his flight excited by thoughts of home and family. Now, as he arrived, he felt a deep sense of loss. He’d made strong friendships with his professors and fellow students at Berkeley. Alejandro doubted he’d ever see any of them again.

Disembarking, he spotted his father standing slightly apart from the crowd at the gate. Don José Saavedra Urete looked just the same to him. At sixty-three, he was tall and erect. His dark hair showed just a little silver, and his black eyes still snapped with impatience.

Where’s Raúl? Alejandro asked as he shook his father’s hand. No hugs from Don José.

He’s gone down to get your bags. Your flight was late.

Alejandro suppressed an urge to apologize. It was best to avoid a defensive posture with his father; he’d see it as a weakness.

Then, we’ll meet him there, he said calmly. It’s good to be home. Is everyone well?

We have good blood, Don José told his son, as if that explained the good health that blessed all the Saavedras. His dark eyes held a hint of amusement. Alejandro hadn’t apologized for the late flight. The boy had learned something while he was gone. The thought pleased him. He’d never tell his son, not as long as breath blessed his body, but Alejandro was his favorite, his private joy. That’s why he’d always been hardest on him.

So, you’re here was his brother’s greeting.

Raúl Saavedra was thirty-eight now and strongly resembled his father in both appearance and personality.

I am and very happy to be home. What have you heard from Ramón?

Apparently, he’s building a successful practice in Salamanca. It doesn’t hurt that he married the daughter of an important judge.

Raúl’s comment wasn’t cynicism. This was the way life worked, and he heartily approved his brother’s choice. Letters from Alejandro’s second brother, three years his senior, had arrived infrequently in Berkeley, but they were always full of details about his life in Spain. It wasn’t ambition, Alejandro knew, that drove Ramón to marry Milagro; it was her honey-blond hair and sweet smile. That’s why they’d had two children in less than four years.

On the long drive from the airport to their Santiago home in fashionable Las Condes, Raúl took advantage of the time to warn his youngest brother about church politics.

The Santiago bishops are the worst in the nation, he told Alejandro sourly. Nothing but socialists and Communists. You’d do better to pick a church in the South—away from the cities.

Alejandro stayed silent. No use picking a quarrel before he was even home. He knew what lay behind Raúl’s comments—a banker’s fear that he might have to part with some of his money to feed or heal Santiago’s poorest. It was a concern he didn’t share. He’d fit right in with these socialists.

Finally, they were home. Ursula, his mother, was waiting in the front courtyard, too impatient to stay inside. She had missed her youngest son, her baby, almost beyond endurance and looked him over eagerly as he got out of the car, stiff from so much sitting. He looked older, all grown up, until he smiled. Then, he was her Alejandro.

"Hijo," she greeted her son softly, enfolding him in her perfumed embrace.

I needed that hug, he whispered in her ear. Now, I feel like I’m home.

You’re so thin, she complained.

You always say that, he responded, laughter in his eyes. I weigh exactly the same as I did when I left.

But you’re taller now.

That was true. He’d finally topped out at six feet, but while he was on the slim side, he was also well muscled. He moved like the athlete he was.

Why are we standing here? Don José asked irritably. Everyone’s inside.

Everyone was an exaggeration. His older sister, Ana-Maria, was there, as was Mercedes, at thirty the female sibling closest to Alejandro in age. Despite an age difference of almost fourteen years, Ana-Maria had always been his favorite—his friend and confidant for all of his twenty-five years. The two spouses of his sisters and Ana-Maria’s children, if they could make it in time, would join them later for dinner.

They spent the first part of the afternoon discussing his life in San Francisco and catching up on family news. Then, at his mother’s insistence, he took a nap.

It’s hard to sleep on those noisy planes, she clucked, handing him an extra feather pillow.

It felt embarrassingly good to be fussed over. He’d forgotten that feminine trait. After a few hours of very welcome sleep, the noise of arriving family woke him. Soon, he was deep in conversation with Ana-Maria’s husband, Ricardo, who had been more of a father to Alejandro in many ways than had Don José. Eleven years older than his wife, he was still fit and lean at fifty though his hair had grayed.

Ricardo Muñoz Silva’s work as a professor of literature at the University of Chile gave him a very different perspective on recent political events than that of Don José and Raúl. That was why politics was rarely discussed at the Saavedra table.

Mercedes’ husband, the last to arrive, was an engineer who headed his own company. Like Mercedes, Augusto Reyes Miller was uninterested in politics and paid no attention to strikes or protests unless they inconvenienced him in some way. But he was good to Mercedes and a fundamentally decent man.

After watching her for a few minutes, Alejandro decided that Raúl’s wife, Bianca, hadn’t changed a bit. She was a female version of her husband—tall, dark haired, and conservative to the bone. He thought, as he always did when he spent time with her, that she squeezed all the joy out of life. He’d have felt sorry for Raúl if he didn’t believe that his sympathy would be wasted. Bianca was exactly the wife his brother wanted and deserved.

His mother, seeing something in his eyes as he looked at his sister-in-law, guessed his thoughts. Smiling secretly, she began telling him of the party planned for the day after tomorrow to welcome him home. The entire family and a number of close friends would be there—over one hundred guests, she told him proudly.

Ursula Alarcón de Saavedra had light reddish-brown hair, warm hazel eyes, and a smile that could light up a room, a smile she’d passed along to her youngest son. She was three years younger than her husband and vastly different in both temperament and philosophy. Her youngest son and oldest daughter were much like her. They formed what his father disparagingly called the bleeding hearts half of the family.

Despite everyone’s best intentions, it was impossible to avoid the subject of politics. It was too much a part of their everyday life. Salvador Allende’s election two years ago—the first democratically elected socialist president in all of Latin America—had badly divided not only the nation but many Chilean families.

Don José liked to remind the family that he’d won by just a fraction of one per cent. On top of that, he’d stolen the 1970 election by promising broad social programs aimed at benefitting people who usually didn’t even bother to vote.

His wife, too wise to say it aloud, shared a look with Alejandro that said they knew better. If one totaled the whole left-of-center vote, the liberals had defeated the conservative candidate by a two-to-one margin. Chile was ready for change, needed change, they both believed. But it would not come easily.

Alejandro listened carefully to the gentle disagreements between his father and Ana-Maria’s husband. Their world views were vastly different, but a strong sense of family united them. Conversation never turned ugly. But he could tell from what they said that things had changed in Chile; protests were far more violent now, strikes more numerous and disruptive.

Gradually, talk of politics subsided, and they turned their attention to family affairs and the return of the youngest son of Don José and Ursula. What were Alejandro’s immediate plans, they all wanted to know. He had two weeks, he told them, to settle in and reacquaint himself with life in Chile. Then, he’d report to the Santiago archdiocese.

You’ll probably do that reporting on Sunday, Ricardo told him drily. My uncle informed me he’ll be attending your welcome home celebration.

His uncle, Raúl Silva Henríquez, was the archbishop of Santiago and Chile’s only cardinal. He had ordained Alejandro four years ago and approved his application to the Jesuit seminary in Berkeley, California.

That’s no problem for me; I’m ready to get started, Alejandro assured his brother-in-law.

Well, I’m not, Ursula said. I know you. Once you’ve been given an assignment, I’ll barely see you. I want you home for a while.

Alejandro laughed affectionately.

The decision isn’t mine, Mother. I’ll do as God bids me.

He’s a Cardinal, not God, sniffed Don José. And I intend to see that Raúl Silva gives you your full two weeks. Your mother deserves at least that.

His tone was full-on head of family, but Alejandro didn’t miss the warm glance Don José had given his wife. The two of them puzzled him, always had. They were unalike in every important way, lived separately much of the time, but their deep affection for each other was undeniable. He didn’t think he’d ever understand their relationship.

The Saavedra’s large, comfortable house in Las Condes was filled to overcrowding by 3 P.M. on Sunday. Accustomed to a simple, often solitary lifestyle, Alejandro found himself overwhelmed and uncomfortable with his extended family. The most important guest to him, his grandfather, Don Juan Alarcón Padilla, arrived first.

Like his daughter, Don Juan was a gentle, warm-hearted man with a strong social conscience. He shared with his youngest grandson a scholarly bent and a preference for male companionship. The two of them had been close as long as Alejandro could remember. He took his grandson’s hand in both of his and smiled warmly.

Just the same, you look just the same. I’ve missed you, boy. Promise me you’ll find some time soon for an old man.

I will; I’ve missed you, too. May I take you to lunch on Wednesday?

You may but my home, please. I don’t want to share you with anyone.

That was all there was time for as other members of his large and sometimes difficult family arrived and made their demands. First, in precedence and arrogance, was his uncle, Arminio, a general in the Air Force. He looked at his nephew critically.

Wearing your collar, I see. Just what Chile needs—another liberal priest. I don’t suppose they pounded any sense into you at that seminary of yours. Sending you to Pontifical Catholic University obviously didn’t do any good.

Alejandro was too wise to answer, but his eyes were full of amusement. His uncle hadn’t changed a bit. Nor had Uncle Pablo, now a bishop in Concepción—and every bit as conservative as his two older brothers.

Watch where they put you, Pablo warned Alejandro. You don’t want to get mixed up in church politics—at least not until you’ve learned which way the crow flies.

One after another, his family greeted him until it was all a blur. Only a few stood out. His nephews, Ana-Maria’s boys, had grown up in his absence. Rafael was twenty already, a student at the University of Chile. Carlos, a carbon copy of his father in both looks and personality, was seventeen. They were shy with him at first; it had been four years, after all. But in no time at all, they were laughing and joking with their favorite uncle.

Both of them were very like their parents—intelligent, generous, and full of fun. He’d enjoy spending time with them. Raúl’s three sons were an altogether different story. Alejandro had never warmed to them. They were well-behaved boys but cold and rather dull.

Alejandro hadn’t seen his cousins, Arminio’s son and daughter, in nearly six years. Time, unfortunately, had not improved them. Pamela, who must be twenty-six now, he calculated, was still unmarried. She eyed him hungrily, and he repressed a moue of distaste. Drago, now twenty-one, was every bit as cold and haughty as his sister. He kept his visit with them as short as civility allowed.

One guest observed Alejandro carefully from the corner of the living room where he conversed quietly with his nephew, Ricardo. Cardinal Raúl Silva Henríquez was pleased with what he saw. The young priest’s warm, open persona was going to be an asset to the church. His recommendations from the seminary had been excellent—as a scholar, in Christian service, as a man, Alejandro had exceeded all expectations.

Your Eminence, Alejandro greeted him respectfully, thank you for coming.

Cardinal Silva led Alejandro into a garden adjoining the living room so they could speak in greater privacy.

You’ve grown, Alejandro, and I don’t mean just physically. I’m pleased to have you home.

After asking the young priest some probing questions about his time at the seminary, he told him to call his secretary to make an appointment for the following week.

I have some ideas already about what might suit you.

One by one, the guests took their leave, and he was grateful that Ana-Maria and Ricardo were among the last to go. He wanted to spend more time with them—time alone so they could talk freely.

Come to dinner tomorrow, Alejandro, Ana-Maria urged. Just you.

I missed you, my boy, Ricardo told him quietly. "You’re the only male Saavedra I can talk to