She crosses the square and makes her way toward Papa Johns which is situated on the busy Avenida Figueroa Alcorta. She passes the church, its main door offering some shade from the burning sun. She’s walking quickly, brushing the dark hair from her eyes, her gaze searching the faces of the young men hurrying toward the pizza restaurant. She is always looking for her little brother, always searching for him.

She remembers the rocks at the bottom of the garden, her father waving from the terrace, her mother laughing at his side. They were never scolded. Let them enjoy their freedom, her father would say, as he gathered up his books and left for the university.

But soon the military came, polished boots marching loudly down the street, eyes staring firmly ahead, protecting the nation, the general said, keeping it safe. 

She remembers more people coming to see her father during the curfew hours, coming to shake his hand, to talk and to eat the special cake Mama would bake. Papa would smile and laugh and eat the cake too, telling them both to go into the garden and down to the rocks where she would stand at the bottom and he would climb to the top.

And then they were taken—an evening before Christmas—sucked up into the Condor, joining the lost, becoming the disappeared.

She remembers her grandmother combing her hair and the silence in the house, sitting and looking at the photographs, hearing stories of her parents and little brother, and promising that when her time came she would continue to look, as her grandmother said softly, They’ll be waiting . . . waiting to be found . . . by you.

She crosses over the road to the pizza place. Traffic, the bane of Buenos Aires life. The restaurant is new, and they are still advertising for staff. One of the small tables is free by a large window that overlooks the square and the church beyond. A young man comes out of the back with tubs of pizza toppings which he places carefully next to the refrigerator. He’s busy but for a moment he glances over at the woman with the dark hair who is sitting calmly, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

She decides to order. The six-cheeses special is her favorite. The young man wipes his hands on his apron and smiles. She notices the small scar above his lip and it reminds her of a summer evening, the last time they had gone to the rocks, her brother’s cry as he tumbled down and how he picked himself up, wiping away the blood from his mouth, and laughing just like his father. Such a fool.

She writes quickly on a paper napkin.

My name is Adriana Metz. I am the daughter of a disappeared. I am looking for my younger brother, I think he might be you. Can I talk with you?

When he returns with her pizza, she gives him the note and asks him to sit. She tells him of her search for her parents and her younger brother, and shows him a small black and white photograph of a little boy, his arm around his older sister. It had been taken in the garden, the granite rocks in the background, a jacaranda tree to the left. He looks at it carefully. There is something of a likeness, but he tells her she is mistaken. He returns the photograph to her and talks about his own family, his stepfather, an air force colonel, a good and honorable man, a man who took him in and made him his son. Strict, but then you had to be. He speaks to her gently and says he remembers little of his earlier life, except that there were bad people, students and teachers with crazy ideas who thought nothing about bringing the country down. She nods and replaces the photograph into her bag. She pays for her meal and turns to go.

He waits for a few minutes, then on an impulse, says something to the manager and walks quickly out of the door. She has crossed the road and is heading toward the church. Later he will talk to his father, if only for reassurance. He watches her approaching the flight of steps leading up to the old church. As she climbs, he is suddenly reminded of a late summer afternoon, climbing up and looking down, hearing her voice from the foot of the rocks, laughing as he went higher. He touches the scar on his lip and tries to remember more.

It is dark. It is always dark. He is crouching behind the door holding her hand. Sounds. The smashing of the front door, shouts from men with loud voices, a man’s cry, a woman’s voice screaming, the sound of fireworks outside. A dog is barking. Then they are running, falling, he letting go of her hand, always letting go of her hand. And being scooped up, a different hand grasping his, a man with a quiet, strong voice urging silence.

 He leaves the restaurant and crosses the busy avenue. The traffic has eased but there are still crowds making their way down Figueroa Alcorta. A row of jacaranda trees have covered the square in a vibrant purple carpet. He stops on the other side and looks for the woman with the dark hair.

She is climbing methodically and slowly and has now reached the top of the stairs. At the top she turns and waits, looking back toward the restaurant, a hand raised, shielding the sun from her eyes, and looking in his direction.

And then she disappears from view.

* * *

This story is dedicated to Adriana Metz, who found her brother 45 years after his abduction by the military during Argentina’s military rule in the 1970s. She searched for him with the help of the Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo, who continue to search for the disappeared.