Miracle in the Andes PDF Chapter 2

32 / Nando Parrado ' ' i'. ','' ' '' was reading, and was holdmg my sister's hand. I wanted to tell them not to worry, but before I could speak, the bottom seemed to fall out of the fuselage, and my stomach pitched as the plane dropped for what must have been several hundred feet. Now the plane was...

32 / Nando Parrado ' ' i'. ','' ' '' was reading, and was holdmg my sister's hand. I wanted to tell them not to worry, but before I could speak, the bottom seemed to fall out of the fuselage, and my stomach pitched as the plane dropped for what must have been several hundred feet. Now the plane was bouncmg and slidmg in the turbulence. As the pilots fought to stabilize the Fairchild, I felt Panchito's elbow in my side. "Look at this, Nanda;' he said. "Should we be so close to the mountainsr> I bent down to look out the small window. We were flymg in thick cloud cover, but through breaks m the clouds I could see a massive wall of rock and snow flashing past. The Fairchild was bobbing roughly, and the swaying tip of the wing was no more than twenty-five feet from the black slopes of the mountain. For a second or so I stared in disbelief, then the plane's engmes screamed as the pilots tried desperately to climb. The fuselage began to vibrate so v10lently I feared it would shake itself to pieces. My mother and sister turned to look at me over the seats. Our eyes met for an mstant, then a powerful tremor rocked the plane. There was a terrible howl of metal grinding. Suddenly I saw open sky above me. Frigid air blasted my face and I noticed, with an odd calmness, that clouds were swirling in the aisle. There was no time to make sense of things, or to pray or feel fear. It all happened in a heartbeat. Then I was torn from my seat with incredible force and hurled forward into the darkness and silence. Chapter Two Everything Precious j l'fl '}j :f"lt ;,, ,, 1~'' 0¥, 4~ ,l,:'1111111 ,,.1111 ,1 11111' i1\1:11 ii ,111'1 \::,, ' 1!' 11 1" 1 11, I' ''/ "HERE, NANDO, ARE you thirsty?" ,,:, ,, ',I': i: I It was my teammate Gustavo Zerbmo crouching beside me, pressing a ball of snow to my lips. The snow was cold and it burned my throat as I swallowed, but my body was so parched I gobbled 1t m lumps and begged for more. Several hours had passed since I woke from the coma. My mind was clearer now, and I was full of quest10ns. When I finished with the snow, I motioned Gustavo closer. "Where is my mother?" I asked. "Where is Susy? Are they all right?', ,, 1i I Gustavo's face betrayed no emotion. "Get some rest;' he said. "You're still very weak:' He walked away, and for a while the others kept their distance. Again and again I pleaded with them to give me some news of my loved ones, but my voice was just a whisper and it was easy for them to pretend they didn't hear. I lay shivering on the cold floor of the fuselage as the others bustled around me, listening for the sound of my sister's voice and glancing about for a glimpse of my mother's face. How desperately I wanted to see my mother's warm smile, her deep blue eyes, to be swept up in her arms and told that we would be okay. Eugenia was the emotional heart of our family Her wISdom, strength, and courage had been the foundation of our lives, and I needed her so badly now that missmg her felt hke a physical pain worse than the cold or the throbbmg in my head. When Gustavo came again with another ball of snow, I grabbed his sleeve. 36 / Nanda Parrado "Vvhere are they, Gustavo?" I insisted. "Please.» I','! I,' ',' \'I i1 1, 'I i'"' ,, Gustavo looked mto my eyes and must have seen that I was ready to have an answer. "Nando, you must be strong;' he said. "Your mother is dead:' When I look back on this moment, I cannot say why this news did not destroy me. Never had I needed my mother's touch so badly, and now I was being told I would never feel that touch agam. For a bnef moment, gnef and panic exploded m my heart so violently that I feared I would go mad, but then a thought formed in my head, m a voice so lucid and so detached from everythmg that I was feeling that it could have been someone whispering m my ear. The voice said, Do not cry. Tears waste salt. You will need salt to survive. I was astounded at the calmness of this thought, and shocked at the cold-bloodedness of the voice that spoke 1t. Not cry for my mother? Not cry for the greatest loss of my hfe? I am stranded in the Andes, I am freezmg, my skull is m pieces! I should not cry? The voice spoke again. Do not cry "There is more," Gustavo told me. "Panchito is dead. Gmdo, too. And many others:' I shook my head feebly m disbelief. How could this be happemng? Sobs gathered in my throat, but before I could surrender to my gnef and shock, the voice spoke agam, and louder. They are all gone. They are all a part ofyour past. Don't waste energy on things you can't control. Look forward. Think clearly. You will survive. Gustavo still knelt above me, and I wanted to grab him, shake him make him tell me 1t was all a lie. Then I remembered my sister, and,through no effort of my own, I did what the voice wanted; I let my grief for my mother and fnends slip into the past, as my mmd filled with a wild surge of fear for my sister's safety. I stared at Gustavo numbly for a moment as I gathered my courage for the question I had to ask. uGustavo, where is Susy?" MIRACLE IN THE ANDES \ 37 "She's over there;' he said, pomting to the rear of the plane, "but she 1s hurt very badly;' Suddenly, everything changed for me. My own suffenng faded and I was filled with an urgent desire to reach my sister. Struggling to my feet, I tried to walk, but the pam m my head made me swoon ,and I slumped back roughly to the floor of the fuselage. I rested for a moment, then rolled onto my stomach and dragged myself on my elbows toward my sister. The floor all around me was littered with the sort of debns that called to mind the violent mterrupt10n of ordinary life-cracked plastic cups, splayed magazines, a scattermg of playing cards and paperback books. Damaged seats from the plane were stacked in a tangled pile near the cockpit bulkhead, and as I crawled on my stomach I could see, on either side of the aisle, the broken metal brackets that had held those seats to the floor. For a moment I imagmed the terrible force it would take to tear the seats loose from such sturdy anchors. I inched slowly toward Susy, but I was very weak and my progress was slow. Soon my strength gave out. I let my head slump to the floor to rest, but then I felt arms lifting me and carrymg me forward. Someone helped me to the rear of the plane and there, lying on her back, was Susy. At first glance she did not seem to be badly mjured. There were traces of blood on her brow, but someone had obv10usly washed her face. Her hair had been smoothed back. Someone had comforted her. She was weanng the new coat she had purchased just for this trip-a beautiful coat made from antelope leather-and the soft fur collar of the coat moved against her cheek in the fngid breeze. My fnends helped me lie down beside her. I wrapped my arms around her and whispered m her ear. "I am here, Susy It's Nando;' She turned and looked at me with her soft, caramel-colored eyes, but her gaze was unfocused and I couldn't be sure she knew it was me. She rolled in my arms as 1f to move closer to me, but then she groaned softly and pulled away. It hurt her to lie that way, so I let her find a less painful posit10n, then I embraced her again, ,: I, '' ,'i' ', ', 38 / Nanda Parrado MIRACLE IN THE ANDES \ 39 wrapping my arms and legs around her to protect her, as well as I could, from the cold. I lay with her that way for hours. Mostly she was qmet. sometimes she would sob or qmetly moan. From time to to do her college studies in the States, and often she would suggest that she might end up staymg there even longer. "Who knows?" she would say. "I might meet my husband there, and become an American for good!" When Susy and I were small, we were each other's favorite playmates. As we grew older, I became a trusted confidant. She shared her secrets with me, told me her hopes and her worries. I remember that she was always concerned about her weight-she thought she was too heavy but she was not. She had broad shoulders and wide hips, but she was tall and her body was trim and proportional. She had the strong, shapely build of a gymnast or a swimmer. But her true beauty was in her deep, clear caramel eyes, her fine skin, and the sweetness and strength that glowed in her strong, kmd face. She was young, and had not yet had a serious boyfriend, and I knew she worried that boys would not find her attractive. But I saw nothing but beauty when I looked at her. How could I convmce her that she was a treasure? My httle sister Susy had been precious to me from the moment she was born, and the first time I held her in my arms I knew it would always be my job to protect her. As I lay with her on the floor of the fuselage, I remembered a day at the beach when we were both small. Susy was still a toddler; I was five or six years old. She was playing in the sand with the sun in her eyes. I was not swimming or pl~)'lng My eye was always on her, watching that she did not wander into the surf where the tide could snatch her, or stray mto the dunes where some stranger could whisk her away. I never let her out of my sight. I stared down anyone who came near her. Even as a child I realized that the beach was full of dangers, and I had to be vigilant to keep her safe. This sense of protectiveness only grew stronger as we grew older. I made a point of knowing her friends and her hangouts, and when I got old enough to drive, I became the regular chauffeur for Susy and her gang. I would take them to dances and parties and pick them up afterwards. I liked to do this. lt was a satisfymg thing, llme she would call out for our mother. "Mama, please;' she would cry, ((I am so cold, please, Mama, let's go home:' These words pierced my heart like arrows. Susy was my mother's baby, and the two of them had always shared a special tenderness. They were so similar in temperament, so gentle and patient and warm, so at ease in each other's company that I don't remember them ever having a fight. They would spend hours together, cooking, taking walks, or Just talking. I remember them so many times sitting alone on the sofa, their heads together, whispering, nodding, laughing at some shared secret. I believe my sister told my mother everything. She trusted my mother's advice, and sought her counsel on the things that mattered to her-friendships, studies, clothes, ambitions, values, and, always, how to deal w1thmen. Susy had my mother's strong, soft Ukrainian features, and she loved hearing about our family's ongins in Eastern Europe. I remember each day, when we would have our after-school cafe con /eche, she would coax our grandmother Lina to tell stories about the rustic little village where she was born: how cold and snowy it was in winter, and how all the villagers had to share and work together to survive. She understood the sacrifices Lina had made to come here, and I think these stories made her feel closer to our family's past. Susy shared my mother's love for the closeness of family, but she was no stay-at-home girl. She had many fnends, she loved music and dancing and parties, and as much as she adored our home life in Montevideo, she always dreamed of seeing other places. When she was sixteen she spent a year as an exchange student Jiving with a family in Florida, an experience that taught her to love the U.S.A. "Anything is possible there;' she would tell me. "You can dream anything and make 1t come true!" It was her dream ~ l t i; 40 I Nanda Parrado i,,' I :'' ' 1 ' II : :: I[ knowing they would be safe with me. I remember taking them to the big movie house in our neighborhood-a place where all our fnends would meet on weekends. She would sit with her friends and I would sit with mine, but I would keep my eye on her in the dark, always checking to make sure she was all nght, being sure she knew I was close enough if she should need me. Other girls might have hated a brother like this, but I think Susy hked it that I cared enough to watch over her, and in the end it drew us closer. Now, as I held her in my arms, I felt a terrible pang of helplessness. Watching her suffer was an unspeakable angmsh for me, but there was nothing I could do. All my life, I would have done anything to keep Susy safe, and spare her from pain. Even now, m the battered shell of this aircraft, I would have gladly given my own life to end her suffenng and send her home to my father. My father! In all the chaos and confusion, I had not had the time to consider what he must be going through. He would have heard the news three days ago, and for all that time he would have lived behevmg he had lost us all. I knew him well, I knew his deep practicality, and I knew he would not allow himself the luxury of false hope. To survive a plane crash in the Andes? At this time of year? Impossible. Now I saw him clearly, my strong, loving father tossing in his bed, staggered by his unimaginable loss. After all his concern for us, all his work and planning, all his trust in the orderliness of the world and the certainty of our happiness, how could he bear the brutal truth: He could not protect us. He could not protect us. My heart broke for him, and this heartbreak was more painful than the thirst, the cold, the gnnding fear, and the shattenng pain in my head. I imagmed him gnevmg for me. Grieving for me! I could not stand the idea that he thought I was dead. I felt an urgent, almost v10lent longing to be with him, to comfort him, to tell him I was caring for my sister, to show hitn he had not lost us all. "I am al1ve." "I am alive;' I wh1spere d to h 1m. MIRACLE IN THE ANDES \ 41 How badly I needed my father's strength, his wisdom. Surely, if he were here, he would know how to get us home. But as the afternoon passed and it grew colder and darker, I sank into a mood of pure despair. I felt as far from my father as a soul in heaven. It seemed that we had fallen through a crack in the sky into some frozen hell from which no return to the ordinary world was even possible. Like other boys, I knew myths and legends m which heroes had fallen into an evil underworld, or had been lured into enchanted forests from which there was no escape. In their struggles to return to their homes, they had to suffer through many ordealsthey battled dragons and demons, matched wits with sorcerers, sailed across treacherous seas. But even those great heroes needed magical help to succeed-a wizard's gmdance, a flying carpet, a secret charm, a magic sword. We were a group of untested boys who had never m our lives truly suffered. Few of us had ever seen snow. None of us had ever set foot in the mountams. Where would we find our hero? What magic would carry us home? I buned my face in Susy's hair to keep myself from sobbing. Then, as if with a will of its own, an old memory began to glow in my mind, a story my father had told me countless times. When he was a young man, my father was one of Uruguay's top competitIVe rowersi and one summer he traveled to Argentma to compete in a race on the section of the Uruguay River known as the Delta de! Tigre. Seier was a powerful rower, and he qmckly pulled away from most of the field, but one Argentine racer stayed with him. They raced, neck and neck, the length of the course, both of them straming with all their might to gain the slightest advantage, but as the fimsh lme approached, it was still too close to call. My father's lungs Were burnmg and his legs were seized with cramps. All he wanted was to slump forward, gulp air into his lungs, and end his suffering. There will be other races, he told hitnself, as he eased his gnp on the oars. But then he glanced at his competitor in the scull beside him, ', i 111 ,,.i. 42 I Nanda Parrado MIRACLE lN THE ANDES \ 43 and saw pure agony m that man's face. "I realized he was suffermg as much as I was," my father told me. "So I decided I would not qmt after all. I decided I would suffer a little longer." With new resolve, Seier dug the oars into the water and stroked with all the power he could muster. His heart pounded and his stomach pitched and his muscles felt as 1f they were bemg torn from the bone. But he forced himself to struggle, and when the racers reached the finish line, the prow of my father's scull got there mountains, found their sleeping places and braced for the misery they knew lay ahead. Soon the darkness in the plane was absolute, and the cold closed on 'us like the jaws of a vise. The ferocity of the cold stole my breath away. It seemed to have a malice in 11, a predatory will, but there was no way to fight off its attack except to huddle closer to my sister. Time itself seemed to have frozen solid. I lay on the cold floor of the fuselage, tormented by the icy gusts blowing in through every gap and crack, shivering uncontrollably for what seemed like hours, certain that dawn must be only moments away. Then someone with an illuminated watch would announce the time and I would realize that only minutes had passed. I suffered through the long night breath by frozen breath, from one shivering heartbeat to the next, and each moment was its own separate hell. When I thought I couldn't stand it any longer, I would draw Susy closer, and the thought that I was comfortmg her kept me sane. In the darkness, I couldn't see Susy's face; I could only hear her labored breathmg. As I lay beside her, the sweetness of my love for her, for my lost friends and my family, for the suddenly fragile notion of my own life and future, swelled in my heart with an ache so profound it sapped all my strength, and for a moment I thought I would pass out. But I steadied myself and eased closer to Susy, wrappmg my arms around her as gently as I could, mindful of her injuries and fighting the urge to squeeze her with all my might. I pressed my cheek against hers so I could feel her warm breath on my face, and held her that way all night, gently, but very dose, never lettmg go, embracmg her as if I were embracing all the love and peace and joy I had ever known and would ever know; as ifby holding on tight I could keep everything precious from slipping away. first, by inches. I was five years old the first time my father told me that story, and I was awestruck by this image of my father-hovering on the verge of surrender, then somehow findmg the will to endure. As a boy, I asked bun to tell me the story over and over again. I never grew tired of hearing 1t, and I never lost that heroic image of my father. Many years later, when I'd see him in the office at the hardware store, weary, working late, stooped over his desk and squinting through his thick glasses at stacks of invoices and order forms, I still saw that heroic young man on the river in Argentina, suffering, struggling, but refusing to give in, a man who knew where the finish line was, and who would do anything required to get there. As I huddled in the plane with Susy, I thought of my father struggling on that Argentine river. I tried to find the same strength in myself, but all I felt was hopelessness and fear. I heard my father's voice his old advice: Be strong, Nanda, be smart. Make your own 7 luck. ~ake care of the people you love. The words inspired nothing in 1: me but a black sense ofloss. Susy groaned softly and shifted in my arms. "Don't worry;' I whispered to her, "they will find us. They will bring us home:' Whether I believed those words or not, I can't say. My only thought now was to comfort my sister. The sun was setting, and as the light in the fuselage dimmed, the frigid air took on an even sharper edge. The others, who had already lived through two long nights m the , t ,, /. : :