It took me months, even years, to piece together something of what happened to Victor during the week that, for me, he was ‘missing’. Many people could not even speak about their experiences, were afraid to testify, and could not bear to remember. Under such horrendous pressure and suffering, people lost the sense of time and even of which day of the week events occurred. But gradually, by collecting evidence from Chilean refugees in exile who shared experiences with Victor and were with him at given moments, I have managed to roughly  reconstruct what he endured while I waited for him at home.

When he reached Plaza Italia on the morning of 11 September, Victor found that the military had sealed off the centre of Santiago, so he turned south down Vicuna McKenna and then west again along Avenida Matta, thus making a wide detour to reach the campus of the Technical University on the far side of the city. He saw the movement of tanks and troops and heard the shooting and explosions but managed to get through. When he arrived at the Department of Communications, he learnt that the radio station of the university had been attacked and taken off the air very early that morning by a contingent of armed men from the nearby naval radio station in the Quinta Normal. He must have arrived just about the time that the Moneda Palace was being bombed. From the university buildings, it was possible to see the Hawker Hunter jets, to hear the rockets explode as they landed on the Moneda Palace, where Allende was holding out and seeing the smoke rising from the ruins as the building was destroyed by fire. Soon afterwards, Victor managed to get his turn on an overworked telephone to tell me that he had arrived safely and to ask how we were getting on.

There were about six hundred students and teachers gathered in the Technical University that morning. At the opening ceremony, President Allende was to have made an important speech announcing his decision to hold a national plebiscite to resolve by democratic means the conflict threatening the country. 

As the first military bandos threatened that people on the streets were in danger of being shot and killed and that a curfew was to be enforced from the early hours of the afternoon. Dr Enrique Kirberg, the Rector of the University, negotiated with the military for the people gathered there to stay put all night for their own safety until the curfew was lifted the next day. This was agreed upon, and orders were given for everyone to remain within the university buildings. It was then that Victor must have phoned me for the second time. He didn’t tell me that tanks and troops surrounded the whole campus.

Through the long hours of the evening, listening to the explosions and heavy machine-gun fire all around the neighbourhood, they tell me that Victor tried to raise the spirits of the people around him. He sang and got them to sing with him. They had no arms to defend themselves. Then in the staff room of the old building of the Escuela de Artes y Oficios, Victor tried to get some sleep.

All night long, the machine-gun fire continued. Some people who tried to get out of the university under cover of darkness were shot outright, but it was not until early next morning that the assault began in earnest, with the tanks firing their heavy guns against the buildings, damaging the structure of some, shattering windows and destroying laboratories, equipment, books. There was no answering fire because there were no guns inside. 

After the tanks had crashed into the university precincts, the troops proceeded to herd all the people, including the Rector, out into a large courtyard normally used for sport. Using rifle butts and boots to kick and beat people, they forced everyone to lie on the ground, hands on the back of their heads. Victor lay there with the others, and perhaps it was on the way out of the building that he had got rid of his identity card in the hope that he might not be recognised.

After lying there for more than an hour, they were made to get into a single file and trot, still with their hands on their heads, to the Estadio Chile, about six blocks away, subjected to insults, kicks, and blows on the way. It was when they were lining up outside the stadium that Victor was first recognised by one of the non-commissioned officers. ‘You’re that fucking singer, aren’t you?’ and he hit Victor on the head, felling him, then kicking him in the stomach and ribs. Victor was separated from the others as they entered the building and put into a special gallery reserved for ‘important’ or ‘dangerous’ prisoners. His friends saw him from afar, remembering the wide smile he flashed at them, from across the horror they were witnessing, despite a bloody face and a wound in his head. Later they saw him curl up across the seats, his hands tucked beneath his armpits against the penetrating cold.

Sometime next morning, Victor evidently decided to try to leave his isolated position and join the other prisoners. Another witness, who was waiting in the passageway outside, saw the following scene. As Victor pushed the swing doors to come out into the passageway, he almost bumped into an army officer who seemed to be the second-in-command of the Stadium. He had been very busy shouting over the microphone, giving orders, and screaming threats. He was tall, blond, and rather handsome and was obviously enjoying the role he was playing as he strutted about. Some of the prisoners had already nicknamed him ‘the Prince’.

As Victor came face to face with him, he gave a sign of recognition and smiled sarcastically. Mimicking playing the guitar, he giggled and then quickly drew his finger across his throat. Victor remained calm and made some gesture in reply, but then the officer shouted, ‘What is this bastard doing here?’. He called the guards who were following him and said, ‘Don’t let him move from here. This one is reserved for me!’.

This excerpt from Joan Jara's book Victor Jara: An Unfinished Song is reproduced with the permission from LeftWord Books, Delhi.

Victor's wife, Joan Jara, died on November 12 this year.

The Wire is now on WhatsApp. Follow our channel for sharp analysis and opinions on the latest developments.