With every visit, Luisa had looked more tired, but she swore everything was all right. The baby was very small and had a light yellow tint to him, but he was eating. She had never mentioned Anzani’s illness. I was so focused on my children that I hadn’t stopped to think about my friend’s problems. I could feel the guilt harden in my stomach. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice Luisa was hiding something so terrible.”

“The illness has changed him; it’s likely changed her as well.” José rolled over onto his back, rubbing his hand over his face. “He’s not the man we met in São Gabriel. He doesn’t talk about his family anymore. It is almost like he is trying to separate himself from them so that they can get used to him being gone. Just like what dogs do.” He turned his face back to me, his eyes glistening. “They sent Tomaso to Spain to apprentice with one of Luisa’s brothers.” José stared at the ceiling. “Why does death follow every person we care about?”

I massaged his wrist as I contemplated his question. Though nobody was immune to the hand of death, those we loved felt its harsh sting more than others. I kissed the inside of his wrist. Destiny controlled every waking minute of our lives, but I didn’t want to think about her tonight. Tonight was for José and me.

Forty-One

March 1846

Salto reminded me of my time in São Simão. The people smiled and said hello as they passed us in the streets, ready to help us at a moment’s notice. We easily blended in with the locals. The women gushed over my pregnant belly while the children found new friends to occupy their time. José engrossed himself in the business of the village, helping them to reestablish their trade routes and place the refugees in new homes. The north may have been devastated by the war, but if José had his way, Salto was going to thrive. It would be the ultimate insult to Argentina.

The little house José procured for us had two bedrooms, a large kitchen, and a small parlor all on one floor. Outside we shared a beautiful garden with neighbors who were also Redshirts. The people of Salto thought of the Italians as their saviors and wanted us to live as such. Some of our men even considered settling there, having grown fond of the local women.

One cloudy morning I walked into the kitchen with a basket of laundry on my hip. José looked up, his face creased with worry.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, setting the basket on the table.

“It’s a letter from Rivera, with an impressive offer. He wants to offer thirty-five acres of land to be divided among the Redshirts.”

“Thirty-five acres is a lot of land. Has he made an offer like this to the other legions?”

“Not that I am aware of.” He pointed to a paragraph toward the end of the page. “Those thirty-five acres are from his personal land. This can’t be sanctioned by the government.”