Always exploring, Rosita toddled after every child. She was a happy little thing. Her giggles, reminiscent of the tinkling of bells, lit up the room whenever she entered. She was the brightness we all needed in this dimming city. Her little brow would wrinkle with worry for just a moment when she was upset, then it would pass, like a cloud on a windy day. When a true storm was brewing, all we needed to do was produce a flower, any flower, and she would quickly calm. Rosita was obsessed with flowers. I often wondered if Menotti would have been like this if he had not known such hardships so early in his life.
One breezy summer afternoon I walked into the kitchen to find the table covered with flowers of every shape and color. “What is this?”
“My flowers!” she declared, throwing a little fistful into the air.
“Darling, we need to eat here. We can’t have your flowers all over the table.”
“We can eat my flowers, Mamãe!” she exclaimed, offering me a fistful.
“That is a wonderful idea, my love, but I don’t think they will fill your papa’s belly.”
Rosita giggled. “Daddy has a big belly.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Don’t let him hear you say that.” I looked down at Rosita, her pretty, round face glowing with happiness. I couldn’t make her throw away her precious flowers. “Take those up to your room.” She gathered the flowers in her chubby fists and ran upstairs. “But don’t put them in your bed!” I called out, realizing I was going to have a mess to clean up. Holding my hand to my large belly, I hoped that this baby would know Rosita’s happiness.
* * *
February 1845
Early morning was the best time of day to wash our clothing. On this morning as the sun shone through the hazy sky, Luisa and I talked freely with the other women while the children played.
We were in the middle of our washing when the pains hit me with a sudden force that caused me to double over. In agony, I crumpled to the ground. Luisa snapped into action immediately. “Carlita, run for the midwife. Lupita, come here and help me.” Between her and Lupita, I was brought home.
“He’s too early. He can’t come yet, he can’t,” I pleaded in between labor pains, wiping the torrent of sweat that soaked through my dress.
Luisa was walking me back and forth in the parlor to help ease me as we waited for the midwife to finish preparing. “Children come when they are ready, not when you are,” the old woman said, bringing hot water to us.
When walking hurt too much, I tried to sit but that made it worse. The midwife had me sit in a chair as she checked the position of the baby. “You aren’t ready yet. Keep walking.” It had already been an hour since my pains started.
“Keep walking? How can this continue?” I paused, wincing under the pain that shot across my groin “My other two children were never this intense.”
“I’m sorry, senhora, but every birth is different.”
Another hour went by before I was finally told to start pushing. I braced myself as I followed the midwife’s directions. With every ounce of strength I had in me, I tried to expel this child. The birth took an agonizingly long time.
It wasn’t until the afternoon sun began casting long golden rays into our windows that my second daughter was born. She wailed, waving angry little fists in the air. The midwife swaddled her in a clean blanket. I pressed her to my chest to feed, marveling at this fierce small human. José, who had been waiting on our front steps the whole time, was finally let into the house. He slipped inside and went straight for our sleeping child.
“She is beautiful.” He had that same look in his eyes as when he first viewed Rosita.
“What are we naming this one?” I asked as I tried to stifle a yawn.
“Nicoletta?”
I wrinkled my nose. “No.”
He thought for a moment. “Maria? After my mother?”
“No, don’t forget, my mother and sister were also named Maria. I don’t want to think about them every time I look upon my daughter.”
We both watched the baby as we thought. Finally I ventured, “I have always been partial to the name Teresa.”
“Teresa?” He looked at our daughter as he gently bounced her in his arms. “I like it. Teresita Garibaldi it is.”
Our baby yawned and stretched her arms. José kissed Teresita on her little nose before handing her back to me. “You have given me the most amazing children a man could ever ask for.” He stroked my hair as we watched our daughter sleep.
* * *
December 1845
In the still of the evening I sat with José at our table as he sipped his tea. He wrapped his worry around himself like a blanket as he studied maps and books. This was a side of him that he wouldn’t let the children see but I had seen many times before when we fought our way through Brazil. Every move that he made was carefully choreographed, taking into account what his opponent might do. Whenever he planned like this, a little wrinkle formed between his brows. A wrinkle that, to this day, I longed to kiss. It didn’t matter what country we were in, what battle we were fighting; he was still the man I loved. He was still my José. He mumbled, tracing a finger along a river.
“Where is the blockade?” I asked.
“There.” He pointed, without looking up at me. “Argentina has a heavy military presence in the north. I don’t think we can break them.”
The drink had long since gone cold, but José played with the tarnished metal straw that resided in the battered gourd. “Argentina is occupying the west and the north. There is no way for us to get anything through the Brazilian border.”
“What of the emissaries to Brazil?”
“Dead,” José said. He moved from stirring the tea to stamping the bombilla up and down in the gourd, masticating the tea leaves that had sunk to the bottom. I blanched at the thought of what the Argentinians had done to our men. “But it wasn’t likely that Brazil would help. They don’t want to go up against Argentina.” He continued to stare at the map as the kettle screeched.
“The Brazilian government is foolish. Once Rosas devours Uruguay he’ll double his forces and head straight for them,” I said, pouring hot water into his gourd.
“Oh, thank you,” José said, barely looking up at me.
“And the blockade at sea?”
“Too much of a risk. Spain is the only country that can match their ships in strength.” He trailed off, sipping the tea through his bombilla. It went without saying that we didn’t want Spain, or the rest of Europe for that matter, involved in our affairs. “I can’t fail the people. There has got to be a way,” he said.
The fame of the Redshirts continued to grow in Uruguay. They were the hope of the people and José knew it. It was a responsibility he did not take lightly. His eyes, puffy and ringed, showed how tired he was. I reached out and took him by the hand. “You will find a way, but not if you die from exhaustion.”
Obediently he followed me to our bedroom. It was in these brief moments that we were able to be man and wife. When we could forget about the Redshirts, about the problems of Uruguay, and solely be José and Anita. It wasn’t long after that night that I found myself pregnant once again.
* * *
José was in the middle of a long absence when sickness arrived in Montevideo. I wasn’t surprised, for sickness always seemed to follow war. It might have been due to the famine induced by the blockade or the number of wounded soldiers who were brought back to our hospitals. Either way, Montevideo suffered. People stopped going out into the streets, stopped socializing at the community washing wells. Our regular gatherings of Italians came to an abrupt end.
Every family kept to themselves, but it wasn’t enough. In the poor districts, people were found dead in the streets. Funerals became all too common, the church sometimes holding two or three a day. No one was safe from this invisible enemy.
I thought I was doing well until I heard a wet, scraping cough coming from the children’s room one night. I threw back the covers and rushed to Menotti’s
bedside. The cough rocked his body, making him violently lurch forward. I reached out, putting the back of my hand to his forehead. He felt like a burning coal. His bedding was damp from sweat.
I picked up Rosita, who was starting to rouse, bringing her into my bed. Then I rushed back to Menotti and put him in a fresh nightshirt. I brought him water and placed a cool, damp rag on his head. I sat by his side as he coughed violently, letting him lean his head on my arm. He was tired, his heavy eyelids closing over and over again, but each time he started to fall asleep another cough would tear through him.
Helplessness overtook me. All I could do was soothe one symptom at a time and hope for the best. Rosita stumbled in with her favorite doll. “Mamãe, I no feel good.” She whimpered, approaching me.
I pulled her to me; her cheeks were flushed. “Yes, my love, it would appear you are sick too.”
A cool compress rested on each of their heads. I set to vigorously rubbing the children’s feet to pull down the fevers. My arms grew tired, but I didn’t stop. This was when I felt the sting of José’s absence. I tried not to think about him, but my heart clenched at how much I needed him. Not just for the extra pair of hands but for the stability. I blinked back tears as Teresita began to stir in the other room. I needed to keep her away from her siblings in hopes that she wouldn’t get sick. When their fevers broke, I took my pillow and blanket from my bedroom and curled up on the floor next to their bed.
I woke from my spot on the floor to the sound of someone walking around downstairs, opening and closing my cupboards, clanking dishes. I cautiously ventured into my kitchen to find Feliciana toasting bread. My floor was clean, and a fresh pitcher of water rested on the table.
“Feliciana, you need to leave; the children are sick.”
“I will leave when I know you’ve gotten some help.” She waved me off. “I am going to go to the apothecary to see if he has any medicine for their coughs.” She handed me some toast. “Eat something, Anita. Don’t forget to keep your health up as well.”
I brought some weak tea upstairs and woke the children, making them drink it. Rosita looked ghostly pale, her lips dry and cracked. I looked to Menotti, whose eyes were red and puffy. He kept rubbing a fist against his chest in a vain attempt to find comfort. Putting an ear to each of their chests, I could hear their lungs crackle like brittle paper.
As soon as a fever broke in one child, another would grow in the second. I had seen what a lung infection could do during my time in the hospitals, and I feared what it would do to my children. The first thing the nuns taught us when working in the hospital was that the more emotional we were, the more emotional our patients would be. It was something that I carried with me from that humble hospital in Laguna, through the wilds of Brazil to here, in my children’s bedroom in Uruguay. Now as I looked over my suffering children, I mustered the strength to show them that I wasn’t as terrified as they were.
The next day Feliciana dropped off a satchel of herbs. I was to brew it and make the children breathe in the steam. She didn’t need to tell the doctor our symptoms; he already knew. We were just a few of many that had already developed pneumonia.
The next night the children cried in between their coughing as I tried to keep the fevers under control. Though Teresita was separated from her siblings, she too spiked a fever.
I had stared down cannon barrels, withstood torrential downpours, even escaped captivity, but this was unlike anything I’d ever had to endure. I wanted to step in and battle this for them, to take the unseen bullets, to fight for them like I had for José, but I couldn’t. Feeling useless in their battle was a pain worse than death.
I leaned against the doorway as my vision swam in front of me. Lifting my hand to my forehead, I felt the familiar heat of the fever. Rosita stirred in her sleep, taking me away from my thoughts. She turned over, clutching her doll, the sheets damp from her perspiration. She coughed, her body violently shaking. Slipping in next to her, I tried not to succumb to my depression.
I awoke the next morning to the sound of Teresita crying. Checking Rosita, who still lay next to me, I could hear that her breathing sounded heavy and shallow.
I turned to Menotti. He had kicked off his covers, sweating through another fever spike. He opened his watery eyes to look at me and his sister, then moaned and turned over in his bed. Tentatively I reached out for him. He was hotter than my stove. We needed help. I made my way down the stairs as my world began to spin out of control. I reached out to steady myself. I could hear Teresita crying in the distance.
From the corners of my eyes a blackness crept into my vision. I blinked, trying to keep the darkness at bay, but it made everything look farther away, like I was staring down a tunnel. I leaned against the wall, rooted where I was by fear. I had to keep going down the stairs. I willed myself to move on, gingerly putting one foot down, then another. I was almost to the front hall when I couldn’t hold back the darkness any longer. I tripped. The bottom of the stairs rushed toward me as my world went black.
The warm sun seeped through my skin, blinding me before I even opened my eyes. I roused, hearing the sounds of children giggling. I took in my surroundings: I was no longer in my home. I was in a field, which looked strange but somehow familiar. Just a short distance away stood a small house.
It had a thatched roof that hung over the stone walls, which leaned ever so slightly to the right. It took me a few minutes to realize why I recognized this house: It was my beloved childhood home. “This can’t be real,” I said as I wandered toward the front door.
“We’re over here, little one!”
I stopped. I knew that voice. Why did I know that voice? The giggling children caused something to lurch deep within my being. Those were my children. I followed the sounds of the laughter just beyond the house to find my children playing with the stranger.
“Papai?”
“Anna! How nice of you to finally join us!”
My children, realizing I was there, ran to me, wrapping their arms around my legs. “What are you doing here?” I asked, looking around me. “Where are we?” My children ran off again through the field.
“Those are questions I cannot answer, little one.” Together we watched them play. “You should know, you have brought more honor to our family than you realize. That’s why I am proud to be the one to collect Rosita.”
I shook my head, taking a few steps away from him. “No, I won’t let you. Rosita! Menotti! Come here now.” Menotti ran over to me, but Rosita went straight to my father.
He lifted Rosita up into his arms. “I am truly sorry, we have no control over these things.”
I held Menotti by the shoulders, pressing him closer to me. Together, we watched as my father turned and walked toward the setting sun. Rosita looked over his shoulder, waving to us as they disappeared into the light.
Thirty-Seven
I woke gasping for air, as if I had just emerged from being trapped underwater, the blankets pulling me back down into the abyss. Frantically, I took in my surroundings: a large open ward filled with rickety metal beds. The sound of coughs peppered the air. Finally, my eyes settled on Feliciana, who sat at the foot of my bed, watching over me. A frown, so unusual for her, accentuated the wrinkles around her mouth, making her look older.
“Where’s Rosita?” Startled by my own raspy voice, I swallowed and tried again. “Where are my children?”
Feliciana took my hands in hers. “Menotti and Teresita are in the children’s ward. Marco is with them.”
“Where is Rosita?”
Feliciana looked down, focusing on a spot on the blanket. “She is at the church with Father Lorenzo. You’ve been unconscious for two days.”
I pulled my hands from her grasp as she continued, “He has already performed the last rites, but we wanted to wait for you before she was buried. I am so sorry, Anita, sometimes God has a plan for these things.”
I turned my head away from her. My veins turned icy with anger. Rosita was the sweetest, most h
onest soul on the planet, and she was taken from me. Our beautiful little flower. I turned back to Feliciana. “Tell me what happened.”
Feliciana smoothed out her skirt as she searched for the right words. “I could hear Teresita’s wails from outside. When you didn’t answer your door, I knew…I knew.” Her voice caught. She swallowed hard as she composed herself. “You would never let her carry on crying like that unless there was something wrong. I made Marco break into your house.” Feliciana looked up at me with tears in her eyes. “You were just a heap on the floor. I thought you were dead.” She shook her head. “Menotti still breathed, but Rosita…Rosita, the poor little lamb, she struggled. There was nothing the doctors could do.”
I closed my eyes, failing to fight back the tears. If it hadn’t been for Teresita, we all would have been dead. But my Rosita, my beautiful little girl, was gone. I looked around the ward as the nurses hurried past to tend to the groaning patients. I wanted so desperately for it all to be a horrible dream. I wanted to close my eyes and wake up in my bed with José. He would laugh as he petted my hair, whispering words as sweet as caramels into my ears. We would never be the same again. My Rosita, my bubbly, happy daughter, was gone, and no amount of wishing or dreaming was going to change that.
According to Feliciana, Luisa had made multiple trips to the central military offices to beg them to send word about his family to José. Each time she requested a messenger be sent to him she was informed that either it was too dangerous to send any or she had just missed their riders.
“She’s there now,” Feliciana said. “She’s trying to get word to José about the family.”
A few days later, when I regained my strength, I made my way to my children. My cough still lingered, but I needed to see them. Teresita lay curled up in a crib at the foot of her brother’s bed, whimpering in her sleep. She calmed down as soon as I held her.
Kissing her sweet-smelling head, I whispered a thank-you. If it hadn’t been for her cries, who knew what would have happened to us. Menotti stirred and stretched in his bed, then looked at me. He froze, then blinked as he watched me for a moment before crawling out from under the blankets toward me and Teresita.
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