Last week Argentina won la Copa Mundial, but I cannot think of anything but Eze. He disappeared on June 12th, on his 30th birthday. His wife, Mica, is 7 months pregnant with their child, and she is in such a state of despair that I’m afraid she’ll lose the baby. She’s living with me and Marcello now in our apartment. My parents are devastated. When the dictatorship was first beginning, they didn’t realize that Eze was becoming increasingly politically active. I knew, and begged him not get involved with anything too dangerous. I warned him of what happened to my friends in university, but Eze is fearless. He went underground in early 1977, and that’s when I began having nightmares. It was always the same dream: the phone rings, a voice tells me that Eze has been taken, but the voice doesn’t know where. I hang up the phone, I begin to panic. The phone rings again. I pick up, and this time I hear Eze screaming in pain. That’s when I wake up. Over the past two years, many people I knew have been arrested or disappeared. A few were released a week or two after being picked up. They tell horrific stories of detention, interrogation, and torture, but they were released after a while because the military realized they had no information to give. Eze’s been gone for over a month though, and I’m beginning to doubt that he will be let go. Furthermore, I know that he is less innocent than others. I don’t ask Eze questions, but I know that he knows enough information for them to detain and torture him… oh I can’t bare to think of it. I’m afraid to go to the police to report the disappearance. Plus, I know what they’ll say: we know nothing about this, we cannot help you.” I feel so hopeless. Marcello tries to comfort me, but I can’t let my mind rest. I constantly wonder, where is he? What happened on the day he disappeared? What is he being subjected to? The only thing I don’t wonder about is whether he is dead or alive. I know he’s alive. My strong, brave older brother can’t be anything else but alive. He has to be alive.