The Blue Line by Ingrid Betancourt Page B

would take care of that.
    â€œI’ll leave the smuggler’s contact details with Señora Pilar,” said Mama Fina. “Go and see her tomorrow. You must make the crossing before the end of the week.”
    Then, on an impulse, she added: “I’ll leave some money in an envelope addressed to you with Father Miguel, the one who came to bless you on your birthday. You can then contact my friend Captain Torricelli of the
Donizetti
. You should find him at the port . . . You never know. Best not to put all your eggs in one basket.”
    â€œWhere does Father Miguel live?”
    â€œYou’ll find him at the church.”
    â€œSan Juan Evangelista?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œOkay, in that case I’ll go and ask him for a second blessing. . . . The baby might need one,” Julia said, her voice rising almost to a shriek.
    â€œReally? It can’t be true! Tell me you’re not joking!”
    â€œIt is true,” Julia replied, hugging her. “You’re going to be a grandmother again.”
    â€œGreat-grandmother, you mean!”
    Mama Fina was transformed. She took her granddaughter’s hands in hers. “Let’s hope it’s a boy!”
    â€œOh, no! I want it to be a little girl! I want her to be exactly like you, with your eyes!”
    The two women clung to each other, unable to say good-bye. When Julia finally picked up her bag to leave, Mama Fina stopped her one last time. Making the sign of the cross on Julia’s forehead, she said, “I think it is best that you know. From what I understand, there’s a young police officer who apparently looks like the man in my sketch. He’s just been assigned to the station in Castelar.”
    â€œWhich means . . . ?” Julia asked slowly.
    â€œThat’s where the military interrogate political prisoners.”
    â€œOh, my God!” exclaimed Julia.
    â€œYou know too that Angelini and I are very close. . . .”
    â€œSince the whole Señora Pilar affair?”
    â€œOh, long before that,
mi amor
. We were still children.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo . . .”
    â€”
    Julia left in a rush to go to the pharmacy. She reached Plaza de Mayo and hurried in, apologizing. Her uncle Rafael, who was waiting for her, looked at her understandingly. She went to get her white coat, which was hanging on a peg in the back of the shop. Hearing the sound of voices, protests from her uncle, and the crash of breaking glass, Julia came out to see what was going on, hastily buttoning her coat as she did so. Two men threw themselves at her, grabbed hold of her, and dragged her out to the big green Ford Falcon parked at the entrance to the pharmacy. They shoved her inside, forcing her to lie facedown on the floor, and took their seats, trampling her with their heavy boots. The car took off before they had shut the doors. As soon as they were moving, the men fell on her, slapping and insulting her, touching her everywhere as they frisked her. One of them grabbed her by the hair, yanked her head back, and spat into her face: “You’re going to die, you filthy Trotsky whore. But before you die, we’re going to make you talk.”
    They wanted names, addresses, the whole network. “You’re going to tell us everything,” they snarled at her.
    The car finally came to a stop in an open-air parking lot in the middle of a building site. They forced her to get out, kicking and hitting her with the butts of their rifles. There was another Ford Falcon parked alongside, its trunk wide open. Rosa was standing between the two cars with her hands tied behind her back. Her eyes were swollen and her cheekswere purple, like split figs. Mascara was running down her face.
    Some men pushed Rosa into the trunk of the car. She made no attempt to struggle. Julia was kicked in the stomach and again on the back of her neck. Doubled over, she was