Antonia does not tell Sofia, well, it’s a little too late for that. Instead, she catches Sofia’s hand in hers. “I want our babies to be like us,” she says. “I want them to grow up together. I want them to have each other.” She does not know what it is like to be scared of motherhood but fear itself is familiar to Antonia, who recognizes in quaking Sofia the silence that comes before either revolution or resignation. She has heard stories of women who leave their babies for Broadway or for Greyhound buses, women who do unspeakable things to avoid bringing their families shame. Antonia pictures herself, fifteen years older, burdened by children’s bodies and Paolo’s ironing and weighted down by the love of family, and she shivers at the possibility of Sofia not being there. Want this, she imagines screaming at Sofia. Please want this with me.

Sofia sees the narrowing light of her life, beckoning from the end of a long corridor. She looks at Antonia. If you can see me, I must be here.

You can do anything if you decide to want it, Antonia does not tell her.

BOOK FOUR

1942–1947

Chapter 17

As summer turns hot, deadly hot, and the asphalt softens and the buildings collect the sun so even through the night they radiate a thick warmth, Sofia and Antonia grow their babies and sweat rivers down their spines, in between their breasts. Antonia walks with a hand to her low back but Sofia refuses, standing up straight, as dignified as she can manage. They spend every moment together, like they did when they were children, only now they spend their days draped over furniture at one of their apartments, laughing as Saul and Paolo try to put together cribs. When Paolo and Saul take their hands from the fragile bassinette frame in Antonia’s bedroom, the whole thing crumples to the ground. Paolo hops on one foot, swearing. Saul melts into a frustrated puddle and Sofia and Antonia weep with laughter. They feel each other’s babies kicking. They tell each other secrets.

The raging war reminds them that they are impermanent, they are fragile, they are balancing on the surface tension of a giant ocean of catastrophe. The sky bends and contracts with madness. They feel desperately out of control. They cling to one another for balance, for reassurance. They all feel the weight of having been entrusted with something sacred, and the necessity of staying close together. They hold hands as they listen to the radio. They worry if they don’t hear from one another for more than a day. They deliver bread and wine to one another’s apartments, tracing well-worn paths along the blocks between their homes; the neighborhood becomes a map of their family. As they walk, they can picture themselves in relation to the others at every moment.