“Well, now we know why Rivera made such a generous offer to the Redshirts,” José said, slapping down the letter from the messenger. “He thought he could buy us.”
“And with your support he would have reignited the war,” I said.
“We have to go back to Montevideo.”
“Why? What for?”
“The government called the legion back. Even though we are Rivera’s tool, we still have to take orders from the Uruguayan government.”
“I don’t want to go back. We can build a life here.”
José’s face fell. “They gave me orders.”
“And it wouldn’t be the first time you ignored them.”
“Anita, we have to go.” José crumpled the letter. “Oribe is taking over the region and he doesn’t want us here.”
“If we go to Montevideo now, we’ll risk me giving birth to this child on the road.”
“You wouldn’t be the first.”
“José—”
“Tesoro mio, I know it’s not ideal and if we could stay, we would, but we have no choice.”
“Montevideo is dangerous, it’s filthy, and I’m sure it’s still riddled with disease.”
“We’ll be fine.”
“How do you know?”
José got up from the table and placed his callused hands on my shoulders. “Because we’ll be together.” He pulled me to him, kissing the top of my head.
I felt uneasy, but José had a point. As long as we were together, we were safe.
* * *
August 1846
Frigid rain pelted the ship, forcing me to stay below in the stuffy cabin with the children, fighting with the cushions I was perched on. At thirty-seven weeks I felt like an overripe fruit ready to burst. All I wanted was to be on solid ground.
Even though I was relieved to make it to Montevideo, I was apprehensive over what we might find. The city hadn’t recovered from the siege and it was crawling with French and British soldiers.
As we rolled through the empty streets, I could see the ghosts of what the city had once been. Gone were the peddlers selling their goods from little carts, the women who’d bustled from shop to shop in their brightly colored dresses, their laughter tinkling like clinking china over the sound of the buggies driving down the streets. Montevideo was no longer home. Rows of houses sat abandoned, the boarded-up windows a testament to the devastation we had endured. I looked down and rubbed my stomach. We could not afford to stay here for very long.
It was then, while in the carriage on our way home, that the pains came. I doubled over as they made me crumple in on myself. José whipped the horses, rushing them faster as I prayed that the midwife was still here.
We were able to get her to our home just in time for the birth. The piercing cries of my other babies when they had left me had been welcome relief. This time, though, my son was quiet. Panic washed over me. Children, when they enter this world, are supposed to cry out with victory, but my son did not. I sat up on my elbows. “Why isn’t he crying?” Panic seized my throat. “He’s not crying. Why isn’t he crying?”
The midwife turned her back to me, ignoring my questions as she went to work. I could see her move her arms but still couldn’t hear anything. This isn’t happening. Oh God, don’t let this be happening. I can’t lose another child. One of the midwife’s assistants tried to tend to me, but I swatted her away as I struggled to get up from the bed.
Finally, I heard the high-pitched wail of my son. Relief washed over me as the midwife turned back around, delivering him to my expectant arms. “Congratulations, Mamãe, your son is quite the fighter.”
I rocked him ever so slightly. He had already settled, his wide eyes searching the new world he now lived in. “He’s a fighter, just like his father,” I finally responded.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if some of that came from his mother.” The midwife shot me a knowing smile as she washed her hands in the basin.
José burst into the room a short while later. Pure joy spread over his features as he took his son into his arms.
“Another boy. What shall we name him?” he asked as he let our little son grasp his finger.
“Well, Menotti was named after a freedom fighter. Perhaps we could do the same with this one?”
José looked up at me and smiled. “That is a brilliant idea.” He looked back down at our son, thinking. “There was a man back in Italy named Nicola Ricciotti. We became friends when I was living in Marseille. He had the kindest spirit, yet he was fierce when it came to his love for his country. He embodied the dream of a unified Italy.”
“I’m sure the authorities didn’t like that.”
“Not in the slightest.” José gave a short laugh. “When the Bourbons put him in front of the firing squad, he sang.”
“He sang?”
José nodded. “He did indeed. That was just who he was, and let me tell you, he could not carry a tune.”
“What did he sing?”
“It was the chorus from Donna Caritea that we all used to sing. He belted out, ‘He who dies for his country has lived long enough.’” José looked back down at our son in reflective silence. “I think Ricciotti is an appropriate name, don’t you?”
“I do.”
Over the next few weeks, we settled back into a routine of sorts. We didn’t know how long we were going to stay in Montevideo, so we did our best to make it a home again, even though it didn’t feel like home anymore. Feliciana and Marco took refuge with Feliciana’s sister in the north, out of the reach of Rosas, leaving Montevideo a little darker. José stayed busy with the affairs of state while I did all I could to manage the household and the children. There were very few resources available in Montevideo; I had to scrape together every little crust of bread and ounce of flour so that we could eat.
I had put Ricciotti down for his nap, allowing myself a few moments of peace, when José came storming through the front door. The baby woke, crying out for all the world to hear.
“You don’t know what kind of day I’ve had.” José frowned, accentuating the bags under his eyes.
“Now I have to go back and try to settle the baby. Your supper is going to be late and you have no one to blame but yourself.” I saw his hat lying on the floor. “And pick that up! I’m tired of cleaning up everyone else’s mess.” I could hear José cursing under his breath as I went upstairs. An hour later I was finally able to get Ricciotti settled. Quietly I ventured back downstairs. It looked as if my pantry had exploded, and in the midst of the food debris were my husband and children.
Teresita sat on the floor playing with a wad of dough, flour coating her raven hair. José and Menotti stood at the table rolling out spaghetti noodles, the latter looking exactly like the former. “What is this?”
José turned to me. “I decided to teach the children how to make pasta.”
“Pasa! Pasa!” Teresita giggled, waving her pudgy arms in the air before shoving the wad of pasta dough she gripped into her mouth.
“Don’t worry. I will clean it up,” José said, turning back to his work at the table.
I looked around our small kitchen. “José, this is all of our provisions. We don’t have the money or rations to replace this.”
“Don’t worry about it, tesoro mio,” he said, giving me a floury kiss.
“Don’t worry? How am I supposed to feed us tomorrow? Or the day after that?” I crossed my arms, clenching my fists. I couldn’t believe how foolish José was being.
“I have it taken care of.”
“Menotti, take your sister outside. Mamãe and Papai need to have a conversation,” I said as sweetly as possible.
“But Mamãe, we are making spaghetti.” Menotti threw his pasta on the table.
“Right now, young man.” I pointed to the door. “And dust some of that flour off your and your sister’s clothes.”
Menotti looked up at his father. “Go ahead, your mother and I have to talk. We’ll finish after you have come back in,” José sai
d.
Reluctantly Menotti jumped off the chair he’d been standing on. I watched as he took his sister by the hand, then I turned back to José. He had his back to me, working on the pasta as if there weren’t a problem. “Talk to me. Why are you behaving like a madman?”
He sighed, dropping excess dough into a bowl. “The French and English broke up the army.”
“How? How can they do such a thing? They are foreign countries. They can’t come here and do whatever they like.”
“They can and they are,” he said, not looking up at me as he kneaded the dough. “They aren’t stopping with the army. They are breaking up the whole government. Tearing it down and starting from scratch.”
I huffed. “I’m sure they will be putting together one that favors them.”
José grunted in response. He still refused to face me. Instead, he played with the pasta on the table, rolling it into a long noodle.
“What does this mean for the Redshirts? What about us?”
“My men are in purgatory. They have yet to get any pay.” He slammed a ball of dough onto the table. “As always, the English and French have no idea what they are doing.” He took in a deep breath, regaining control of himself. “I’m getting my pardon. The king of Piedmont is calling all Italians living abroad home.”
“Oh, José, that is wonderful news.” I reached out and pulled him by the arm, forcing him to look at me.
“Don’t forget, he’s only the king of Piedmont. Not a unified Italy. If I go back, there is no guarantee that I will be safe anywhere outside of his realm.”
“But it’s a start, isn’t it? And tell me, José, when have we actually been safe?”
José’s shoulders sagged as he dropped the pasta he’d been working with on the table. “I know I should be ecstatic. After ten long years of exile I am finally able to go home. But how can I be happy when the men who stood by my side don’t have a stable future? I can’t leave until I know that any man who chooses to stay here is able to put a roof over his head and food on his table.” He wiped the flour from his hands, looking at me with exasperation. “What am I to do?”
I wrapped my arms around his waist, holding him to me. “You will do what you always do.”
“And what is that, tesoro mio?” he asked, kissing the top of my head.
“You will force these European officials who seem to think they know better to take your advice.” I looked up at him, resting my chin on his chest. “You’ll use your Garibaldi charm to make them see your way or run them through with a sword. Whichever comes first.”
José let out an uncontrollable giggle before pulling me away. “You know me so well.”
I shrugged. “It’s a talent.”
José kissed me just as Menotti came back into the kitchen, dragging his sister behind him. He grimaced when he saw us.
I pulled away and went over to Menotti. “Would you rather I kiss you?” I grabbed Menotti and began kissing his dimpled cheeks. He giggled as he tried to push me off him.
“Ew, Mamãe!” he exclaimed as he wiped his face.
“Come, my darlings. Let’s all learn to make pasta.” I picked up Teresita. “I have a feeling this is going to be a very valuable skill.” I gave José a coy smile.
Part Four
Italy
Forty-Three
December 1847
Our massive ships set off across the ocean, the hopes of over a hundred Italians propelling us forward, filling the sails and pushing away the clouds. I wished I could be as hopeful as they were, but the truth was that anxiety gripped my chest. I was moving to a land I had heard about in stories.
The only time I felt at ease was when I stood at the bow of the ship with the cold spray of the ocean on my face. Memories of a time when I thirsted for adventure and the lure of the unknown floated back to me on the sea breeze. Breathing in the salty air, I could feel something brewing just beyond the horizon. Rubbing my arms against the gooseflesh, I hoped the lonely crescent moon poking through the clouds wasn’t a bad omen.
A young sailor with several missing teeth ran up to me. “You have to come below right now!” We rushed below to find that Teresita had ravaged a number of trunks in search of Lord knew what. I pulled her out, my snarling little monster, from the tangle of clothing and goods. On top of continuously corralling my two-year-old daughter, I had a fussy sixteen-month-old who seemed to be happy only when we were topside with the crisp fresh air on his skin.
At seven years old Menotti clung to José, choosing to be his shadow in all things, admiring his father as if he were a god. If his father was at the helm, Menotti would be there as well. If José was trying to calculate our navigation, Menotti was by his side trying to learn how to operate the delicate instruments. I saw him only in the evenings, yawning deeply as he collapsed into bed.
When I could spare a moment, my thoughts drifted to Luisa and her family. Our last visit together had been one filled with false bravery. While Anzani was going to be joining José on the campaign, Luisa and her children were going to her family’s home in Spain. We had sat in her parlor, letting the children play for the last time.
“I have not seen my brother in five years.” She watched them, avoiding eye contact with me. “It will be good for the boys to be around their cousins.”
“I wish you could come with us to Italy.”
“I was only a child when my family sought the safety of Spain. The Austrians made sure we didn’t have a home in Italy to go back to.” Luisa sighed. “I have been gone from Italy for so long that Spain feels more like home.” She looked at me for the first time, tears swimming in her eyes. “I want to be with my husband, but we agreed it would be best for me to go to my family while he fights. Anyway, Tomaso has started his apprenticeship with my brother.”
We grabbed each other’s hands, the unsaid words floating in the air between us. Anzani’s illness, the children, the very real possibility that we would never see each other again. “I’ll write. I’ll tell you everything and then when we are settled, you’ll come and stay with us,” I told her.
“Yes. I’d like that,” she said.
* * *
March 1848
When we finally approached the port in Genoa, the children and I climbed above deck and made our way to the bow of the ship dressed in matching red shirts. Our anticipation grew, the children bounced in place, their little fingers gripping the railing. I clasped Ricciotti tighter as my heart fluttered. The question that had been plaguing me rose up like bile in my throat: Will I be accepted?
The docks of Genoa appeared on the horizon. A great throng of people crowded the harbor and they were yelling.
“Viva Garibaldi! Viva Garibaldi!” Their chants drifted out over the ocean.
“Mamãe!” Menotti exclaimed. “They’re calling our name!”
“They are, aren’t they?” I said in equal amazement. Menotti turned his attention back to the docks with their crowds of people.
When we disembarked the ship, Menotti pulled me to the left. Teresita grasped my skirt and pulled to my right, rambling about something unintelligible. José stood to the side playing the politician; shaking hands, kissing children, making everyone love him. Old women shoved bread and flowers at me. All of those people surrounding me, clamoring for our attention. I turned my head for a moment to look at my husband, and then my children were gone.
Panic flooded me as I clung to Ricciotti. “Menotti! Teresita!” I called as the throng of people continued to close in around me, like a rushing river. The choking smells of heavy perfume, sweat, and roasting meats nauseated me. All of the faces that I tried to shove past made my head swim. I just needed to find my children.
Tears began to well. I turned around in circles looking for the familiar faces of my son and daughter. Just when all hope seemed lost, I felt a firm hand on my shoulder.
“I believe these two belong to you.” Menotti and Teresita wrapped their arms around my legs. Relief washed over me as I savored the feeling of havi
ng them close.
“Here, let me help you,” said a tall man with a deep olive complexion, his dark hair slicked back. Dressed in the fine clothing of a gentleman, he spoke like an official as he cleared a path for us. I followed behind, continuing to examine him. He wore a silver-trimmed sword, and his shiny boots clinked as he walked along the pavement. He led us back to José, grabbing my husband’s shoulder. José turned around, looking at the man with pure delight. They embraced as old friends before José and the rest of us followed the man toward a large gilded carriage, away from the throng of people.
“I am terribly sorry. I have not had the opportunity to introduce myself. I am Paolo Antonini,” the man said to me with a flourished bow.
“Paolo is a comrade in the struggle for a unified Italy. His family will be our sponsors while we stay in Genoa,” José said as we entered the carriage. Paolo was a fellow member of the Carbonari, the Austrian resistance, José continued to explain. While my boisterous husband had managed to find himself exiled, Paolo had gone underground. He felt the best way to undermine the Austrians was to do so without being seen. With the help of his brother who resided in Rio de Janeiro, he smuggled goods in and out of Genoa, bypassing the high taxes. He also had a knack for procuring whatever the resistance needed.
“Yes, what an honor to be living in such an exciting time. Senhora, I hope you will feel comfortable in my home. It is not much, but it will have all of your basics.”
“Thank you, senhor. I am sure we will be quite at home.” I smiled.
José and Paolo made small talk as our carriage rolled through the bumpy streets of Genoa. Past the bustling marketplaces and grand buildings in the center of town. Through the winding streets that climbed the steep hills surrounding the crystal-blue bay, which reflected the sky. It seemed every Genoan waved to us as we went by. The children hung their heads out the window, oohing and ahhing as we rode along. Our carriage stopped at the gates of a large red brick house trimmed in white. The long drive was bordered with triangular trees in deep green hues that stood out in sharp contrast to the grand house.
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