“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?”