© 1972, The Beate Klarsfeld Foundation
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After the reporters left, I went to an office where three plainclothesmen were waiting for me to fill out the forms necessary for entering the country. I had no visa, and I was not a tourist. Contrary to custom, they kept my passport and promised to return it to me at my hotel. Actually, I did not get it until three days later. The police recommended the Hotel Sucre, and the reporters took me there.

I had been expecting summer weather, but La Paz is chilly, even in summer. On the road down from the airport to the city I glimpsed modern apartment houses in the middle of the valley and Indians' huts on the slopes, but I did not feel too much out of my element seeing all the ponchos, the brightly colored full skirts, the children carried on their mothers' backs, and the stray dogs, for I already had some acquaintance with Latin America owing to my visit to Guatemala in May 1967.

I was maneuvering, however, in a kind of dream landscape, for I had not come to visit the country as a tourist but to achieve a purpose. I let the visual impressions just wash over me, because I was afraid I might get distracted from my mission if I looked around too much.

My ground-floor room opened on the street, and passers-by used my windowsill as a resting place. Behind the Sucre was a stadium from which exciting music blared. That and the altitude gave me a violent headache. The reporters reappeared and came into my room one by one while the others waited in the corridor. I might as well have had a red light outside my door.

I had my room changed. After all, why make it easy for anyone who might want to molest me and would only have to push the window open from the street to do so?

On Sunday, I looked at the papers - Ultima Hora, Presencia, Hoy, El Diario, Nueva Jornada – all of which had big headlines: "Altmann Is Barbie," and spread my proofs of their identity over several pages. I went to the hairdresser, for I had had no time for that in Paris, and I got some rest.

In the evening, an employee of the Ministry of the Interior came and wanted me to go to the Ministry with him. Thanks to an American who spoke Spanish, I could ask whether an interpreter would be there. The answer was no. In that event, I said, I'll postpone my visit until tomorrow.

I could understand what was worrying the police. They had
© 1972, The Beate Klarsfeld Foundation
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