Rosella's Tapestry

It was an unusually sunny day that greeted Rosella upon waking. Brooklyn had been submerged in rain the past two weeks and it was a relief to be able to look out her window without a curtain of gray. Home on summer break from her studies as a botany major, Rosella was still grappling with the death of her father, Alvaro, who died a few weeks ago in a car accident. It was hard. They’d always been close and really only had each other; her mom died when she was too young to remember and her father was an orphan.

It was time to go through her fathers things. She could wait longer but deeply missed him – maybe going through his things would help her feel less alone. Bracing herself, she begins sorting through the clothes in his closet. Smiling, she feels the quality of the fabric she touches each item.

As a tailor, Alvaro had earned a comfortable living – better than most, in fact. Known for having an eye for style and quality, he was highly sought after. Alvaro was also a very inquisitive man, following politics and history in his spare time. Rosella had always wondered if his interests were because he longed for a sense of personal history and place. Being an orphan herself she could imagine the many questions he must have had.

She supposed this fascination with history, people and place must have been why he also served as a census worker. He didn’t need to, financially – it certainly didn’t pay much. He’d always tell her that every single person counts – even those who weren’t counted. Every person has a name. Every person has a story. He’d tell her about the times he’d go door to door as a census worker – intrigued when doors were never answered and lights turned off. As a census worker he was required to return and keep trying, but, he never pressed very hard. He said they must have their reasons.

Working her way to the back of the closet she comes upon an old wooden box. Old and ornately carved, she wonders why she’s never seen it before. A simple note on top reads “Rosella.”

Setting it down on the kitchen table, she opens the box and finds several items – a small black notebook, a woven bracelet and an envelope. Out of the envelope falls money - exactly $20,000. Shocked, Rosella sits back and pauses to reflect. Why had her father not shown this to her before? It has her name on it, so he surely meant for her to have it.

Setting the money aside she opens the notebook and flips through the pages. An old photograph falls out and she takes a closer look - a young boy with his parents and siblings. Who could they be? They looked happy, whoever they were, sitting outside of a house enjoying a spring dinner party of some sort. South America, perhaps? How did her father know these people and why had he kept it hidden?

Picking up the bracelet, she traces the pattern, admiring the beautiful ochre, olive and cerulean colors – a very latin-inspired pattern. She puts it on, carefully attaching the ornately patterned bronze clasp. It must have been special to dad, but why?

Returning to the notebook, she skims though the pages. Some contain measurements and sketches of various clothing designs. She admires her father’s handiwork - and begins to realize the true artisanship her father possessed as she looks at page after page of sketches. Her father was a highly sought-after tailor, but these sketches were beyond anything his customers had asked for.

Continuing to explore the notebook she comes across a poem:

………..

Our hidden voices find us alive

Upturning corners that threaten to reveal

our hopes and lives lost –

Beginnings that fractured in the prism of circumstance

Following tendrils of spring that unravel.

Unraveling, really?

Should the thread be pulled?

Yes.

As the fabric unwinds at the pulling of the thread

What is exposed and undone

Becomes rewoven

into voices of new life.

……….

Wow. Both sad and hopeful, she wonders about her father…clearly, there was a side to him that she didn’t know. She looks at the sketches again with new eyes. One has fabric swatches attached. Beautiful burnt oranges and deep pinks, aquas and grays – she could only imagine what the final design might have looked like. At the bottom she sees a name, Sarah Jacobs, and an address to a textile merchant in the Garment District. She recognizes both! Her father would often take her with him on trips to the textile merchants and she remembers Sarah as being a sweet, if eccentric, older lady that would always give her candy.

Her dad must have had a reason for including her in his sketches.

Waking the next day she makes plans to see Sarah, and takes the long subway ride to the Garment District in Manhatten.

“Rosie!” Sarah cries upon seeing her and throws her arms around her. They leave for a nearby coffee shop, where they begin catching up. “I had no idea your father had passed – I’m so sorry for your loss. He was such an inspiration.”

“Yes, so many people have told me the same over the years – thank you for saying so!”

Rosella and Sarah continue reminiscing – and finally Rosella tells her about her fathers notebook with her name in it. “Sarah, could you tell me more about what you and my father did together over the years and why he may have wanted me to remember you?”

Over the next several minutes Sarah recalls some of their projects and finally says “but, you know, beyond those I’m really not sure why he wanted you to see me.”

“You go back a long way…what else did you do besides work in textile mills?”

Getting a conspiratorial look in her eyes, she says “well, actually, I’ve always been in textiles. But, many years ago, in WWII, I used to be part of an underground coders group. I used to be what they call a steganographer, that is, someone who builds codes into things hidden in plain sight. Our group liked to weave hidden codes into fabric, like scarves or blankets, using morse code or other secret government codes. And then you’d have to unravel the fabric to see it. It was quite a thing – at one point some countries actually banned overseas selling of knit and fabric goods because they were on to what the steganographers were doing.”

And there it was. The poem had told her exactly what she needed to do, but talking to Sarah made it crystal clear. After thanking and hugging Sarah goodbye she heads home for a closer look at things.

Once home, Rosella sits at the kitchen table with scissors in hand. Holding the bracelet, she carefully snips the end off and tugs on the thread, which unwinds in long spirals. Stretching it out, she sees a long series of dots, dashes and spaces. This has got to be it! Opening up a morse code decoder on the internet, she slowly begins to decipher it. Amazed – she sees the word “Reyes.” Searching this name online she sees that it means “royalty.”

Clearly her father was trying to tell her something; she goes back and inspects the notebook again. The opening says “The Rose of Sharon holds the key to my heart.” She thought her father meant this as a reference to herself, “Rosella.” But, maybe not. Not sure what to do with it, she continues investigating. One of the translucent vellum flysheets keeps falling out and she looks closer. She sees a pattern of squares and circles, what she initially thought was a fabric pattern. Curious, she lays it over the pages with measurements and descriptions.

“It can’t be” she says to herself. But, sure enough, within each circle and square is a number. She writes it down and thinks about it. Not sure what to do she plugs the numbers 14.628434-90.522713 into Google to see what comes up.

She starts quietly at the screen. A location in Guatemala City.

She understands now what part of the money was to be used for, and books her flight.

………

After a long but uneventful flight she was anxious to follow her fathers trail. Hiring a driver she shares the coordinates and settles in for the ride. After 40 minutes they arrive at a graveyard and she steps out, requesting the driver stay until she comes back.

Why was this graveyard important? Where was it all leading? Between grieving and trying to solve her fathers mystery, she feels confused and uncertain. She thought they’d shared everything and the thought that her father had hidden things from her made her question things.

Walking through the small cemetery, she pauses to look at the surrounding beauty of the Guatemalan mountains. The colors remind her of the bracelet and the colors in the notebook. She imagines the colors tell their own story.

After walking through row after row of gravesites she finally sees it. “Reyes.”

She stands and gazes at the name “Nadia Reyes, 1918-1960, loving wife and mother.”

“Who were you, Nadia Reyes?” she asks aloud. Sitting down, she opens the notebook, tears sliding down her face. She and her father had always been close, but clearly her father had secrets. Why couldn’t he share those? And who was this woman to her father?

As the afternoon sun slides across the sky she continues studying the tombstone and sees it. The rose. “The rose of Sharon holds the key to my heart,” words from the notebook. Could it be? Did this rose hold the key? Standing on unsteady legs she walks up to the rose and reaches out to touch it. Warm from the sun, her fingers lightly tingle as they rest upon it. Grasping it more firmly, she begins to twist and pull the rose. At first, nothing. But suddenly it loosens and she pulls it out.

Turning it over she sees the key. The key from the rose of Sharon. Lifting it out gently, she reads the attached tag. A bank. She’s looking at a safety deposit key to a Guatemalan bank. Excited, she hurries back to the car and redirects the driver to the bank.

Arriving at the bank, she’s both awed and afraid – whatever her father’s secret was, she was about to discover it.

After being escorted to a private booth, she steadies herself before opening the box. She turns the key and removes the lid. Contained within are birth certificates, photos and news clippings which she continues to read.

Exhilarated, she takes a deep breath as everything falls into place. Her father, his past – and her family lineage. Her father had lived a life hidden in plain site as an undocumented refugee in America using a false identity created as he escaped the cusp of the Guatemalan civil wars in the late 1950’s.

Her grandfather, Alejandro, had been targeted as the leader of a peasant organization when Castillo Armas came into power and reversed the popular agricultural reforms established under Arbenz. Small farms were forced to surrender their land to large farms and unions and peasant organizations were cracked down upon. As the Guatemalan civil wars began, government-backed militias created terror in the general population as death squads forced the “disappearances” of many victims.

Alejandro’s family went into hiding and Nadia, Alvaro’s mother, died from cholera. Fearing both for his son Alvaro’s life and future, he sacrificed their savings to buy him a new identity and passage to America.

Now she understood. She understood more about who her father was and who she was – no longer “Rosella Flores” but “Rosella Reyes.” Her father had been hidden in plain sight. But, she, knowing her story, would never be hidden. She had a story to tell about herself and her family – and to give voice to the hidden.