The article she translated was chilling. “When the subject is Brazilian street children, what will now stay with us is a picture of young bodies, shot to death, spread across Rio de Janeiro's Candelária's Cathedral door. The massacre was carried out just before dawn on July 23, 1993. Gunmen, known locally as the ‘death squad,’ drove up to a sidewalk in Candelária Square and opened fire on a group of forty street children sleeping under a marquee. Six died on the spot, and two were taken to the waterfront and executed. The real clincher in this case? The death squad was formed entirely of policemen. Most had been hired by local shopkeepers and officials wanting to keep the streets clean of ‘pollution.’ Amnesty International estimates that over 90% of the murders of street children go unpunished.”

Carla stopped reading to wipe at her eyes. “María, I’m not telling you this because I want to depress you. I’m telling you because it is key to who I am, who you are. There is more to the story than what I could write for this article. I’m getting tired, though, and I said it much better in that book. Here, let me show you the page.” She flipped to a speckled page near the end of the book and handed it to María.

This is what María read: “Two days before the massacre, Javier, the man from my so-called cultural sensitivity class, got in touch with me. He asked if there had been any children in particular who I thought needed ‘especial help.’ He said that the Catholic church, the Candelária Cahtedral, was helping the meninos de rua and that I should pass the word onto the ones I knew. I don’t know if or how he had found out about my excursions into da Mata. I had no reason, other than a personal one, to be suspicious of him. Frankly, he disgusted me. I decided that if the Catholic church was helping the street children, I should ally myself with them and do my share. The next morning, Tuesday, I went to the church and spoke with the priest. He said that although he wished his church could help the millions of children in Brasília, he had not heard of any promises made. I realized, then, that I had just cause for my suspicion. I thanked him and left. Javier had told me that the church was ‘collecting’ the children Thursday evening through Friday afternoon, so I rode my bike over to the church early on Friday morning. What I saw, heard, smelled, felt will never leave my memory. Children were huddled near the heavy wooden doors of the Catholic church, screaming, pounding on the door. Some were old, twelve and thirteen, others were just toddlers. All were hysterical. I pedaled more quickly towards the Square; the familiar smell of gunfire assaulted my nose. I did not want to believe what my intuition told me. The sun was rising, its colors bled into clouds. It was the most beautiful sunrise I had ever seen. I hate sunrises now, though, because they have been eternally coupled with that slaughter. I threw down my bike and sprinted the rest of the way toward the crowd of children. I nearly tripped on one. It was Giomar. He was on his back, holding one hand over his upper thigh and the other near his stomach. His hands were red. He whispered to me only I couldn’t understand what he was saying. ‘Qué?’ I asked him. ‘What?’ He pointed at one of the stone pillars with his eyes and I finally understood what he had said. His sister. His sister, two years old, his sister of whom he was so fond. He would give her piggy back rides around the market. She would hold the little cup in front of her and try to collect money from passers-by. His sister with the shiny black curls. She was standing behind the pillar. Dazed. I pointed at her with my finger and he nodded. I ran to get her. She had been crying, her face was red. Red from splattered blood, red from neglect, red from tears. I carried her over to Giomar and she began to settle down. She almost jumped from my arms when she finally saw her beloved brother. I set her down and she immediately crawled onto him. Giomar grimaced but he reached his hands up around her, held her. He said to her, ‘María, María, te quiero, María.’ I love you María. He looked up at me while she lay on his chest that was still oozing maroon blood. He asked me if I would be María’s mamá. What could I say? Of course! Yes! I want to be the protector of all of you. I—.”

The words stopped.