In mid-November 1973, two months after the Chilean military coup, I was transferred along with 300 other prisoners to Chacabuco, an abandoned saltpeter town surrounded by electrified barbed wire and minefields in the heart of the Atacama Desert. I was assigned to one of the adobe houses in Pavilion 23.
My belongings consisted of the clothes I wore, three blankets, a cup, a jug, and a spoon. I shared my 20-square-meter room with five other inmates.
The floor was dirt, and there were two wooden bunk beds, each three stories high. The window, without glass, was covered by a metal grille. On the lists, I was prisoner number 32.
