I find it rather alarming that perhaps all the world by now has heard something of what’s happened to me: that I’m a doctor; that I worked for four years in Chile; that I was asked to treat a wounded man who was unable togotoa hospital because the secret police were after him; I treated him just as a doctor would, without really thinking a lot about it, and then I suddenly found myself in prison.
Up until the time I went to Chile, I was a very ordinary sort of doctor, very concerned with the rat-race, wanting to be successful—not so much to be rich, but to be very good at my work and have a nice house and a car and do all the things I like doing. I chose Chile because some Chilean friends had told me a great deal about it, and it sounded very attractive. I visualized myself as working shorter hours and living the grand life and probably marrying a tall, gorgeous man, so off I set to seek my fortune.
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