February 1955

Marilandia, Southeastern Brazil

“You won’t believe what came in the mail today!”

 One midsummer morning, ahigh-pitched voice echoed through a Baroque-style house near the historictown’s bustling commercial district. On the second floor,Carlos Borges, still in pajamas, flipped through his high school yearbook when his great-aunt Carmelita’s voice startled him.

 Seized by curiosity, heraced down the stairs into his father’s office to find her standing beside him, as they exchanged surprised glances. A hint of anxiety shadowed her face.

Pinched between her fingers was a gray envelope, its edges trimmed with red, blue, and white stripes.

Carlosrushed to her side and pulled up a chair. “Auntie, you look nervous. Relax. Please have a seat.”

She stepped forward, ignoring him, and handed the envelope to his father. “I hope you can understand these words.”

Carlos’ father, Paulo Borges, placed his coffee mug back on the desk, pushed up his glasses, and frowned in surprise. “International mail to Nelson? That’s odd. He’s been dead for weeks.”

Carlos lowered his eyes at the mention of his great-uncle’s name. He missed the afternoons they had spent together at the carpentry shop while Nelson built furniture or practiced the violin.Despite being blind since infancy, Nelson was a skilled carpenter. He loved his work, and nothing would deter him from pursuing his goals.

Paulo sipped his coffee, unfolded the letter, and whispered, “Sub cruce lignea orbi fortunam suam reperient.”

Carmelita grabbed his arm. “What does that mean?”

“I’m sorry, I have no clue.” he said. “Why Latin? Your brother would never understand it.”

Carmelita let out a breath of frustration. “I know. That’s what makes it even more mysterious.”

Carlos took the envelope and held it close, his curiosity mounting. Six blue postage stamps bore the effigy of a military figure in a gray uniform, plastered with medals and awards. The caption below read: PTT •Jugoslavija.

 Carmelita tapped a finger on the stamps. “Who is this man?” she asked Paulo. “You should know. You taught history for many years.”

“Marshal Tito, the Yugoslav president,” Paulo said with confidence. “He has been making news since Stalin expelled him from the Soviet Bloc.”

He leaned over his desk and glanced at the letter again. “I cannot believe it came from so far away.”

Carmelita stepped aside and waved a finger at him. “Only one person could have written it.”

“Who?”

“Father Felipe, Nelson’s friend. He came to our house a few times. We liked him. He left Yugoslavia after the war and arrived here less than a year ago, then disappeared without a trace. No one knows what happened.”

Her frown deepened. “He had broad shoulders and a short, muscular neck, yet he spoke in a soft, feminine voice. His entire demeanor struck me as odd. Besides, he never said goodbye.”

Paulo leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “Odd people write odd messages.”

“He taught geography at the high school but was not my teacher.” Carlos said. “He was angry sometimes, and a little strange, but students liked him.” After a pause, he continued, “Everyone was curious, but no one dared ask questions about the scar on his face.”

Paulo gave him a dismissive hand gesture. “His country was at war. Anything can happen.”

Carmelita approached the desk and ran her finger over the pencil-scrawled lines. “He was nervous when he wrote this. His hand was shaking.”

 She placed the letter and envelope side-by-side. “Now, compare the handwriting styles. Can you see the difference? A hasty pencil scrawl on a scrap of paper and steady blueink on a crisp envelope. They cannot be from the same hand.”

Paulo gazed at the papers and nodded. “I agree.”

Carmelita’s face softened into sadness, and tears gleamed in her eyes. “Nelson was never the same after Father Felipe disappeared after Sunday Mass. They became friends after Nelson built a bookcase for him,” she whispered after a long sigh.

“I’ll never forget the gossip and rumors spreading around town after he disappeared,” Paulo said. “I heard many strange comments.”

Carmelita slipped the letter into the envelope and dropped it on the desk. “I wonder if we’ll ever uncover the hidden message behind these words.” 

She raised her hands in frustration as she left the room.“This is so bizarre. I hope you can decipher it.”

Paulo rubbed his temples and watched her leave. “I’ll see what I can do.”

As soon as she left, Carlos grabbed the letter. “Let me show it to Father Bettencourt. He was my Latin teacher.”

“Nice idea,” Paulo said, “but don’t bet on it.”

Carlos ran upstairs and stepped out onto the sun-bathed veranda. He gazed out over the blocks of houses huddled together amid a labyrinth of narrow streets. The slopes and mountain crests along the eastern edge of town glimmered green on the horizon. Far away, on a hilltop, the church bell chimed twelve.

For minutes, his mind wandered, searching for clues in Felipe’s mysterious message to Nelson. Had they shared a secret?