“Too strong?” he asked, looking at me as if I were a child.

“Yes. In my country we prefer yerba mate. Though bitter in nature, it is not so bold. Yerba coaxes the drinker toward life; this, it kicks you on the backside like a mule.”

“That would be because it is espresso, senhora.” Paolo laughed.

I set my cup down on the table. “You said that we have work to do. Tell me, does this have anything to do with José being the figurehead of the unification movement?”

“Yes, this has everything to do with your husband being the face of unification. We need you to recruit for the legion.”

“And how will I be helping the cause, specifically?”

“You will talk. There will be a rally tonight in town. You will tell the people stories of your time in the Americas. Let them know why they need to follow our Giuseppe.”

“I’m not sure they will want to listen to me.”

“Anita, you are the closest person to our Giuseppe. You know him like no one else does.” He sat forward in his chair. “Tell them why you love him, and they will see it too.”

I was an outsider. Why would they listen to me? I looked to Paolo, with his hopeful face and slicked-back hair. We each had a role in the war, and apparently mine was to talk, whether or not the people would listen. “All right. I’ll do it.”

“I will have Mrs. Mancini put together a suitable dress for you.”

“No. I will wear my red tunic.”

“But senhora, it’s so old.”

Within every fiber of that old red shirt clung my memories of everything José and I had sacrificed to get here. Yes, it was a simple shirt, but the hope of a nation resided in every stitch. “I will wear no other shirt but the red one.”

Paolo watched me from his chair. “I have a feeling that red will be in fashion this season.”

Forty-Five

That evening Paolo, Mrs. Mancini, and I rode to Il Rifugio Café in our finest clothing. When we arrived, people were spilling out into the street. It appeared that men and women from all over Genoa had come here to listen to me speak. “José wrote to me about this place,” I said.

My eyes traveled up the old stone building along the crack that rose from the bright green sign to the faded shutters of the apartments above the café.

Paolo smiled as he helped me from the carriage. “Yes, this was the backdrop to much of the trouble that José got me into when we were young men.” He laughed. “Have him tell you about the time we ran from the Austrian guard, through this café and out the back. Only your José stopped short of the trash that had been piled up by the back door. I was not so lucky.”

As we approached the people crowded outside, they parted, staring openmouthed as we walked by. I sat in a chair at the front of the café next to Mrs. Mancini, watching as Paolo walked to the front.