My brother Diego died as a teenager, just turned 15. He was really, my playmate, with whom I played the Basque ball in the backyard, the dolls, the carts, or with the little woods of different sizes that my mother sent to do so we could construct imaginary buildings (always architecturally and urbanistically advised by my older brother Ciro). When we went to Surco's house, we all bathed in the pool, Diego included, the happy sea. But he spent hours with me, swimming and chatting, because we were both little ones.
Diego, as a child, learned classical guitar with a private tutor, and was about to start performing concerts when he died. First place of his class infallibly, he died on a school trip climbing in Marcahuasi, which is why his promotion at the SS.CC College. La Recoleta was named after him.
Diego was a posthumous son of my father, the writer Ciro Alegría. He was born 5 months after my father died, in a difficult birth that almost killed my mother. Since he was little he was like a little shy and tristongo, as if his fate were not to be among us ... By character, Diego and Ciro were always related, while my sister Ceci and I are very similar.
Diego's death was a bitter drink that deeply shook my mom (Dora Varona) and my foster father (Genaro), so that soon after, they took refuge in their faith and dedicated themselves to being pastors and preaching a better world, perhaps less cruel, with the helpless, the good, the meek, as it was, my dear and missed brother Diego.