buenos aires
march 1977
Light spread through the stained-glass skylights of Café Tortoni and fell across the linen tablecloth where the three mothers sat having lunch. Under the heavy gaze of surrounding officers, Esme glanced back and forth between the other women: Reina, in a floral blouse and her tinted glasses, and Alba, whose smile masked a deep weariness. Lorena had been missing for ninety-four days.
“I’ve invited two new friends to join us today,” said Alba. “They have some unique problems with their . . . flowers. I thought we could offer advice.”
Flowers. Pups. If they were nothing more than middle-aged women socializing over tea, they could continue the work they’d been doing for the past three months—meeting up in public, sharing information, secretly keeping one another abreast of their searches even in the presence of the junta.
Esme dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin, slightly irritated by the prospect of more mothers, more burdens. It was hard enough to investigate the disappearances they were already working on. Nonetheless, Alba had been Esme’s greatest source of hope since Lorena and José went missing. She’d helped with the applications for habeas corpus, plunking away on the typewriter her paralegal friend had lent them, and she’d gone with Esme to the ministry to file both of the writs—one for José, too, since his parents had both passed.
Esme had fallen into a tenuous routine with Matías, each minor adjustment a reluctant concession to Lorena’s absence. She rarely went to her own apartment anymore and would let her lease lapse soon. Alba and Reina were her only reprieve from a world that seemed to overpower her sanity. She needed the hope Alba provided and the plans they stitched together, however fruitless. She needed someone else who understood the unforgivable thoughts that tangled inside her mind: No one could disappear without a trace. Perhaps Lorena and José were guilty of something horrendous after all. Perhaps they’d run away. Esme’s doubts weren’t rational; she knew Lorena would never leave Matías. But as time passed without any explanation or clue as to Lorena’s whereabouts, her cognition scattered like water, seeking answers at the edges of reason.
“No, no, no,” Alba reminded her each time Esme called in a tearful panic. “This is exactly what they’re trying to do to us. They’re trying to make us crazy. People don’t just disappear, Esme. The junta have your daughter. Our government is lying to you.”
“But where? How could everyone be lying? What if she ran off with Claudio?”
“No,” Alba sounded desperate, speaking as much to herself as to Esme. “Don’t you dare forget what you saw happen that night. You must remember the truth, Esme. Your daughter was taken.”
It wasn’t easy to muster Alba’s conviction, but Esme was grateful for her advocacy. There was no denying that they were in this together and that Alba was at the helm. Alba collected photos of all the detained children and kept them in a notebook with the contact information of anyone she met who had missing family members. There was real danger in Alba’s records—a ready-made arrest list for the junta, if they ever found it—but Alba was so effective at circulating information within her network that Esme had given her a copy of Lorena and José’s wedding photo to add, just in case.
“Here she is,” Alba announced now as a fourth woman approached the table. “Señoras, this is Hilde.”
Hilde stood at the tablecloth’s edge, petite with short chestnut hair and shimmery eyelids. She wore a copper blouse and a scarf with large purple flowers, her pearl earrings tiny drops of milk against her skin.
“So nice to meet you,” said Hilde flatly. Esme had the impression that it had taken a lot for Alba to talk Hilde into coming, and a pretense of moral sophistication thickened the air when Hilde sat down next to her.
Moments later, a second woman arrived. She fiddled with the knot at her chin, unfastening her pink headscarf.
“Rosa,” said Alba. “So nice of you to come. Please, join us.”
Rosa took a seat and fluffed her matted hair with one hand. She gave Alba an intense look, took one of the menus the waiter offered, and glanced around skittishly.
Outside the café, a distant screech of car tires was followed by the distinct pop of gunshots firing from a few blocks away. Rosa yelped, then covered her mouth. Soldiers rumbled past—the junta bolting down the street toward the gunfire—but the commotion quickly settled.
“God help us,” said Rosa, making the sign of the cross.
Hilde removed a cigarette from a silver case engraved with butterflies, lit it, then motioned vaguely toward the door, the fighting, perhaps toward the whole country or even the entire world. “You think God has anything to do with this?”
“Hush,” said Alba.
Esme took note of Hilde’s floral scent beneath the menthol smoke and felt a distinct fondness toward her. She got the impression Hilde had traveled in from outside of the city, but she didn’t ask.
A throng of junta soldiers barged into the restaurant then, basking in the afterglow of whatever had transpired on the street, filling the restaurant with sounds of their boots and banter. Stools scooted against the floor as the soldiers sidled up to the bar, one clapping another’s back. Rosa looked petrified. Esme wondered how such a timid woman would be anything but a weight for them to carry.
“I’m having quiche,” said Alba. She guided the conversation quietly, in code, as the women ordered lunch. Their voices fell to whispers.
Hilde was Chilean, Esme learned, but she’d worked as a midwife in Argentina for most of her life. Her situation was indeed unique. Her son, a member of the Montoneros, had been captured in broad daylight six months prior, and her daughter-in-law, Julia, had been arrested the following day. Julia was five months pregnant at the time. Hilde’s grandchild would have been born by now.
“My ‘pup’ is expecting too,” whispered Rosa, a retired librarian whose daughter had gone missing along with her fiancé. “Ines was four months along when they took her. She’s seven months by now.”
“They have to bring the babies back to you.” Reina said in a hush after the plates had been cleared. The five women were leaning in close now as though mired in a bout of gossip.
“They won’t,” said Hilde.
“They must. You’re their family. What use would they have for keeping little ones in custody?”
“It’s inhumane,” said Alba.
Hilde leaned back, lit another cigarette. “I can’t get inside the hospitals, but I’ve been to three shelters and two orphanages so far.”
“On your own?” Esme asked.
Hilde shooed away a fly and exhaled.
Alba straightened in her chair, cleared her throat, and widened her eyes at Rosa.
“I’m not sure if you’re aware, but it’s Rosa’s birthday next week. A friend of ours is throwing a little party for her. I hope you’ll all join us. It’s on Sunday afternoon.”
Rosa raised her eyebrows.
Alba was bold. This was the first time she’d suggested a larger gathering.
“All our friends will be there,” said Alba, reaching for her purse and removing a pen. She scribbled an address on the back of three cocktail napkins and subtly passed them beneath the table to Reina, Hilde, and Esme. A couple at the neighboring table got up to leave, the legs of their bistro chairs bleating against the floor. A ring of condensation bled into the paper coaster under Esme’s water glass.
“I’d love to come,” said Reina, her expression vacant behind her tinted glasses. She looked at Rosa, who coughed nervously.
Esme stuck the napkin in her handbag.
“Happy birthday, dear.”
* * *
On Sunday afternoon, Esme held a bouquet of flowers as she approached the unfamiliar apartment building. She questioned whether she should have come at all, then questioned whether she should bring a gift. Neither mattered now. It was too late. She was here, and the babysitter could only watch Matías until five o’clock.
As she turned onto the block, two members of the junta patrolled the corner. Her heart raced.
“Identification,” said one of the officers.
Esme shifted the flowers in her arm and reached into her purse, producing her identification card. The officer checked it, then stared at her. Esme could see the neat tracks left in his graying hair by the teeth of a fine comb. He smelled of musky cologne, tobacco, and limes.
“This isn’t your neighborhood,” he said. “Where are you off to?”
“Just going to see a friend. She lives right—” Esme’s words lodged in her throat as she gestured toward the building. Out for a long walk, she should’ve said. Anything but indicating Alba’s meeting place. She hadn’t practiced.
“Bringing flowers.” The second officer backhanded the blossoms. “Is it a special occasion?”
“A birthday,” Esme mumbled.
“A party?”
“No,” she replied, too quickly. “Just a visit, that’s all.”
The officer handed her the ID card. He narrowed his eyes at her. After a long pause, he motioned for her to proceed, though it felt more like a dare than permission. Esme advanced to the entrance, but before she could press the buzzer, a woman she’d never seen before unlatched the door and hurriedly waved her inside.
“We can’t take the lift,” the woman whispered. “The porter will be suspicious. There are too many of us. They’ll report a gathering. Come this way. Follow me.”
“The junta are right outside,” said Esme, trailing the woman silently up flight after flight of stairs.
When they entered the sixth-floor apartment, Esme was winded and terrified. It was far more crowded than she’d expected from the quiet hallway. In the open kitchen, a pitcher of cream, a dish of sugar cubes, and a bowl of cookies sat on a plaid tablecloth. The woman who had brought Esme upstairs poured her a cup of strong coffee and handed it to her like an admission ticket. In the living room, nearly two dozen women perched on couches, stools, and armchairs with little plates of cookies dispersed among them. Photos of young men and women were laid out on the coffee table along with papers and documents. Some women were in low conversation with one another; others were tearful, speaking quietly with handkerchiefs in hand. Tissue boxes and teacups on saucers floated from hands to surfaces and back.
Esme glanced nervously at the door. Every billboard, news station, and campaign poster in the country reminded her of her obligation to denounce subversion, to be a good Argentine citizen, to squelch the slightest uprising. She couldn’t justify being here if the authorities barged in.
“Ladies,” Alba said in a hushed, urgent tone. “We have some news to share with you while we have the chance.”
Esme stood next to a large vase on the floor near the entryway and gazed through the stalks of decorative wheat protruding from it, surveying the room. She spotted Hilde seated on the couch, twiddling her clear manicured fingernails. One of the other mothers handed Alba a paper, which Alba held up for all to see.
“This is an underground publication found in the bedroom of one of our missing daughters. She was taken last week by the junta while leaving Parque Lezama.” The woman who’d handed Alba the paper dabbed at her leaking eyes with a tissue, but she looked more determined than bereaved. “It was printed four weeks ago,” Alba went on, “and it describes hidden execution sites and secret detention centers throughout the city and country.”
There was collective murmuring as Alba passed the paper around. When it came to her, Esme didn’t take it, but she glanced at it over the shoulder of another woman seated on the couch to see its contents: Cadena Informativa. Agencia de Noticias Clandestinas. Indeed, there were articles about alleged prisons where missing people were being held, interspersed with notes: continue to circulate this information in whatever form you can. terror is based on a lack of communication. distribute the truth.
Esme envisioned Lorena sleeping in a prison all these months. Was she with José? If so, could he protect her? José was smart, but he was not a physically imposing man.
“I know you’ve all risked a lot to be here,” said Alba, “but you’re here because you’re looking for answers—we all are—and we’ll share anything useful that we know. In addition to this publication, we’ve received information from a young woman whose friend—we’ll call her Lucia, for safety reasons—was recently arrested, detained for a short time, then released. During her brief imprisonment, Lucia claims to have seen Reina’s son, Paulo, in a detention center. We know that he’s being kept alive, but we don’t know for how long.”
Reina lifted a hand to her mouth. Esme felt a pang of hope for her friend, followed immediately by jealousy.
“We have other news,” said Alba, motioning for Rosa to join her. Rosa approached with a piece of paper that Alba unfolded. “An anonymous source has identified prisoners matching the following descriptions, seen alive as recently as the past three weeks: a young girl, reddish curly hair, probably in her late teens; a young man, medium height, likely early twenties, scar on his right eyebrow; a couple: a woman with long dark hair in her midtwenties and a man also in his twenties, tall, thin, brown hair, likely detained together—”
“Lorena,” Esme breathed. Alba finished reading the list, but Esme didn’t hear another word. She caught Rosa’s eye and ushered her over.
“Rosa,” pleaded Esme. “I think that’s my daughter and son-in-law. The couple on your list.”
Rosa nodded, put her jittery hands on Esme’s forearms. “Then maybe they’re alive. That’s good news, Esme.”
A question perched on Esme’s tongue, one she knew she couldn’t ask. But Esme thought so fiercely of Lorena now that she couldn’t help herself. “Rosa, how did you find this out? You have to tell me more.”
Rosa went quiet. She looked like she might cry. “I can’t.”
“Please, Rosa,” said Esme.
“No.”
“For the love of God. I’m begging you. I have to know where Lorena is.”
Rosa’s face crumpled. She took two steps toward the wall and dropped her voice to a whisper Esme could scarcely decipher.
“There’s a nurse,” Rosa said at last. “She works in one of the prisons. My cousin went to school with her. But you mustn’t tell anyone.” Rosa looked around. “Please, it’s too dangerous. She only agreed to look for my daughter, Ines, since she’s pregnant. She hasn’t seen her yet. We could lose all our information if we ask too much of her. Alba’s the only other one who knows.”
Alba was passing around papers. “These execution sites we’ve read about—if our children are among them, God forbid, we need to know. We are entitled to answers.”
One of the women let out a sob. Another tut-tutted. More murmuring broke out.
“Ladies,” hushed Reina. “Some of us have begun drafting petition letters to international human-rights organizations. I know many of you have traveled long distances to be here. Please, sign the petitions and take signature pages back to where you’ve come from. Ask other mothers to sign them, too, and bring them back when we meet next. But be careful with them, please. We don’t want them confiscated. And we can’t lose any of you.”
Alba glanced at Esme. “Many of you have filed writs that have already been denied, and some of us are still waiting,” she said. “We have very few options, and no one is foolish enough to take on this government alone. It doesn’t matter now what your politics are. They’ve taken our children, and they won’t tell us where they’re being kept. These are our children. It’s the most perverse crime imaginable. We are their mothers—we have a right to know where they are.”
Some of the women nodded, dabbing wet eyes; others sat alone, looking enraged and solitary, uninterested in being consoled.
“I’m proposing we make ourselves seen,” Alba went on. “People need to know that that they’ve taken away our family members. We need to make others see us so the truth can’t be denied anymore. Our children haven’t disappeared.”
“We’re going to be collecting money for the advertising fees to publish a list of the names of our missing children in the newspaper,” said Reina. “Please give what you can. No one has to know where the money came from.”
“They’ll find out,” said one of the mothers.
“Maybe it’s time they do,” said Alba. “Nobody should have to be invisible. We need to make ourselves seen by the president himself, if that’s what it takes.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“That we gather in front of the Casa Rosada until Videla sees us outside his door.”
“In public?” said Rosa.
“Alba,” protested Hilde. “Don’t be ridiculous. What do you think will happen? They’ll arrest us too.”
“Then let them take me,” said Alba. She put down the papers on an end table and faced Hilde head-on. Esme had never seen Alba so incensed, so raw. “Let them kill me if they’re going to. What else do I have to lose, after all? They’ve taken my son.”
Esme glanced at Rosa, who turned her head slowly to return Esme’s cautionary look. She thought of Matías, home with the babysitter. Like Hilde and Rosa, Esme had more at risk than Alba or Reina did. They had grandchildren to consider.
“It will be peaceful,” said Reina quietly. “A vigil for our missing children. Mothers asking for answers, nothing more.”
“We’ll go to the Plaza de Mayo holding photos of our children for all to see,” said Alba. “We’ll make them know our children’s names. They won’t be able to ignore us anymore.”
A lump rose in Esme’s throat. Based on the reactions in the room, Alba’s plan seemed to be taking hold.
“We’ll have to stay on the move,” said one of the other mothers. “No standing still. We can’t be seen as gathering publicly.”
“And no husbands,” said another. “The men will be antagonized by the guards. It’s too much of a threat. We don’t need more incidents. We need answers.”
“How will we know when to meet?”
“And where? We can’t just stand around.”
Esme’s stomach turned over with fear. She was being swept up in a wave, and although it terrified her, it seemed to be the only current with any momentum toward finding Lorena. She glanced out the window. Down on the street below, the officer who’d battered the flowers was pacing on the corner, holding his gun.
* * *
The women left the apartment one by one throughout the afternoon so as not to draw attention. As Esme walked home, her heart raced. Alba’s idea was dangerous, but what other option did she have? Lorena was alive. Someone had seen her, despite what the police said. She had to question what the government was telling them, to publicly disbelieve the lies. All the mothers were asking for was truth. Would the junta arrest them for that? Would they classify Esme as a dissident, take her away from her grandson, just for wanting the truth?
She knew the answer, of course.
As she walked up the front path to the house, Esme had a realization that came as a relief in some way. She’d asked it of herself for years, as perhaps all mothers do: Was she willing to die for Lorena?
The answer came simply: yes.
“’Buela,” Matías cooed when she took him from the neighbor girl’s arms. When she held him, he clung to her tightly, as though they were anchoring each other to the spinning earth.
“My sweet boy.” She kissed his hair. He was Lorena’s son, but he also had much of José in him, too—his gentleness, his shy smile. Matías was the best of both of his parents, and Esme’s love for him made the simple answers more complicated. She was willing to risk her own safety, but if something happened to her, there would be no one to look after her grandson. She was willing to die for her daughter, but she was equally compelled to live for Matías.
* * *
After mass on Sunday morning, Esme approached her priest again.
“Padre, I’m not sure if you remember me,” she said, though she knew full well he did. He made a point of avoiding eye contact. “I’m still searching for my Lorena. I’ve filed a writ of habeas corpus with the Ministry of the Interior. It’s still pending, but I have a copy of the filing here. I have certainty that Lorena is alive, in custody. I’ve written a letter to the Vatican, asking his holiness to intercede. Although I haven’t heard back yet, it would help, surely, if you would be willing to write a letter of support on behalf of the Church—”
The priest turned to face her and, to his credit, looked her in the eyes. Another priest had been killed outside of the city recently for far less than what Esme was asking of this man now. They both knew he wouldn’t act. His only concern—like every other citizen—was protecting his own corporal humanity.
“I’m sorry, señora,” he said formally. “Your daughter’s fate is in God’s hands. May peace and God’s love be with you through this trial.” He made the sign of the cross in the air in front of her and turned away.
It was what she’d expected. Esme thought of Alba’s words. People don’t just disappear. Our government is lying to you. Her church and her country were interchangeable now. Everyone was ridden with fear, content to hide safely within their own complicity. Everyone conceded to the lie.
But Esme’s faith was strong. She knew God. This one cowardly priest was hardly God.
“I’ll pray for you,” she murmured to his back, and promised to say an act of contrition later for the utterances that followed.
* * *
Three weeks after Easter, when Esme went back to the ministry to check on the status of the writs, both had been denied.
There was no next step.
Esme knelt on the kitchen floor with her rosary and cried quietly into the seat of a chair. Even when Matías toddled in and touched her shoulder, Esme didn’t look up. It was maddening. Lorena was out there somewhere, alive, but Esme couldn’t reach her, couldn’t touch her. She felt utterly hopeless. There was nothing left to do.
The first time the phone rang, Esme ignored it, but the second time, when she answered, Reina’s voice came through the receiver like a prophecy fulfilled.
“We’re going to the Plaza tomorrow for the vigil. If you decide to come, bring a little nail, like the ones Christ suffered, so we’ll recognize one another. The others will do the same. Come at exactly half past three. We’ll walk around the pyramid.”
Lorena was locked away in a prison somewhere. Esme had to call out for her, to cry out into the world until Lorena heard her voice. She was Lorena’s mother. This was her job.
Esme collected herself, tended to Matías, and kissed him apologetically.
In Lorena’s bedroom, Esme found a photo of her daughter and taped it to a placard. She took string, threaded it through each corner and made a loop so that she could wear it around her neck. Her hands shook, so she wrote Lorena’s name slowly. lorena arias ledesma. Writing the letters felt like pushing a boulder. She formed the words carefully: Where is my daughter?
Matías came into the room to see what she was doing. He picked up an extra piece of string and dragged it gently across the bedspread.
“Mamá,” he said when he saw the picture.
Esme pulled her lips in to hold back tears, then took a photo of José and made a second card.
* * *
On Thursday afternoon, she called the babysitter again, torn by guilt, desperation, fear. If she went to the plaza and was arrested, Matías would be left with no one to care for him. If she didn’t go, if she quietly accepted Lorena’s fate without doing anything, she couldn’t live with herself. Every day she let pass was another layer of cement on the truth. She had to call out Lorena’s name.
In the garage, Esme found a plastic jar of nails and took one out. A flake of rust stuck to her palm.
The cold afternoon sky stretched out above the Casa Rosada. Esme lifted her coat collar as she headed toward the Metropolitan Cathedral, huddling up against the chill. She sat on a bench, holding her nail in her lap between two fingertips, the photos hanging over her winter coat on a string around her neck. She waited. The junta surrounded the plaza. On a nearby bench, another woman sat with a nail taped to her lapel. Esme didn’t remember seeing the woman at the gathering, but they locked eyes now.
Before long, Alba arrived. She began walking first, a good distance away from Esme, holding a photo of Ernesto at her chest. She had written his full name and the date he disappeared. Where is my son? Where is ernesto?
Esme got up and started to walk near Alba, but not too close. They’d circled three times when an officer noticed them and approached. He held a gun across his chest. He walked over to Alba, touched the hem of her coat with the barrel of his gun.
“Hey,” he said. “What the hell are you doing?”
Alba kept walking, chin up, circling the pyramid. She said nothing.
“Crazy bat,” he said.
It was good that the husbands stayed home.
“Look at these hags,” one officer said mockingly to another.
The mothers didn’t say a word.
Esme counted the days she’d spent without Lorena as she walked. It distracted her, keeping the fear at bay. One, two . . . fifty-three, fifty-four . . . one hundred seven, one hundred eight . . .
Reina arrived and started walking with them. Hilde came too. Rosa wasn’t there, but Esme wasn’t surprised.
They paired off as they circled the pyramid—about a dozen women in all—and kept their heads up, eyes straight, walking silently with pictures of their missing children.
“Go home, you pinko crones.” The junta’s laughter had a violent undertone. When the mothers still didn’t respond to the insults, an officer approached Alba again. This time, he clutched the sleeve of her coat.
“We’re serious,” he said. “Get out of here.”
Alba tried to keep walking, but the officer held tight, pulling on her sleeve until he’d torn the fabric. Alba stumbled backward. When she regained her footing, she looked him dead in the eye, incensed.
“We’ll go home when you tell us what you’ve done with our children.”
The officer shoved Alba into Esme and lifted his gun. Esme steadied her friend, then immediately beckoned Alba in the opposite direction.
The mothers began to disperse. By the time Hilde caught up with Esme and Alba at the bus stop, Alba was more energized than ever. They’d walked for nearly twenty minutes before the junta chased them off. The officers had noticed them, which meant that maybe someone in the Casa Rosada had noticed too. If they kept at it, they might finally get some answers.
Esme headed home, relieved to be alive. She was certain that Alba would keep organizing the vigils until they got a response from the government. Perhaps the response would be the paramilitary at Esme’s door tonight. She didn’t know. She just had to keep going.