Miracle in the Andes Read online

  Hoping to find a constructive outlet for Roberto’s unruliness, the Christian Brothers encouraged him to play rugby, where his forceful nature made him a formidable presence on the field. He played left wing, the same position as Panchito played on the right, but where Panchito would gracefully dodge and weave his way past tacklers toward the try-line, Roberto preferred to batter a more direct path through the opposition, one head-on collision after another. He was not one of our bigger players, but his thick legs were so impressively developed that, along with his famous muscle-headedness, they earned him the nickname Músculo—“Muscles.” Powered by such sturdy limbs and such natural belligerence, Roberto was more than a match for much larger opponents, and he loved nothing more than to lower his shoulder and send some oversized, would-be tackler flying.

  Roberto loved rugby, but it didn’t cure his stubbornness as the Christian Brothers had hoped. Roberto was Roberto, on the field or off, and even in the middle of a hard-fought match, he refused to be told what to do. Our coaches prepared us well for each match, with scripted plays and strategies, and the rest of us tried as hard as we could to follow the game plan. But Roberto always reserved the right to improvise at will. Usually this meant he would keep the ball when he should have passed it, or would hurl himself headlong into an opponent when the coaches wanted him to dance into the open. As he grudgingly endured the coaches’ reprimands, the dark glare in his piercing eyes showed defiance and impatience. He chafed at being told what to do. He simply felt his own way was better. And he lived this way in every facet of his life. Roberto’s strong-mindedness made him a challenging friend, and even in the comfortable circumstances of our lives in Carasco, he could be arrogant and overbearing. In the pressure-packed atmosphere of the fuselage, his conduct was often insufferable. He routinely ignored decisions made by the group and turned on anyone who challenged him, raining down rants and insults in the belligerent falsetto he used when his blood was hot. He could be brutally inconsiderate: If he had to leave the plane at night to urinate, for example, he simply stepped on the arms and legs of whoever happened to be sleeping in his path. He slept where he wanted, even if it meant shoving others aside from the places they had chosen. Dealing with Roberto’s quick temper and confrontational manner created stress we did not need and cost us energy we could not afford to squander, and more than once his hardheaded abrasiveness almost led to fights.

  But, despite his difficult nature, I respected Roberto. He was the most intelligent and ingenious of us all. Without his quick-witted medical care in the wake of the crash, many of the boys who were now recovering from their injuries might well be dead, and his creative thinking had solved many problems in ways that made us safer or more comfortable on the mountain. It was Roberto who realized that the Fairchild’s seat covers could be removed and used as blankets, an innovation that may have saved us all from freezing. Most of the simple tools we used, and our crude selection of medical supplies, had been improvised by him from articles he’d scavenged from the wreckage. And for all his egotistical bluster, I knew he felt a strong sense of responsibility toward the rest of us. After seeing how Arturo and Rafael suffered at night as they lay on the floor of the plane (and bellowing at them fiercely to stop their pathetic moaning), Roberto spent hours the next morning fashioning the swinging hammocks that gave those two injured boys some relief from their pain. It was not compassion, exactly, that spurred him to do these things, it was more a sense of duty. He knew his gifts and abilities, and it simply made sense to him to do what he knew no one else could do.

  I knew Roberto’s resourcefulness would be a great advantage in any attempt to escape. I also trusted his realistic view of our situation—he understood how desperate things were, and that our only hope was to save ourselves. But more than anything I wanted him with me simply because he was Roberto, the most determined and strong-willed person I had ever known. If there was anyone in our group who could stand up to the Andes through sheer stubbornness alone, Roberto was the one. He would not be the easiest traveling companion, and I worried that his difficult nature might plunge us into conflict on our way, sabotaging whatever slim chance we had to reach civilization. But, intuitively, I understood that Roberto’s willfulness and strong sense of self would be the perfect complement to the wild impulses that drove me to flee blindly into the wild. With my manic urge to escape, I would be the engine that pulled us through the mountains; Roberto’s cantankerous spirit would be the clutch that prevented me from revving out of control. I had no way of knowing what kind of hardships lay ahead in the wilderness, but I knew Roberto would make me stronger and better on the journey. He was the one I needed by my side, and when the time seemed right and we were alone together, I asked him to come with me on the trek.

  “We must do it, Roberto, you and I,” I said. “We have the best chance of anyone here.”

  “You’re crazy, Nando,” he snapped, his voice rising in pitch. “Look at these fucking mountains. Do you have any idea how high they are?”

  I gazed at the highest peak. “It seems maybe two or three times the Pan de Azúcar,” I said, referring to the tallest “mountain” in Uruguay.

  Roberto snorted. “Don’t be an idiot!” he screeched. “There’s no snow on the Pan de Azúcar! It is only fifteen hundred feet high! This mountain is ten times higher, at least!”

  “What choice do we have?” I answered. “We have to try. For me, the decision is made. I am going to climb, Roberto, but I am afraid. I cannot do it alone. I need you to come with me.”

  Roberto shook his head ruefully. “You saw what happened to Gustavo,” he said. “And they only made it halfway up the slope.”

  “We can’t stay here,” I said. “You know that as well as I do. We need to leave as soon as possible.”

  “No way!” shouted Roberto. “It would have to be planned. We must do it the smartest way. We need to think through every detail. How would we climb? Which slope? Which direction?”

  “I think of these things constantly,” I said. “We will need food, water, warm clothing …”

  “How would we keep ourselves from freezing at night?” he asked.

  “We will find shelter beneath rocks,” I said, “or maybe dig caves in the snow.”

  “Timing is very important,” he said. “We would have to wait for the weather to improve.”

  “But we can’t wait so long that we are too weak to make the climb,” I told him.

  Roberto was silent for a moment. “It will kill us, you know,” he said.

  “It probably will,” I replied, “but if we stay here we are dead already. I cannot do this alone, Roberto. Please, come with me.”

  For a moment Roberto seemed to study me with his penetrating gaze, as if he’d never seen me before. Then he nodded toward the fuselage. “Let’s go inside,” he said. “The wind is picking up and I am fucking cold.”

  IN THE DAYS that followed, we were all preoccupied with discussions of our plan to climb out of the cordillera, and I soon realized that the others were beginning to trust in this plan as desperately as they had once trusted in the certainty of rescue. Because I’d been the first to speak openly about our need to escape, and because they knew I would certainly be one of the ones who tried, many of the survivors began to see me as a leader. Never in my life had I assumed such a role—I was the one who always drifted along, riding the current, letting others show the way. I certainly didn’t feel like a leader now. Couldn’t they see how confused and frightened I was? Did they really want a leader who felt in his heart that all of us were already doomed? For my part, I had no desire to lead anyone; I needed all my strength just to keep myself from falling apart. I worried I was giving them false hope, but in the end I decided that false hope was better than no hope at all. So I kept my thoughts to myself. They were dark thoughts, mostly, but one night something remarkable happened. It was after midnight, the fuselage was dark and cold as always, and I was lying restlessly in the shallow, groggy stupor that was as close as I ever got
to genuine sleep, when, out of nowhere, I was jolted by a surge of joy so deep and sublime that it nearly lifted me bodily from the floor. For a moment the cold vanished, as if I’d been bathed in a warm, golden light, and for the first time since the plane had crashed, I was certain I would survive. In excitement, I woke the others.

  “Guys, listen!” I cried. “We will be okay. I will have you home by Christmas!”

  My outburst seemed to puzzle the others, who only muttered softly and went back to sleep. In moments my euphoria passed. I tried all night to recapture the feeling, but it had slipped away. By morning my heart was filled once more with nothing but doubts and dread.

  Chapter Six

  Tomb

  BY THE LAST WEEK in October, we had chosen the group that would leave the crash site and try to reach help. There was no question in anyone’s mind that I was going—they would have had to tie me to a rock to keep me from leaving. Roberto had finally agreed to go with me. Fito and Numa would round out the team. The other survivors approved of the choices, and began to refer to us as “the expeditionaries.” It was decided that we would receive larger rations of food to build our strength. We would also be given the warmest clothing and the best places to sleep, and would be excused from our routine chores so that we could conserve our energy for the trek.

  Having a designated team of expeditionaries made our plans for escape seem real at last, and, in response, the spirits of the group began to rise. And after two weeks on the mountain, we found other reasons to hope: despite so much suffering and so many horrors, none of us had died since our eighth day on the mountain, when I’d lost Susy. With all the frozen bodies lying in the snow, we had enough food to keep us alive, and though we still suffered through the freezing nights, we knew that as long as we huddled in the shelter of the Fairchild, the cold would not kill us. Our situation was still critical, but we began to feel that we had passed the point of crisis. Things seemed more stable. We had resolved the immediate threats that faced us, and now we would play a waiting game, resting and strengthening ourselves while we waited for the weather to improve, then we would climb. Perhaps we had seen the last of the horrors. Perhaps all twenty-seven of us were destined to survive. Why else would God have saved us? Many of us were comforted by these thoughts as we filed into the fuselage on the evening of October 29 and prepared ourselves for sleep.

  It was a windy night. I settled on the floor, and Liliana lay down next to me. For a while she talked quietly with Javier, who lay facing her. As always, they talked about their children. Liliana worried about them every moment, and Javier would comfort her, telling her that surely their grandparents were taking good care of them. I was touched by the tenderness between them. They shared such an intimacy, such a sense of partnership. It was as if they were a single person. Before the crash, they had been living the life I’d dreamed of—a strong marriage, the joys of a loving home and family. I wondered if they would ever return to that life. And what about me? Would my own chance for such happiness die with me in this frozen hell? I let my thoughts wander: Where, at this very moment, was the woman I would marry? Was she wondering about her future, too—who she would marry and where he might be?

  Here I am, I thought, freezing my ass at the top of the world, and thinking of you …

  After a while, Javier tried to sleep and Liliana turned to me.

  “How is your head, Nando?” she asked. “Does it still hurt?”

  “Only a little,” I said.

  “You should rest more.”

  “I am glad you decided to eat,” I told her.

  “I want to see my children,” she said. “And if I do not eat, I will die. I do it for them.”

  “How is Javier?”

  “He is still so sick,” she sighed. “I pray with him often. He feels certain God will give us a chance.”

  “Do you think so?” I asked. “Do you think God will help us? I’m so confused. I am so filled with doubt.”

  “God has saved us so far,” she said. “We must trust Him.”

  “But why would God save us and let the others die? My mother, my sister, Panchito, Guido? Didn’t they want God to save them?”

  “There is no way to understand God or his logic,” she replied.

  “Then why should we trust Him?” I asked. “What about all the Jews who died in concentration camps?” I said. “What about all the innocents killed in plagues and purges and natural disasters? Why would He turn His back on them, but still find time for us?”

  Liliana sighed, and I felt the warmth of her breath on my face. “You are getting too complicated,” she said, with softness in her voice. “All we can do is love God and love others and trust in God’s will.”

  Liliana’s words did not convince me, but her warmth and kindness comforted me. I tried to imagine how much she must long for her children, and said a prayer that they should be together again, then I closed my eyes and drifted off into my usual bleary half-slumber. I dozed for a while, perhaps half an hour, and then I woke, frightened and disoriented, as a huge and heavy force thumped against my chest. Something was terribly wrong. I felt an icy wetness pressing against my face, and a crushing weight bore down on me so hard that it forced the air from my chest. After a moment of confusion, I realized what had happened—an avalanche had rolled down the mountain and filled the fuselage with snow. There was a moment of complete silence, then I heard a slow, wet creak as the loose snow settled under its own weight and packed around me like rock. I tried to move, but it felt as if my body were encased in concrete, and I couldn’t even wiggle a finger. I managed a few shallow breaths, but soon snow packed into my mouth and nostrils and I began to suffocate. At first the pressure in my chest was unbearable, but as my awareness dimmed, I stopped noticing the discomfort. My thoughts grew calm and lucid. “This is my death,” I told myself. “Now I will see what lies on the other side.” I felt no strong emotion. I didn’t try to shout or struggle. I simply waited, and as I accepted my helplessness, a sense of peace overtook me. I waited patiently for my life to end. There were no angels, no revelations, there was no long tunnel leading to a golden loving light. Instead, I sensed only the same black silence I had fallen into when the Fairchild hit the mountain. I drifted back into that silence. I let my resistance fade. It was over. No more fear. No more struggle. Just bottomless silence, and rest.

  Then a hand clawed the snow from my face and I was yanked back into the world of the living. Someone had dug a narrow shaft down through several feet of snow to reach me. I spat the snow from my mouth and gulped cold air into my lungs, although the weight of the snow on my chest made it difficult to draw a full breath.

  I heard Carlitos’s voice above me. “Who is it?” he shouted.

  “Me,” I sputtered. “It’s Nando.”

  Then he left me. I heard chaos above me, voices shouting and sobbing.

  “Dig for the faces!” someone shouted. “Give them air!”

  “Coco! Where is Coco?”

  “Help me here!”

  “Has anyone seen Marcelo?”

  “How many do we have? Who is missing?”

  “Someone count!”

  Then I heard Javier’s voice shouting hysterically, “Liliana? Liliana? Help her! Hold on, Liliana! Oh, please, hurry, find her!”

  The chaos lasted just a few minutes, then the fuselage fell silent. A few moments later they dug me out, and I was able to lift myself up from the snow. The dark fuselage was lit eerily by the flames of the cigarette lighter Pancho Delgado was holding. I saw some of my friends lying motionless. Other boys were rising from the snow like zombies from the grave. Javier was kneeling beside me, with Liliana in his arms. I knew from the way her arms and head hung limply that she was dead. I shook my head in disbelief as Javier began to sob. “No,” I said flatly. “No.” As if I could argue with what had just happened. As if I could refuse to allow it to be real. I glanced at the others standing around me. Some were weeping, some were comforting Javier, others were simply gazing into
the shadows with dazed looks on their faces. For a moment no one spoke, but when the shock eased, the others told me what they’d seen.

  It began with a distant roar on the mountain. Roy Harley heard the noise and jumped to his feet. Seconds later the avalanche swept through the makeshift wall at the rear of the fuselage, burying him to the hips. In horror, Roy saw that all of us sleeping on the floor had been buried in snow. Terrified that all of us were dead and he was alone on the mountain, Roy began to dig. He quickly uncovered Carlitos, Fito, and Roberto. As each boy was uncovered, he also began to dig. They scrambled back and forth on the surface of the snow, searching frantically for our buried friends, but despite their efforts they were not fast enough to save us all. Our losses were heavy. Marcelo was dead. So were Enrique Platero, Coco Nicholich, and Daniel Maspons. Carlos Roque, the Fairchild’s mechanic, and Juan Carlos Menendez had died beneath the falling wall. Diego Storm, who, on the third day of the ordeal, had saved my life by dragging me into the warmth of the fuselage while I still lay in a coma, had suffocated under the snow. And Liliana, who, just moments earlier, had spoken such kind words of comfort to me, was also gone. Gustavo had helped Javier dig for her, but too much time had passed, and when they found her she had died.