On a Sunday evening in June 2005, few pedestrians tread the cobblestone streets of Villa General Belgrano, in Córdoba, Argentina. A hymn wafts up from the church. Several parishioners are beginning to slip out early from mass. No one will notice—only the sloping Bavarian rooftops lining the path back home.The cuckoo clock in the town plaza strikes six.  An elderly couple emerges from Café Rissen, the husband clutching a cane in one hand and his wife’s arm in the other. A chatting group of teenagers weaves around them, released from church, giddy with newfound freedom. Suddenly, they halt, peering through the windowpane of a tourist street shop, intrigued. Exchanging glances, they point at a row of black cotton shirts displayed in the window to passersby. 



The fronts of the t-shirts are imprinted with the figure of an eagle with outspread wings; below it, a white shield enclosing an iron crucifix. Superimposed on this: a cross tilted, its limbs bent, both at a ninety-degree angle—the unmistakable image of a swastika.



The story spreads, percolating first through regional weeklies and then into national media. Mayor Sergio Favot tells Rádio Universidad, “We are evaluating what legal framework we have to intervene.” He admits that within the realm of free speech, intervention has thorny boundaries—though he promises to appease the nationwide cries of condemnation dubbing the town a ‘breeding ground for Nazis.’



“People around here often ask for objects with military motifs of that time,” one store employee tells a reporter, uneasily. “Especially young people.”



One Villa Belgrano resident is not entirely surprised. “Every so often we have these Nazi outbreaks,” she tells the national newspaper *Clarín*. “They just form part of the landscape.”



The landscape of Villa General Belgrano has proved a prime tourist destination in the past few decades. Part of its allure lies in its strange foreignness: it’s easy to imagine the village uprooted from the Bavarian Forest and plunked down in the middle of Córdoba’s sierras, with architecture, language, and cuisine all remaining intact. Its Oktoberfest is the third largest in the world, surpassed only by Munich and Blumenau (in Brazil). German-style gnomes peer out of the kitschy tourist shops lining Calle Salta, one of the town’s main thoroughfares, as visitors meander among stores with names like Edelweiss and Bierkeller. Artificial, perhaps—it recalls the eerie superficiality of Disney World’s Main Street, U.S.A., an attempt to recreate what perhaps never really existed, through the tangible projection of a romantic ideal.



Yet it is not all hollow tackiness. Villa General Belgrano is home to the largest German community in Argentina. German still does mingle with Spanish, though to a decreasing extent, in homes and churches and bars. The town is the unofficial emblem of the entrenched historical ties between Argentina and Germany—a relationship whose existence is undeniable even if its borders have never officially been drawn.



The swastika affair became such a controversy because it exhumed the murky, rank depths of this history, alluded to and appropriated but never fully explored. A statement emblazoned on a t-shirt came to stand for all that still remained to be said.



 



* * *



In 1929, German immigrants Paul Heintze and Jorge Kappuhn were seeking a site for the agricultural cooperative they hoped to establish in the Argentine interior. The sierras of Córdoba proved home to a hospitable climate and largely unclaimed tracts of land—as well as, purportedly, reminding the duo of the Old World landscape they had left behind. A few intrepid families began to trickle in, as word spread through the German-Argentine community centered in Buenos Aires. Yet development remained rudimentary until 1935, when a group of students, along with their teachers and parents, spent a week there on vacation. The idyllic landscape and nostalgic reminders of their native land proved irresistible for the adults. Many of them would return, becoming the 127 pioneering families of Villa General Belgrano, initially christened Villa Calamuchita.



The village’s serene isolation would prove unsustainable, however, as its growth throughout the 1930s paralleled increasing national tensions. Argentina had thrived throughout World War I, using its neutrality to its advantage to become a supplier of food to all sides. But the global depression soon reversed these advances, leading the dictatorship to scramble for a force capable of uniting the nation. In doing so it looked to Europe—initially to the emerging fascist trends of Spain’s Franco regime. Argentine leaders began to consciously renew the language of an ancient Hispanic alliance between the ‘sword and the cross,’ emphasizing the shared customs, language, and history with Spain and the Vatican. The man who would become Argentina’s president and then dictator—Juan Domingo Perón—spent time in Mussolini’s Italy and Hitler’s Germany as a military observer. He was entranced by the ideology and techniques he witnessed there: the idea that the pulsing vagaries of nations as diverse as these could be mastered, subsumed under a single personality. Persecution of the Jews was to Perón a minor offshoot of the political machine and just another means of asserting national power. It was an offshoot his own government had no need to reproduce, with its close ties to the muscle and weight of the Roman Catholic Church. Within the government, then, implicit approval of Nazism became the norm.



Of course, stirrings of disquiet peeked through here and there, among civilians and every so often within the political apparatus—though a strict military hierarchy helped weed out those undesirables. Voices of dissent nevertheless reached a cacophony grating enough to persuade the relatively weak president, Ramón Castillo, to declare Argentina’s neutrality in World War II.



And yet the military leaders who were actually in charge continued to be attracted to the German worldview: its unwavering sense of purpose and righteousness, its willingness to assert its own identity at the expense of any real or perceived threat, disregarding unsavory consequences. As an immigrant nation, Argentina saw in Germany an alternative to the ideology of individuality within pluralism espoused by the United States, for example (even if the latter tended to fall short of its ideals). As a bonus, a pro-Nazi stance would prove strategic to counteract increasing American influence in neighboring Brazil.



Behind the curtain of Argentine neutrality was sprouting an intricate system of official Nazi involvement, as chronicled in Uki Goñi’s book *The Real Odessa*—telegrams promising freedom from arrest for Nazis who found their way to Argentina; the turning of a blind eye in cash-transfers funneled through Buenos Aires; a communication network linking Germany, Spain, and the Vatican to their partner in the South, as Hitler consolidated his strategy of conquest on the eve of World War II.



Into this melee, in December 1939, sailed a vessel bearing Nazi arms, combatants, and a plan of action. The *Admiral Graf Spee*, captained by Hans Langsdorff, reached the Río de la Plata separating Argentina and Uruguay after completing various assignments around the eastern coast of South America. On December 13th, a fleet of British ships—the *Exeter, Ajax,* and *Achilles*—approached the *Graf Spee. *Langsdorff, miscalculating the size of his opponents, was forced to prepare for battle at the last minute. He dealt a fatal blow to the *Exeter*, but the *Graf Spee* suffered 56 deaths and a few dozen injuries. The damage to the ship was severe enough to force it to turn around and limp into the port of Montevideo, where the surviving members of the crew were given 72 hours of amnesty.



British intelligence, meanwhile, managed to sow false reports among Langsdorff and his crew that a massive fleet of British naval forces was fast approaching. On December 19th, the captain made the executive decision to scuttle the *Graf Spee. *He and the approximately hundred and twenty surviving crewmen crossed the Río de la Plata and made it to Buenos Aires, where they were lodged at the Hotel de los Inmigrantes.



The following day, Langsdorff was found dead in his hotel room, wrapped in a German flag, a bullet hole in his forehead. In a note composed to his commander in Germany, he wrote:



*I can now only prove by my death that the fighting services of the Third Reich are ready to die for the honor of the flag … I shall face my fate with firm faith in the cause and the future of the nation and of my Führer.*



He was buried with full military honors in the German section of La Chacarita cemetery.



From there, the contours of the story begin to blur. Records on the subsequent activities of the remainder of the German crew are vague, if they exist at all. Some remained in Uruguay, it is known. Others shed their Nazi uniforms, settling in Buenos Aires, learning Spanish, marrying Argentines, fading into the fabric of a society largely content to overlook the past. Still others, however, had heard rumors of an enclave of other expatriates, couched in scenery familiar and soothing to a homesick exile. These found their way across the pampas, over the sierras, and into what was still known, then, as Villa Calamuchita. 



 



* * *



Seeking the Old World within the New is hardly a novelty in Argentina. Like other American colonies, the original territory was only supposed to be an extension of the Spanish empire and, with it, a continuation of European norms. Even after independence Argentina continued to fashion itself in the image of its Spanish parent. A parallel if derivative identity was carved out of its Jesuit missions, budding aristocracy, and geography soon wiped clean of the nuisance of natives. Today Buenos Aires continues to be known as the ‘Paris of South America.’ Farther down the continent, vacationers flock to the lakeside city of Bariloche for artisan chocolates and skiing, in the ‘Switzerland of Patagonia.’ It comes as no surprise, then, that when President Perón sought to consolidate power and ensure blind faith to a creed, he looked across the Atlantic, appropriating the power of spectacle and the hypnosis of dogma already present in Nazi Germany.



In 1996, Argentine journalist Uki Goñi was conducting research for an unprecedented book on official Argentine-Nazi ties. Several times he sought access to documentation on postwar German immigration. He was told that the documents were classified, or that they had been misplaced. When he returned later that year, he learned that all midcentury immigration files were no longer in existence. They had been burned in a bonfire late at night, in his absence, in the vacant space behind the Hotel de los Inmigrantes—the same place where Hans Langdorff had ended his own life fifty years before. The final embers had already faded to black, the charred remains of damning evidence dispatched to the wind.



Goñi still managed to write the book. *The Real Odessa—*the title based on a fictional account of ex-Nazis smuggling their comrades to South America—was an indictment far more damning of the Argentine government itself. It was not ex-Nazis, Goñi revealed, but Argentines in power who had facilitated the escape of war criminals to Argentina following World War II.  A network stretching through Spain, Switzerland, Portugal, and the Vatican had enabled the safe passage of men like Thilo Martens, a millionaire who arranged cash-transfers between Nazis; Fritz Thyssen, a German industrial magnate who had bankrolled Hitler’s rise; and most infamously, Adolf Eichmann, the brain behind the ‘Final Solution.’ Perón sent agents—including Catholic bishops—to Europe to smuggle the Germans back to Buenos Aires, often assisted by the manufacture of falsified Red Cross passports.



Perón was appalled by the sense of righteous justice sweeping the Allied nations after the defeat of Germany. Always partial to the glory of battle, the sheen of soldiers’ medals, he saw in military action a type of transcendental honor, and in war an ethical set of boundaries that failed to apply in peacetime. The idea that military officers should be held responsible for their actions, should be considered ‘war criminals,’ was anathema to his very worldview.



*“In Nuremberg at that time,” *he said regarding the trials,* “something was taking place that I personally considered a disgrace and an unfortunate lesson for the future of humanity.”*



Welcoming ex-Nazis to Argentina became, for Perón, a means of asserting infallibility: not of political institutions but rather of the officials constituting them. Such a plan was inextricably bound to the vision of his own leadership in Argentina. It was a vision defined by the assumption that a single personality could and must determine the course of a nation, that this personality was himself, and that what some might call crimes against humanity could be incorporated into a broader, ultimately benevolent purpose: the good of the nation.



The clenched fist, the chanted hymn, the rallying speech proclaimed from the balcony of the presidential palace—all were fascist tactics watered down. Some German methods were modified. Instead of drawing power from the persecution of Jews, Perón concentrated elsewhere, on the power of and alliance with the Roman Catholic Church. Argentina has never been a particularly devout country in practice; but its profound attachment to religious iconography—in rosaries, statues, portraits of saints—found a secular parallel, here, in the symbols of the nationalist parade. All would, Perón hoped, weave together a national narrative, in which he would play a privileged role.



 



* * *



In most cases, the Nazis who had escaped to Argentina lived quietly, apart from politics or world affairs. Many Argentines probably never knew their pasts. Some may have suspected but said nothing; others prone to talk were swiftly silenced. And gradually the past was forgotten, or rather patched up, its stitches thick but haphazard.



In 1943, in Villa Calamuchita, an Argentine flag was thrown into the town plaza. It had been lit afire and it burned to shreds. Three sailors from the *Graf Spee* were accused, but never tried. In response, the provincial legislature decided to change the town’s name to Villa General Belgrano in honor of a 19th-century national figure—a military hero, and the creator of the Argentine flag. And in time the old name was covered over, as was the reason for changing it.



The Nazi connections, rhetorical strategies, and iconographies adopted by Argentina were hardly on the same scale as the horrors of the Holocaust and of Nazi Germany. It is easy to dismiss them as the fancies of an authoritarian-minded president, fancies that would fade with him and with time. But a quarter-century later, under a military dictatorship, such themes would reappear. 30,000 left-wing or suspected left-wing citizens would face repression, torture, or assassination—and few would dare to speak out. Argentina’s *Guerra Sucia, *then*—*its “Dirty War”—has roots in a less systematic relationship: the disfiguration of the country’s failure to stare its old demons in the face.



Today the traces of these old wounds, of uneasy partnerships, find their manifestation no longer in physical evidence or a militant nationalism but in the persistence of a national mood. “I come from a sad country,” Argentine writer and poet Jorge Luis Borges once said. In his writings he returned often to Buenos Aires, the city of his birth, retracing the certain broodiness—the subtle but pervasive melancholy—that to him continued to lurk beneath its surface: “Always with a blue-washed wall, the shade/Of a fig tree, and a sidewalk of broken concrete.”



That poem, “The Cyclical Night,” continues:



* *



*This, here is Buenos Aires. Time, which brings*



*Either love or money to men, hands on to me*



*Only this withered rose, this empty tracery*



*Of streets with names recurring from the past …*



*Squares weighed down by a night in no one’s care*



*Are the vast patios of an empty palace*



*And the single-minded streets creating space*



*Are corridors for sleep and nameless fear. *



 



There is more in the Argentine past, the national icon suggests, than is allowed to be said—and thus allowed to be truly forgotten. Memory becomes crucial but easily subversive, vulnerable to so many cinders. Today the twice-named village retains the ghost presence of Nazi alignment: emptily tracing the streets, its names and its past recurring.



 

You have to understand: there was no noon, no down. Time passed. Day turned to night. I woke and slept. I drank, I ate a bit, I slept. There were few nouns. They wouldn’t connect. I didn’t know fan. I kept kicking off the blankets and pulling off my clothes. The people came and went. I didn’t know now, I couldn’t find the latches, and every few hours I found myself at baseline, staccato, returned to tonic. The light moved through its stations: soft white, blur-white, buzz-white, white-white, cream-white, cream, tan, black. My dreams were flickers, my days were smears. I slept in a mechanical bed, three feet in the air. Time and more time. The questions were confusing. I answered in song lyrics and scraps of poetry. Twenty-nine dollars and an alligator purse. It would have been funny except for the yelling. And the fear—the mind that didn’t work, the leg that wouldn’t move, the people who should have arrived but didn’t. I pitched fits; cried jags, hair-triggered—it was neurological, endless. Finally they knocked me out. They clocked me. Soft white, blur-white, buzz-white, white-white, cream-white, cream, tan, black.

*2013*



 



I don’t know when the AIDS crisis happens. In the sixties? Seventies?



The eighties. My AP U.S. History teacher calls the virus “hiv”, like it doesn’t stand for something else, like it’s supposed to be funny. When we watch *Forrest Gump *in class,he says that’s what Jenny probably died from. Nobody understands how. A contaminated needle? Sex work?



“All right, calm down,” he tells us. “It was hiv that killed her, definitely. You all have heard of it. Okay. Anyway. Now, Reaganomics.”



I’ve never heard of Reaganomics before, nor do I care much for Ronald Reagan, but I do know about HIV. Or, at least, I know about AIDS. My babysitter, a twenty-five year old from Mali, had told my sister and me about it when we were children.



“You have to take medication forever,” she said. “No cure at all.”



“How do you get it?”



“You have to touch body fluid.”



“So what if you want to kiss your baby?”



“You can’t.”



I am 15 years old clicking a pen in the back of the classroom, thinking about the babysitter and her miseducation. Mine, too: I take Health on Tuesday and Thursday mornings but sex ed consists of researching the statistics of condom failure and taking quizzes on the effects of latex versus those of polyurethane. I am 15 and have never touched a condom even in its wrapper, don’t know what one looks like in real life or how to put one on a banana. That it prevents HIV infection I know from watching *Grey’s Anatomy *and *Degrassi*, the same way I pieced together sex years after my classmates had already started doing it.



My pediatrician never asks me if I’m sexually active. He’s from Ghana and has known me since I was a baby. When he retires in May and I have to go to an out-of-town medical center to do my physical, the doctor ends up being a Nigerian who goes to my church. She also does not bother asking me if I’m sexually active, but there are papers taped to the wall reminding girls over the age of fourteen to get tested for HIV.



She sees me staring. “It’s important,” she says. “For girls in this area.” It doesn’t occur to me to even ask about the boys.



 



*2016*



 



For Africa I could see the realism. Photos of rail-thin women, their robes falling down, and their children starving, flies swarming their mouths.



My mother never talked to us about AIDS in Nigeria. By the time I could understand the connections people made between Africans and disease, I was old enough to brush off the jokes as First World ignorance. It didn’t matter, anyway—she didn’t tell us much about her country in general. My sister and I only knew about the dust, from visiting in 2001, and the bombings because of the newspapers, and then the rice at parties.



My mother, though, has actually lived in the United States longer than she has lived in Nigeria. She came here in 1986, a nineteen-year old graduate student living with her brother and his family in Brooklyn. The first cases of AIDS in the U.S. had been published in newspapers five years earlier. When I asked her what she thought about the epidemic at the time, she texted back:



 



**I was not Scare because I knew what to do .. I knew Aids is spread in certain way and people need to use Condom I was not having unprotect ed sex nor was i using contaminated needles.**



 



I responded:



 



**it wasn’t a scary thing, all those people dying? even if you weren’t affected?**



 



She called me then. “It’s not that I didn’t care,” she said. “It’s just that I wasn’t scared, because I knew.”



College in Nigeria had taught her well: safe sex workshops and doctors coming to speak about how AIDS *really *kills, more than malaria or polio.



“How did they teach you?”



“Workshops.”



“What kind of workshops?”



“Just workshops.” She pauses. “Why do you like this class so much, anyway?”



She’s referring to the one class I’m required to take as a freshman at Harvard, Expository Writing. I’d told her I put HIV/AIDS in Culture as my first choice.



“You shouldn’t have it as a first choice,” she continues. “Those times are done, it won’t help you to learn about it. AIDS? Why would you want to learn about that?”



I’m not very sure how to answer that question. I have read *Three Junes*, *How I Loved You, Just Between Us, *and *The Hours*—all novels with HIV-positive gay men as central characters. I’ve read *Two Boys Kissing *and felt my eyes widen with horror at the author’s description of death, constant death, before this new wave of LGBTQ liberation. AIDS, for me, is associated with terrible loss. For my mother, though, AIDS is not about homosexuality at all. It’s about the stigmatization of her homeland, racial slurs against her people, Africa becoming an embodiment of contamination. In America, she only saw the illness on the news and heard about protests on the radio, but she did not know the extent to which AIDS was ravaging the cities. I think of her sitting on the subway in her long skirts and sweaters, Jeri-curled hair, staring, perplexed, at an ACT UP (AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power) poster wheat-pasted on the other side of the train.



My father might also have seen these posters, but on the Capital Metro in Austin where he was an undergrad at the University of Texas. When I call to ask him what he thought about AIDS in the eighties, he says, “Oh, it was very, very scary. We didn’t really know what was going on. Nobody know what was going on, people sick, dying, left to right…there was so much people, nobody I knew but still…nobody knew what was AIDS...”



It’s an answer I hadn’t expected. My mother is typically more aware of her surroundings, and of current events, than he is. But she had come from the village and America was paradise. My father, in contrast, came from a very wealthy family in Nigeria, and consequently poverty was not a characteristic he was trying to shake off; he came to study in the U.S. only because he failed his WAEC, West Africa’s version of the SAT. His confusion throughout the years of the epidemic, as he goes on to explain to me, stemmed from everyone else’s confusion. People said you could get it from touching hands. People said that was impossible, you could only get it from sex. People said heterosexuals didn’t have to worry about contracting anything.



“You see,” he tells me. “Very crazy. Very scary.”



“What was the government doing? Reagan, or whoever.”



“Eh. A lot of stuff, I think. The disease was just very bad.”



But on Reagan’s Wikipedia page, his response to the AIDS epidemic consists of two thin paragraphs detailing how the administration mostly ignored the crisis. Even the War on Drugs and a list of his filmography both have lengthy descriptions (and links to their own separate articles), and there is nothing about AIDS in regards to his legacy. Instead, Wikipedia describes his restoration of the American morale and a renewal of the American Dream.



“Why are you asking?” my father wants to know, and so I answer him the way I answered my mother: “Because I don’t have much knowledge about that time in history.”



He makes no comment about it. My mother had repeated, “But how is *that* going to help *you*?”



 



*2014*



 



There is a new drug called Truvada that prevents HIV infection. I learn about it at an AIDS Walk in July, an end-of-the-year activity planned by my STEP program.



At this point, I have a love-hate relationship with the STEP program. On one hand, I like it better than school because of all the friends I’ve made there. On the other, I’d undeclared myself pre-med in February, and attending the Saturday classes remind me of the nightmare that was tenth grade chemistry.



Despite the program’s deep emphasis on medicine, we receive no information about HIV and AIDS before assembling on 168th Street to board the train together. The event is sent to the email list, highlighted mandatory, and that’s that. We are expected to show up robust and attentive.



It’s the twenty-eighth annual AIDS Walk NY, hosted by the GMHC. Nobody has any idea what GMHC stands for. My friend Jude suggests that it is a medical insurance company, perhaps, or some kind of fundraising organization like the American Cancer Society. There are stands named after people who’ve died from AIDS, testing stations, merchandise being given out. Tearful black women thanking us for our support. We are too confused to understand why. Even more confused when the STEP administrator asks us to hold up signs with the program’s name on them.



“We’re representing the university,” he says, but it just seems so strange to me, so callous, when everyone else is carrying signs with the names of the dead.



DeBlasio speaks about the cost of the pills for high risk populations and I raise up my arms to take snapchats of him, a tiny glowing figure at the podium under the American flag. Smells of body, as we are all so close together, sounds of crying as DeBlasio addresses the audience. People start the walk in tears. We, a blue-shirted, poster-wielding group of high school students, complain about the humidity along the checkpoints, stopping at random to pose for group photos.



I don’t even make it out until the end. It gets too hot, I’m tired, and once I can see the streets over Central Park’s hills, I duck under the security tape and dash into a convenience store for air conditioning.



*Why is AIDS such a big thing in New York City anyway? *I wonder, fanning myself against the wall, wiping the sweat off my phone screen to scroll through my Legião Urbana albums. *Nobody dies from it in America anymore.*



My birthday’s passed but I have not yet read *Three Junes, *and so I don’t know about Malachy Burns dying alone in his Greenwich Village apartment. I know, however, that the lead singer of Legião Urbana, Renato Russo, died of complications due to AIDS in 1996. But I have seen him too many times on YouTube, strolling across the stage, sinking to his knees and wailing into the microphone. The greatest artist of all time could not have died horrifically.



I picture Jenny from* Forrest Gump*, dressed in white with flowers in her hair, peacefully going in her sleep—*that’s how it must have been,* I think, *for lots of people*.



 



*2016*



 



I’ve cried a lot this semester because of Expository Writing. I finish watching *The Normal Heart *at 2 a.m. and sit there on my bed in the dark, sobbing. One of the documentaries we’re asked to watch, *How to Survive a Plague, *almost brings me to tears in the common room. In the car over spring break, I read *Angels in America, *one of our required texts, and my mother asks me if I’m developing a cold, from the sound of my sniffling.



“No,” I say. “It’s this book.”



“What about the book?”



“Just. The book.”



Actually, the readings. And the “Kissing Doesn’t Kill” posters. And the pictures of emaciated bodies tied up in garbage bags, turned away from funeral homes: one of the nation’s greatest manifestations of indifference. How disturbing that it was a relief at that time, when my AP U.S. History teacher skipped over the unit, to not have to take another test on something else.



We don’t take exams in Expos, but we don’t skip over anything related to the epidemic either. We analyze ACT UP t-shirt designs and learn that if we were to be transported back into the nineties, most students on campus would have been wearing them, and we would have had SILENCE=DEATH buttons on our backpacks.



*Would I have had a button on my backpack?*



I look to my bare laptop, no stickers that identify me as a supporter of anything significant. The only rally I’ve ever attended was that AIDS Walk in 2014, and as a child, had accompanied my mother to a March for Life. There were other demonstrations, ones sponsored by Black Lives Matter and Occupy Wall Street, but they were in New York City and my suburban lifestyle encouraged laziness: the Long Island Rail Road was expensive, I could never figure out how to navigate the subway trains, and moreover, I was deathly afraid of getting arrested for protesting.



I am not, however, afraid of reading about AIDS. Or talking about it. In fact, I call my mother all the time to tell her about the literature we read and the films I’ve watched. Every time I say, “So in my HIV/AIDS class…” I can feel her discomfort on the other end of the line. *Which is totally okay*, I want to tell her. For a lot of people, it’s an uncomfortable topic.



She doesn’t ask me why I care about the class anymore, she just listens to me. And that is the most gratifying part.