The damp cloth was still steaming on Dona Isabel’s face when she stopped moving. Joana maintained the pressure, her strong fingers pressing the corners of the fabric against the mistress’s mouth and nose. The room was silent, the only sound being the creaking of the pine furniture in the colonial manor house from 1863.
The south wind blew through the cracks in the closed windows, carrying the smell of cattle and the dampness of the Jacui River, which cut through the fields of the Vale dos Sinos like a silvery scar.
“That’s what she said, that she would wait until I finished breastfeeding her little boy,” Joana murmured, still holding the cloth in her trembling hands, looking at Isabel’s flushed face.
“She said Ana was like family. She said she would grow up here on the ranch near me.“
The lie still echoed in Joana’s head like a cracked bell. Three hours earlier, Isabel had gone to the Santo Amaro market square to sell Ana, Joana’s 8-year-old daughter, to a slave trader from Porto Alegre for 50,000 reais. That was the price they had put on the head of a child who could barely write her own name, who still played with straw dolls, and who every night asked if her mother would be there when she woke up.
Isabel struggled, her hands scratching Joana’s arms with nails that had always been clean and well-groomed, unlike the calloused hands that now suffocated her. Siná’s eyes widened in utter panic, trying to understand how this was happening.
“The slave dared to touch her, let alone kill her. This is for my daughter whom you sold,” Joana whispered in Isabel’s ear, her voice heavy with three decades of pent-up humiliation. “You promised you would let her stay, promised you would treat her like family in front of the priest, in front of everyone.“
Isabel tried to stammer something through the soaked cloth, but only muffled sounds escaped her throat. Her feet kicked the embroidered linen blankets, the same ones Joana had washed and ironed hundreds of times over the years.
“I am, I am your mistress,” Isabel managed to whisper between the threads of the fabric, in a last desperate attempt to invoke the authority that had always protected her.
“No more,” Joana replied with a coldness that surprised even herself. “Now I’m in charge. Now I decide who lives and who dies in this house.“
Isabel’s body trembled one last time before becoming completely still. Her eyes, once small and cruel, were now glazed, staring at the intricately carved wooden ceiling that her grandfather had commissioned in Lisbon decades before. The hands that had signed so many orders for the sale of slaves, that had pointed to children who were to be separated from their mothers, now hung inert on either side of the bed.
Joana maintained the pressure for a few more minutes, ensuring that death was final. The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the ticking of the French clock on the dresser and the wind that continued to blow outside, indifferent to the tragedy that had just occurred.
“Mom, where were you?“
Ana’s voice from the previous night echoed in Joana’s memory, her big eyes shining in the darkness of the shed.
“I dreamt that some strange men were taking me away.“
“It was just a nightmare, my daughter. Mom won’t let anyone take you away.“
But Isabel had taken her. While Joana was breastfeeding the three-month-old white baby in the big house, she had entered the slave quarters like a silent viper. Joana finally let go of the cloth and observed her work. Isabel Almeida, the viper of Santa Clara, known throughout the region for its refined cruelty, lay dead in its own room, a victim of the woman it had tortured for three decades.
“It’s over now,” she said to the empty room, putting the damp cloth away with the other clean fabrics.
Now the debt had been paid, but that was only the first act of revenge. Ana was still lost, sold to distant lands. And Joana, for the first time in 30 years of captivity, felt something she had completely forgotten: the bitter and powerful taste of freedom that one conquers with one’s own hands. The story of the wet nurse who suffocated the mistress was only just beginning.
Santa Clara Farm, Vale dos Sinos, Rio Grande do Sul, March 1833. The sound of horses’ hoofs echoed along the dirt road when the cart of the slave trader, Antônio Pereira, stopped in front of the colonial manor house. It was an imposing two-story building, with a continuous balcony and columns of fine wood that contrasted sharply with the miserable sheds where the property’s 120 captives lived.
“Colonel José!” Pereira shouted, getting down from the truck. “I’ve brought the merchandise you ordered from the Paraíba Valley.“
Colonel José Almeida emerged from the cool dimness of the balcony, a tall man of 52 years old. He had neatly trimmed gray mustaches and pale blue eyes that reflected the coldness of the plains of Rio Grande do Sul. He wore linen trousers, leather boots, and an impeccable white shirt that contrasted sharply with the sweat and dirt of the slaves who lined up in the courtyard like cattle for inspection.
“Let’s see if it’s worth what you’re charging, Pereira.“
Among the 10 captives brought from the bankrupt farm of the Baron of Vassouras, a 12-year-old girl stood out for her upright posture and defiant gaze, which had not yet been broken by years of captivity. Joana was tall for her age, with a strong bone structure and large hands that suggested an aptitude for hard work. Her dark eyes observed everything with keen intelligence, cataloging every detail of that environment that would be her new prison.
“This one is special,” said Pereira, pushing Joana forward. “Daughter of a famous wet nurse in Vassouras. She already knows how to take care of children, cook, and sew. It’s worth every penny of the 800,000 reis I’m asking.“
Colonel José examined Joana as one might assess a pack animal, feeling her arms for signs of strength, checking her teeth to assess their health, and making her walk from one side of the veranda to the other, observing her posture and balance.
“She seems resilient,” he murmured to his daughter Isabel, who at the time was only 10 years old but already showed a morbid interest in observing the humiliation of the slaves. “She’ll be useful for helping her mother with the little boys.“
Dona Francisca Almeida, a delicate 35-year-old woman with brown hair, always tied in an impeccable bun, approached Joana with a smile that seemed genuine. She was pregnant with her fourth child and desperately needed help with the small children running around the yard.
“Welcome to our family, girl. Here you will be treated with affection, as if you were our own daughter.“
It was the first lie of many that Joana would hear over three decades. But at 12 years old, orphaned and frightened, she believed it. She believed that she had finally found a place in the world, a family that would welcome her, a future she could build with honest work and dedication.
“Joana will sleep in the room next to the kitchen,” instructed Dona Francisca. “Benedita, the oldest slave—a 40-year-old woman with a face scarred by smallpox who supervised the household chores—tomorrow you can teach her how things are here.“
“Yes sir, I will take good care of her.“
Benedita took Joana to a small but clean room with a window overlooking the back patio, where chickens pecked among the enslaved children. There was a real bed, not just a mat on the floor. There was a chest for storing clothes and even a crucifix on the bare wooden wall.
“You were lucky, girl,” said Benedita as she arranged Joana’s few clothes in the trunk. “The bosses here are good people compared to other places I know. They don’t hit us for no reason, they give us enough food, they even treat us when we get sick.“
“Is that really true, Aunt Benedita?“
“Yes, child. I’ve worked here for 15 years. I’ve never been punished unless I’d done something genuinely wrong. Dona Francisca is like a mother to us. And the colonel, despite his dry demeanor, is a man of his word.“
In the first few weeks, Joana truly believed she had landed in a family unlike any of the horror stories she’d heard about other farms. Dona Francisca treated her with maternal patience, teaching her how to cross-stitch, embroider initials on linen sheets, and prepare medicinal teas with herbs from the garden. Colonel José rarely spoke to the domestic slaves, but when he did, it was always with formal correctness, without unnecessary rudeness or gratuitous threats.
Joana called Dona Francisca one afternoon in April.
“Come here, I want to show you something.“
Ana was in the sewing room with piles of colorful fabric spread out on a large rosewood table. There were threads of silk imported from France, needles of different sizes, and silver scissors that gleamed in the light from the window.
“I’m going to teach you how to make clothes for the baby that’s about to be born. You have skillful hands, you’ll learn quickly.“
For hours, Joana learned the basics of fine sewing, unlike the rough sewing she knew for mending work clothes. It was an extraordinary privilege for a newly arrived slave, a demonstration of trust that made her believe even more that she was truly part of that family.
“You’re very good to me,” Joana said when she managed to make her first small coat without mistakes.
“You’re a special girl, Joana. I see intelligence in your eyes. With proper education, she can become very useful to our family.“
Isabel, then 10 years old, was a quiet girl with curly blonde hair who spent hours reading French books that arrived from Porto Alegre on merchant ships. Sometimes she would ask Joana to comb her hair while she studied her lessons with a private tutor who came from Santo Amaro three times a week.
“Joana,” Isabel said one winter afternoon, “would you like to learn to read?“
“Would you teach me that?“
“I can try. It’s not very difficult for someone with a good head on their shoulders.“
For several months, Isabel taught Joana the first letters in a used notebook that had been left over from previous lessons. Nothing too elaborate, just enough to read home remedy recipes and do simple grocery calculations. But it was an extraordinary privilege that made Joana believe even more that she had found a truly Christian family.
“You learn faster than many white girls we know,” Isabel praised, pleased with the student’s progress. “She has a good memory and doesn’t get distracted by nonsense.“
“Thank you, dear lady. You have the patience of a saint with me.“
In December 1833, Carlos, the fourth child of the Almeida family, was born. Joana witnessed the birth along with Benedita and the village midwife, learning the mysteries of childbirth that would become her future specialty. He was a strong boy who cried vigorously at birth, filling the big house with the sound of new life.
“Joana will help take care of Carlos,” said Dona Francisca, still lying on the delivery bed. “You have a natural way with children.“
During Carlos’s first months of life, Joana learned all the secrets of childcare: how to prepare porridge to the right consistency, how to bathe him without hurting him, and how to calm his crying with songs that her own mother had sung to her years before in the Paraíba Valley.
“This girl is worth her weight in gold,” commented Colonel José, observing how Joana calmed Carlos on a night of persistent crying. “She has a blessed hand for children.“
But in February 1835, when Joana turned 14, the first event occurred that would begin to shatter her illusions about the kindness of the Almeida family. Benedita, the oldest slave who had become like a mother to her, fell gravely ill with tuberculosis that consumed her lungs, with a bloody cough that echoed through the rooms during the early morning hours.
“Mrs. Francisca?” Joana asked one morning after a particularly difficult night. “Couldn’t the lady have called a doctor to take care of Aunt Benedita? She is very ill.“
She looked up from the sewing she was doing for Carlos without showing urgency or particular concern.
“Doctors are expensive, Joana. And Benedita is already old; she’s past the age of working properly. Nature has to take its course.“
“But she always served your family with dedication. She worked for 15 years without causing any trouble.“
“And for that very reason, she will have a decent burial when God calls her. Beyond that, I can’t do anything without jeopardizing the farm’s budget.“
Joana was shocked by Dona Francisca’s coldness. For months, she had believed that they truly cared about the slaves, that they saw them as people deserving of care and compassion. But there was the naked truth: even a blessed one, faithful for 15 years, wasn’t worth the price of a doctor’s appointment.
“Joana, are you really not going to call a doctor?“
“You’re forgetting your place,” Dona Francisca said coldly, in a way the girl had never heard before. “Don’t question me about the decisions of this house.“
It was the first time the mistress had spoken harshly to Joana, and it was the first time Joana understood that “family” had very well-defined boundaries based on skin color and property ownership documents. When members of the actual family fell ill, doctors were called from Porto Alegre, or even from Rio de Janeiro; if the slave fell ill, it was expected that he would heal on his own or die in silence.
Benedita died on a cold August morning, coughing up blood and calling for the children she had lost decades before on other farms. Joana held her hand until the end, promising that she would take care of the other slaves, as Benedita had always done with maternal affection.
“You’re going to see worse things than this, girl,” Benedita whispered with her last gasps. “When you see it, remember what I taught you. A slave’s heart must be as strong as leather and as cold as iron, otherwise it cannot withstand the suffering that lies ahead.“
“What suffering, Aunt Benedita?“
“The suffering of discovering that we were never family; we were always property.“
With Benedita’s death, Joana informally assumed supervision of the domestic slaves. Although she was only 15 years old, she was intelligent, organized, and had earned Dona Francisca’s trust through impeccable work. More importantly, she had demonstrated a gift for caring for young children.
“Joana will be our new wet nurse,” announced Dona Francisca when she became pregnant for the fifth time in 1836. “When the baby is born, she will take care of everything related to breastfeeding.“
“But I never had children. How am I going to breastfeed?“
“You’re going to get pregnant too. That’s how it works on all decent farms.“
Joana felt butterflies in her stomach. Getting pregnant meant being raped by some slave chosen by the masters, or worse, by some member of the white family itself. It was common practice on farms; young enslaved women were covered up like animals to produce breast milk and, incidentally, more enslaved people for the property.
“Tomás will take care of that,” said Dona Francisca, referring to the 25-year-old slave who worked branding cattle. “He’s a healthy, strong boy, he’ll have robust children.“
“And what if I don’t want to be with him?“
Dona Francisca looked at Joana with genuine surprise, as if the question made no logical sense whatsoever.
“Do you want to, Joana? You are my property. There’s nothing to want or not want. He will do what is best for this family, as he always has.“
That night, alone in her little room that had once seemed so cozy, Joana cried for the first time since arriving at the farm. She wept for her lost innocence, for the shattered illusion, for the bitter realization that she had never been family; she had always been valuable property, well-treated like an expensive pet, but property nonetheless.
“Aunt Benedita was right,” she murmured to the crucifix on the wall. “A slave’s heart must be as cold as iron to avoid breaking at once.“
Tomás sought out Joana the following day for the conversation that would change both of their lives forever. He was a kind man with sad eyes, born in a quilombo which was destroyed by the bandeirantes when he was still a child.
“I know you didn’t choose this situation,” he said one afternoon, away from the watchful ears of the big house. “I didn’t choose this either, but if it has to be this way, I’ll try to be respectful towards you. I’m not going to force anything.“
“There’s no other way, Tomás. She wants me to get pregnant soon so I can breastfeed her baby.“
“Yes, there is a way. People can pretend for a while until we get to know each other better. And if it doesn’t happen naturally, then we’ll see what to do.“
It was unexpected kindness in a world that seemed to have lost all humanity. For three months, Joana and Tomás pretended to be in a relationship that didn’t yet exist, meeting secretly only to talk and discover each other’s personal histories. Slowly, something developed between them that wasn’t romantic love, but rather a respectful companionship based on shared suffering.
“Were you married before you came here?” Joana asked on a starry December night.
“My wife’s name was Rosa. The bandeirantes killed her when they destroyed our quilombo near Palmares.“
“Did you live in the Quilombo dos Palmares?“
“I lived there. I was still a boy, but I remember everything clearly. I remember what it was like to live free, without anyone telling us what to do all the time.“
“What was that freedom like?“
Tomás smiled for the first time since Joana had met him. A melancholy smile lit up his face, weathered by the elements.
“It was like taking a deep breath after being underwater for a long time. It was about waking up in the morning and deciding what to do with your day.“
In January 1837, Joana discovered she was pregnant with her first child. The news delighted Dona Francisca, who was also expecting a baby around the same time. Everything was going according to plan: two pregnant women, two children born almost simultaneously, enough milk for the babies in the big house.
“How wonderful, Joana!” exclaimed Dona Francisca, embracing her as if she were truly her beloved daughter. “Our children will grow up together like milk siblings. It will be beautiful to see.“
Joana smiled outwardly, but inside she felt a growing anguish she couldn’t name. She knew her son would be the property of the Almeidas from his first cry. She knew he could be sold at any moment, separated from her without warning, raised far from the true mother who had only given birth to him.
“Yes,” Joana ventured one afternoon. “Can you guarantee you won’t sell my son?“
“Why would I sell a useful child?” Dona Francisca replied, without lifting her eyes from her sewing. “Boys will work on the farm when they grow up. Girls will serve in the house or procreate. That’s how the system works, Joana.“
The word “useful” echoed in Joana’s head for days. Her son hadn’t even been born yet and was already seen only as a future instrument, a tool that would grow and provide financial return. He wasn’t a child, he wasn’t a person, he wasn’t someone who deserved unconditional love or a future of his own.
Antônio was born on a cold July morning in 1837, a few weeks after Carlos Eduardo, Dona Francisca’s baby. Joana held her son in her arms for a few precious minutes before he was taken to an improvised crib in the slave quarters. He was a strong boy, with dark, curious eyes, who looked at her with the instinctive interest of newborns.
“My son,” she whispered with tears in her eyes. “Mommy will take care of you, will protect you, will love you, will give you everything she can.“
But even as she spoke, she knew they were empty promises built on a foundation of sand. For the first few months, she managed to breastfeed both Carlos Eduardo and Antônio, dividing her breast milk between the white baby and her own son. But it soon became clear that Dona Francisca did not approve of this equitable division of resources.
“Joana, Carlos Eduardo isn’t gaining weight as he should,” she complained one September morning. “You’re giving your boy too much milk.“
“But Antônio also needs to nurse.“
“Yes, he’s a small child just like Carlos Eduardo. But Carlos Eduardo needs more. He’s the son of an established family, he’ll be the heir to this farm in the future. Antônio is just another little black boy among so many others.“
The differentiation was brutal in its simplicity. Carlos Eduardo was a son; Antônio was a little black boy. Carlos Eduardo had a future as an heir; Antônio only had a function as property. Carlos Eduardo deserved enough milk to grow strong; Antônio only deserved leftovers.
The first great humiliation came when Antônio turned 8 months old and began to show his own personality. Joana was in the kitchen preparing baby food for both babies. When she heard Carlos Eduardo crying in the bedroom of the big house, she ran to breastfeed him, leaving Antônio alone for a few minutes in his crib. When she returned, she found Isabel, then 14 years old, throwing cold water on Antônio to make him stop crying, which she considered inconvenient.
“Yes, Miss, what are you doing to my son?“
“This little black boy was bothering everyone with his irritating crying. I decided to teach him some basic manners.“
“But he’s just a baby! He could catch pneumonia from cold water.“
Isabel looked at Joana coldly, a coldness that didn’t match her recently turned 14 years.
“Joana, you’re forgetting your place again. Don’t give me lessons on how to treat the property of this house.“
It was the first clear demonstration of the cruelty that Isabel would develop over the following years. At 14, she already showed sadistic pleasure in causing unnecessary suffering to the slaves. She already demonstrated a refined sadism that would make her feared throughout the region.
Antônio was sick for a whole week, with a high fever and a persistent cough that echoed through the room during long nights. Joana cared for him day and night without sleep, using medicinal herbs that Benedita had taught her before she died. When the boy finally recovered, Joana made a decision that would change her relationship with her family forever: she would never again leave her son alone where Isabel could find him.
Tomás told his partner one night: “Little Isabel is not a normal person. There’s something very wrong with her.“
“What exactly do you mean?“
“She derives pleasure from harming other people. I saw it in her eyes when she wet Antônio. She was enjoying his suffering.“
Tomás shook his head gravely, recognizing signs he had learned to identify on other farms.
“This is the worst kind of man that exists in the world. Those who hit out of anger, at least stop when the anger passes, but those who do evil for pleasure, never stop. They are devils incarnate on earth.“
For the next few months, Joana watched Isabel with growing concern that turned into silent terror. The girl, who at age 10 seemed sweet and interested in teaching reading lessons, had transformed into a cruel teenager who invented creative ways to torment the slaves for pure amusement.
Joana called Isabel one summer afternoon.
“Come here, I want to show you something interesting.“
Joana found Isabel in the backyard, where she had tied the tabby cat to a tree using thin rope that cut into the animal’s neck. The animal was meowing desperately, trying but failing to break free.
“I’m going to teach this thieving cat not to steal food from our kitchen,” said Isabel, picking up a small whip made especially for the occasion. “Will you help me apply the lesson?“
“Yes, cats don’t understand punishment the same way people do. You’ll just suffer for nothing and learn nothing.“
“You’ll understand, yes. And if they don’t understand this time, at least other cats will see the example and learn to respect our property.“
Isabel began whipping the tied-up cat while Joana watched in horror, unable to intervene. The animal screamed in pain, trying to escape the ropes, but it was completely defenseless. Isabel seemed enraptured by the animal’s suffering, her small eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure.
“Don’t you want to help me educate this thief?” Isabel asked when Joana remained motionless.
“Forgive me, little Miss, but I can’t. I feel too sorry.“
“Sorry for a thieving cat that steals our food?“
“Sorry for any animal suffering unnecessarily.“
“Yes.“
Isabel stopped whipping the cat and stared intently at Joana with a calculating expression.
“You have too soft a heart, Joana. That’s dangerous for the slave. Whoever feels too much pity for animals ends up feeling too much pity for people too. And a slave can’t feel pity for anyone but themselves.“
“Why not, little Miss?“
“Because a slave who feels pity becomes rebellious, starts thinking they can question the masters’ decisions, and a rebellious slave must be punished with maximum severity.“
That night, Joana told Tomás about the scene of the tortured cat. The man remained silent for a long time, gazing at the stars through the window of the small room they shared.
“Joana, we need to protect Antônio from this diabolical girl.“
“How can we do that?“
“I don’t know yet, but she’ll get worse and worse as she grows up. I’ve seen it happen on other farms I’ve known. A white child who likes to mistreat slaves always gets worse when she becomes an adult.“
Tomás’s prediction would come true in the following years in a more terrible way than anyone could have imagined. As Isabel grew, her cruelty refined itself like wine aged in oak barrels. At 16, she was already known among the slaves of the region as the Viper of Santa Clara, a nickname whispered in the slave quarters when the masters couldn’t hear. Thin, with small eyes and a shrill voice, she had transformed the management of domestic slaves into a sadistic art that impressed even other farmers.
“Isabel has a firm hand with the blacks,” Colonel Mendes praised during a visit.
“She doesn’t give anyone an easy time. I learned that a black person only works properly when they are afraid,” Isabel replied with a cold smile.
Constant fear, not just during punishment. Isabel’s greatest pleasure was creating hope only to methodically destroy it later. It was a psychological torture more refined than any whip, more devastating than any branding iron. For years, Joana was a silent witness to this calculated cruelty.
“You’re going to work really hard this year,” Isabel would say to the slaves at the beginning of each harvest, adding that she was thinking of giving some of them their freedom as Christmas presents.
It was always a lie. Isabel never freed a single slave, but she kept the illusion alive long enough to extract double the work from everyone. When December arrived and the promises proved false, she laughed at the captives’ naiveté.
“Did you really believe I was going to give you freedom for free? Black people are property. No, folks. Property doesn’t get presents, it works until it dies.“
In 1845, when Joana lost Benedito, her fourth child, sold at age 3 to a rancher in Santana do Livramento, Isabel created one of her most elaborate cruelties. She knew Joana was devastated by the separation, so she feigned it with passion.
“Joana, I see you’re suffering a lot from the sale of the boy.“
“Yes, ma’am, it hurts my heart so much.“
“Well then, I have good news. I managed to locate where he is. I can arrange for you to visit him from time to time.“
Joana’s eyes filled with tears of gratitude. For two weeks, she lived in anticipation of the promised visit, working with renewed enthusiasm, constantly thanking the mistress for her kindness.
“When are we going, Miss?” she asked at the end of the second week. “We’re going to see my Benedito.“
Isabel feigned genuine confusion. “What a promise, Joana! You’re getting a little senile. I never promised any visit.“
“But the lady said she had located him…“
“He didn’t say anything. You made up that story in your head. Black people always invent fantasies when they’re unhappy.“
It was a calculated lie designed to break what little spirit Joana had left. Isabel not only denied the promise but also accused the slave of making up stories and of going mad with grief.
“I didn’t make anything up. Yes, the lady spoke right here in the kitchen.“
“Be careful, Joana. A slave who persists in lying may be punished for insolence.“
Joana swallowed her tears and lowered her head. She knew Isabel was lying, but she couldn’t prove anything. It was the word of a slave against the word of a woman. There were no witnesses, no justice, no recourse.
“Forgiveness.“
“Yes.“
“It must have been my own mistake. It must have been.“
“And don’t forget that again.“
In 1847, when Dona Francisca died of tuberculosis, Isabel officially assumed full control of the big house. She was 24 years old and had spent a decade perfecting torture methods that went far beyond physical violence.
“Things are going to change around here now,” she announced during the first meeting with the slaves after her mother’s funeral. “My mother was too kind. I’m going to be stricter.“
Isabel’s new rules were a catalog of refined cruelties that transformed the big house into a psychological prison. Slaves could no longer talk while working—any whisper was punished with whippings. They could no longer sing while washing clothes in the river—music gladdened the heart, and a happy black person became rebellious. They could no longer smile in the presence of white people—a black person smiling meant they were plotting something.
Catarina called Isabel one morning, addressing the young slave who helped in the kitchen.
“Yes, Miss.“
“Why were you smiling when I passed by?“
“I wasn’t smiling, no, Miss. I was just working.“
“Yes, I was. I saw perfectly well. A black person doesn’t smile for no reason. What were you thinking about?“
“Nothing.“
“Yes.“
“Ah, I swear to God.“
“Swear to God? Then you’ll swear by taking five lashes to learn not to lie in front of me.“
It was impossible to win. Isabel created traps where there was no possible escape. If the slave defended themselves, they were insolent. If they accepted an accusation, they were guilty. If they cried, it was acting. If they didn’t cry, it was disrespect.
In 1850, when Tomás died in a horse-riding accident, Isabel demonstrated her most refined cruelty. She knew Joana was devastated by the loss of her companion, so she offered false consolation.
“Joana, I know you’re suffering a lot. Tomás was a good, hardworking black man. I’ll let you mourn for a week.“
“Thank you, Madam. You are very kind.“
“But after this week you’ll have to find another husband. A woman can’t stay alone for too long, she gets strange ideas.“
Joana tried to protest that she didn’t feel ready for another relationship, but Isabel was relentless.
“It’s not a matter of feeling ready, it’s a matter of obedience. I’ve chosen Benedito from the carpentry shop. You’ll marry him next month.“
It was as if Tomás were a broken object that needed to be replaced with another one just like it. There was no mourning allowed, no time to process the loss, no consideration for Joana’s human feelings.
“Can I at least wait a little longer?“
“Oh, you can’t do anything. And don’t contradict me, because I might change my mind.“
The idea was to choose someone worse than Benedito. Joana’s new marriage was arranged with the same coldness as a business transaction. Benedito was a good, kind man who tried to alleviate his new wife’s suffering, but for Isabel, he was merely a tool to keep Joana productive and under control.
Over the following years, Isabel perfected her methods of psychological cruelty until she reached a refinement bordering on malevolent genius. She created situations where slaves were forced to humiliate each other, destroying any bonds of solidarity that could form between them.
“Catarina,” she said one morning, “I saw you eat a guava from the tree without asking permission.“
“I didn’t eat it.“
“Yes. Aha. Joana saw you eating it, didn’t she, Joana?“
Joana hadn’t seen anything, but she knew that denying it would mean punishment for herself. If she confirmed the lie, Catarina would be beaten. If she denied it, both would be punished for conspiracy.
“Tell me, Joana, did you see it or not?“
“Yes, I did,” she lied, hating herself for it.
“Then Catarina will be beaten 10 times and you will too. A black person has to learn that they cannot protect another black person who steals.“
It was diabolical in its simplicity. Isabel forced her own slaves to become instruments of punishment for one another, destroying any possibility of unity or collective resistance. By 1860, Isabel was already recognized throughout the region as an exemplary administrator. Other farmers came to Santa Clara to learn her methods of psychological control.
“How do you manage to keep the black people so obedient?” Colonel Silva asked during a visit.
“Simple. I break their spirit before they even think about breaking the rules. A black person who has hope becomes dangerous. A black person without hope becomes docile. And how do you break hope? By promising everything and fulfilling nothing. After a few broken promises, they stop believing in anything. Then they become easy to control.“
It was a philosophy of domination that went beyond simple brutality. Isabel had understood that true slavery happened in the mind, not just the body. A slave who still had hope could plan escapes or revolts. A slave without hope worked until death without questioning.
In 1862, when Joana was 41 years old and had already lost five children, something happened that Isabel did not expect. Joana became pregnant again, despite the precautions she took with contraceptive herbs that Benedito obtained for her.
“I’m expecting the baby, yes,” Joana announced one morning in March.
“How wonderful,” exclaimed Isabel with genuine satisfaction. “I was beginning to think you were no longer useful for bearing children.“
Throughout the pregnancy, Isabel showed unusual interest in the unborn baby. She constantly inquired about Joana’s health, ordered nutritious soups to be prepared, and even brought a doctor from Porto Alegre to assist with the birth.
“This baby will be special,” she constantly said. “I have a good feeling.“
Ana was born on a sunny morning in August 1862, and something extraordinary happened. When Isabel held the newborn girl in her arms, she stared intently at her tiny face, with an expression no one had ever seen before on her cruel face. Ana was an exceptionally beautiful child. She had golden skin that revealed mixed heritage, but in a shade that didn’t frighten the white people. Her eyes were large and expressive. Her delicate features resembled an imported porcelain doll.
“This girl is different from the others,” murmured Isabel, still holding Ana. “She looks like a little African princess.“
It was the first time Joana had seen Isabel show genuine tenderness for any enslaved child. For a few precious minutes, she even believed that perhaps she had finally found some compassion in her hardened heart.
“You know something, Joana?” Isabel said after a long, silent observation of the girl. “I think this child won’t be sold like the others.“
“What do you mean?“
“Yes. Oh, this girl will stay here with us. She will grow up on the ranch near you. I will raise her as if she were my own daughter.“
Joana felt the world stop. It was the first time in 30 years that she had heard such a promise from a member of the Almeida family. Her heart raced with a hope she had learned to suppress decades ago.
“Are you serious?“
“I am. This girl has something special that the others didn’t have. Just look at those eyes, that perfect skin. She will be a very valuable slave when she grows up, but for now she will stay here being our little mascot.“
Isabel summoned the priest from the chapel and some respectable neighbors to witness the solemn promise. It was a small but formal ceremony, held in the main room of the big house, where Isabel publicly declared her intentions.
“I want everyone to hear and be witnesses,” she said before Father Anselmo and the neighbors present. “This child will not be sold as normally happens. Ana will grow up here on the Santa Clara farm under my personal care, receiving a differentiated education and special treatment. It is a solemn promise that I make before God and the…“
“It’s very commendable of Mrs. Isabel,” the priest praised. “It demonstrates the lady’s Christian heart. It’s a noble attitude,” agreed Colonel Pereira. “A child like that can be very useful to the family in the future.“
For an entire year, the promise was rigorously kept. Ana lived in the slave quarters with Joana, but received extraordinary privileges for a captive child. Isabel had special clothes made for her. She allowed her to play in the courtyard of the big house under supervision. She even gave her an imported porcelain doll that had cost a fortune.
“Ana is our special girl,” Isabel would say to visitors. “I’m raising her to be different from the others.“
Joana lived the happiest year of her adult life. She watched Ana grow up healthy and protected, learning her first words, taking her first steps in the yard of the big house among the chickens that scratched freely. The girl was cheerful and intelligent, with a natural curiosity that charmed even the grumpy Colonel José.
“Mommy,” Ana said one afternoon, showing the porcelain doll. “Why do I have a pretty doll and the other boys don’t?“
“Because Isabel likes you very much, my daughter. The lady promised you would be treated specially, and I will always stay here with my mom.“
“Go, my daughter. That’s what she promised in front of the priest, in front of everyone.“
But Isabel Almeida hadn’t fundamentally changed. She remained the same sadistic woman as always. She had simply found in Ana a new way to exercise her power. The girl was like an exotic pet, a temporary whim, a special possession that demonstrated her generosity and refinement. The change began subtly in early 1863. Isabel started to find small flaws in Ana that she hadn’t noticed or forgiven before. The girl cried during the night, disturbing the sleep of the household. She made too much noise while playing in the yard. She would soil the expensive clothes that Isabel had ordered.
“This child is becoming badly behaved,” Isabel complained one morning in February.
“She’s just a baby, even so.“
“Oh, one-year-olds do these things. A well-behaved child doesn’t bother adults. Ana needs to learn discipline.“
“But she’s too young to understand discipline.“
“Yes. Oh, she understands. Black people who don’t learn discipline from a young age become rebellious when they grow up. And I’m not going to raise a rebellious little black girl in my house.“
The final pretext came on a cold March morning when Ana was playing in the yard and tripped on a smooth paving stone. She fell awkwardly and hit her forehead on a corner, making a small cut that bled little but startled the child.
“What happened?” shouted Isabel, coming out of the house when she heard the crying.
“It was just a little fall, yes?” explained Joana, cleaning the superficial wound. “She slipped on the wet stone.“
Isabel examined the cut as if it were a serious injury, her expression changing to growing irritation.
“This girl is becoming careless. Careless children are trouble and cause losses for the family.“
“Was it just an accident?“
“Yes. Children always fall when they are learning to walk straight. It wasn’t an accident. It was carelessness. And carelessness is corrected with proper discipline.“
Joana felt a familiar chill in her stomach. She had known Isabel for three decades and knew how to recognize the signs when she was making excuses for some cruel decision already made. Ana’s accident had provided the excuse Isabel was looking for.
“You’re not going to punish Ana for a little scratch, are you?“
“I’m going to do something worse. I’m going to teach her once and for all to take care of valuable things. Like, selling her before she becomes an even bigger burden.“
The words hit Joana like whips in the face. Isabel had decided to break her solemn promise, using the insignificant accident as justification for a decision that had probably been made weeks ago.
“Yes, Miss, you promised,” Joana shouted, forgetting all the rules of submission in front of the priest. “In front of everyone, you said Ana would grow up here.“
“I promised she would be treated specially as long as she deserved it,” Isabel replied with calculated coldness. “Now she doesn’t deserve it anymore. She showed that she’s careless, just like all the other little black children.“
“But she’s just a baby. She hasn’t done anything wrong.“
“Yes, she has. She’s shown she’s not cut out to be raised like a refined person. And I don’t waste time or money raising clumsy black children.“
“You can’t break a promise made before God.“
“I can and I will. I changed my mind about my property and I have the right to change my mind as many times as I want.“
That afternoon, while Joana breastfed the youngest baby in the family in the big house, Isabel silently left the farm in a small cart. She said she was going to the village of Santo Amaro to take care of business, that she would return before dinner. She didn’t mention that Ana was going along, hidden under a tarp at the back of the cart.
When Joana went down to get Ana for afternoon tea, she found only the empty shed and the porcelain doll abandoned on the hard-packed earth floor. The image of the expensive doll thrown away like trash was like a dagger to the heart. It perfectly symbolized how Isabel saw Ana, a disposable toy.
“Isabel left a long time ago,” she asked a maid.
“She left after lunch, she took a small bundle and said she would be a while.“
“Did she see if Ana was with her?“
“I didn’t notice. No. Why?“
But Joana already knew. She felt in her maternal instinct that Ana had been taken away forever. Isabel had broken her promise in the most cowardly way possible, taking advantage of the moment when Joana was busy, taking the child without warning, without saying goodbye, without a last chance for a hug.
For three hours of agony, Joana tried to concentrate on her chores while waiting for Isabel’s return. She prepared dinner with trembling hands, washed clothes with tears streaming down her face, and cared for the white baby with automatic attention, while her heart broke. When Isabel finally returned at sunset, she came alone, whistling a French waltz. She entered the big house with the air of someone who had resolved a practical, unpleasant, but necessary matter.
“Where is Ana?” Joana asked in a voice that barely came out of her throat.
“Ana,” Isabel replied, pretending to need to remember. “Ah, yes. I decided to sell it to a very good merchant from Porto Alegre. You’ll have a better life there, far away from here.“
“The lady promised she would stay. He made that promise in front of the priest.“
“I promised nothing. I’ve changed my mind about my property, as I’ve already explained. And if you continue with this insolence, you’ll get a beating until you can’t get up anymore.“
It was confirmation of the nightmare. Isabel had coldly sold Ana, breaking a solemn promise made before Christian witnesses, using a childhood accident as an excuse for a betrayal that seemed impossible until it happened.
“Why did you lie to me?“
“Because it gave hope, but it was going to be taken away later. I didn’t lie about anything. I said I would create something special for her, and I did, spending an entire year creating it. Now the circumstances have changed.“
“Under what circumstances?“
“Yes, there is. Ana showed that she lacks the education to be different from the others, so she will share the same fate as them.“
At that moment, looking at Isabel’s cold and calculating face, Joana made the decision that would change both of their lives forever. She would no longer be a passive victim of the mistress’s refined cruelty. If Ana was lost, at least she would be avenged.
“You’re going to regret what you did,” she said with a calmness that surprised even herself.
“I’m trembling with fear,” Isabel laughed. “An old black woman is threatening me.“
“It’s not a threat, it’s a promise. Unlike yours, this one I will keep.“
Isabel stopped laughing and stared intently at Joana. For a moment, she saw something in the slave’s eyes that she had never seen before: a cold, implacable determination, dangerous as a sharp blade.
“If you repeat those words to anyone, I’ll have the skin ripped off your back, strip by strip.“
“I won’t repeat them to anyone without a warning, but I will keep my promise anyway.“
“Keep it as you will soon discover.“
For the next two weeks, Joana maintained her normal routine while meticulously planning the revenge she would carry out against the woman who had played with a mother’s most sacred feeling. The viper of Santa Clara had finally found someone with venom more lethal than her own.
During the two weeks that followed Ana’s sale, Joana transformed into a completely different woman. Outwardly, she maintained her usual routine. She woke before the rooster crowed, prepared the family’s breakfast, breastfed the white baby, performed all the household chores with impeccable efficiency, but inside, something fundamental had died and been reborn as a thirst for justice.
“Joana is very quiet,” Isabel commented to her father during dinner. “She hardly speaks since she sold that little black girl.“
“It’s normal,” replied Colonel José without lifting his eyes from his plate. “A black person always gets down when they lose a child. Soon she’ll forget and go back to normal. I hope so. A melancholic black person works poorly.“
Joana served the table in silence, but each word was a drop of poison accumulating in the chalice of revenge. Isabel spoke of Ana as “that little black girl,” as if she were a disposable animal. The colonel called Joana’s daughter “a child,” as if she were a product of animal reproduction. For them, the pain of a mother separated from her child was only a temporary inconvenience.
“May I clear the dishes?“
“Yes.“
“Ah,” asked Joana in a neutral voice.
“You may, and don’t forget to wash them properly. I found a stain on the serving dish yesterday.“
“Yes, yes. Ah, I’ll wash them carefully.“
But Joana wasn’t thinking about washing dishes. She was observing Isabel, cataloging her habits, studying her vulnerabilities. During three decades of living together, she had learned the routine of the best. Every afternoon, without exception, Isabel went up to her room after lunch to rest for an hour before resuming her activities. It was a sacred ritual that nothing interrupted—not visits, not urgent business, not domestic emergencies. During this period, she was completely alone on the upper floor.
Benedito told Joana on the first night after the decision: “I’m going to kill Isabel.“
The man almost choked on the corn porridge he was eating.
“Have you gone mad, woman? Say such a thing.“
“It’s not madness, it’s justice. She played with my heart for a whole year. Then she broke the most sacred promise one can make to a mother.“
“Joana, this is suicide. If they try it and fail, they will kill you terribly. If they succeed, they will find out and execute you in a public square.“
“So what?” Joana replied coldly, which frightened her husband. “What kind of life am I living? I lost six children, six Beneditos, all ripped from me as if they were objects. Ana was the last straw.“
Benedito held his wife’s hands, feeling them tremble with suppressed rage.
“I understand your pain, but revenge won’t bring Ana back.“
“It won’t, but it will bring justice. Isabel has to pay for everything she did, not only to me, but to all the slaves on this farm.“
“And if you die, what will become of me?“
“You will be free. When Isabel dies, you can flee in the confusion. Go to the quilombo in the big forest that people talk about.“
“And you?“
“I will do what I have to do, no matter the price.“
Benedito realized he wouldn’t be able to dissuade his wife. He saw in her eyes the same ironclad determination he had seen in other slaves moments before desperate attempts to escape. It was the look of someone who had nothing left to lose.
“If you’re decided, at least let me help.“
“You don’t need to, this is my business.“
“Yes, you do. If they’re going to kill us, let them die, knowing that it wasn’t just you, that it was all of us.“
During the first week, Joana meticulously studied all the possibilities of execution. Poison would be safer, but impossible to obtain without arousing suspicion; Isabel personally controlled everything, checking every provision that entered the house and every herb that Joana collected for medicinal teas.
“Yes,” Joana tested one morning. “Can I go into the woods to get some leaves for the colonel’s tea? He has a cough.“
“What leaves?“
“Guaco with mint. It’s good for the chest.“
“I’ll go with you. I want to see what plants you pick.“
It was impossible. Isabel instinctively distrusted any initiative by the slaves related to herbs or medicines. A knife was also out of the question; Isabel’s screams would wake the whole house, bringing Colonel José and the farmhands running. Joana would be captured before she could escape.
“How did your grandmother kill the bad masters?” Benedito asked one night. “You once said that your grandmother knew how to deal with a bad master.“
Joana remained silent, recalling stories her mother told about her maternal grandmother, an African woman who had been brought as a young girl on slave ships but had never lost her ancestral knowledge about life and death.
“Grandma Luía used a wet cloth,” she finally whispered. “She said it was a silent method that white people didn’t know. She covered the face with a damp cloth, tightly. The person died without being able to scream, without a sound. It seemed like a natural death.“
“Do you know how to do that?“
“Grandma taught my mother. My mother taught me, but I never used it. I’ve never needed it until now. It works, but you have to be quick and accurate. You can’t hesitate for even a second.“
It was the perfect solution: silent, effective, and difficult to detect as murder. Perhaps they would think it was heart problems or a stroke.
During the second week, Joana refined the details of the plan. Isabel always went to bed at the same time, between 1 and 2 in the afternoon. She wore a thin cotton shirt and kept the windows closed to protect herself from the cold wind that constantly blew across the fields of Rio Grande do Sul.
“Yes, Miss,” said Joana one afternoon, testing the reaction. “May I bring you some fresh water to the room after lunch? It’s very hot today. I thought you might want to freshen up before resting.“
“You can bring it and take the opportunity to change the bed sheets. They smell musty.“
It was perfect. Joana would have had a legitimate excuse to be in the room during Isabel’s vulnerable period. She could carry water and clean cloths without arousing any suspicion.
Benedito said on the eve of the chosen day, “It will happen tomorrow.“
“Are you sure?“
“I have to. I can no longer live with this pain in my chest. With each passing day, I feel Ana calling me from afar. She’s suffering, Benedito. I feel it in a mother’s heart.“
“How are you going to do it?“
“I’ll go upstairs with water and clean cloths, as I always do. Isabel will be sleeping. I’m going to cover her face and squeeze until she stops breathing. And then, I’ll arrange everything to make it look like she died in her sleep. I’m going to change the sheets and get everything organized. When they find out, they’ll think it was a natural death. And you’re going to feign surprise just like everyone else.“
“Me too. Let’s cry, let’s lament, let’s put on a show until we don’t need to anymore.“
In the early morning of March 20, 1863, Joana awoke with a strange serenity. She felt neither nervousness nor fear, only a cold determination that surprised her. It was as if she had been born for that moment, as if her entire life of suffering had been preparation for that morning.
“It’s time,” she whispered to Benedito, who was still sleeping.
“God protect you, my wife.“
“If God existed, Ana would not have been sold. Today I will be God’s justice on earth.“
Throughout the morning, Joana maintained her normal routine with mechanical precision, preparing the family’s breakfast, breastfeeding the white baby, making the beds, sweeping the rooms, but each movement had a hidden purpose. She was studying the house, checking who was where, calculating the time needed for each stage of the plan.
Joana called Isabel after lunch.
“I’m going to rest now. I don’t want to be disturbed by anything.“
“Yes, Miss, oh, you can sleep peacefully. And when I wake up, I want to find my room perfectly tidy, the sheets changed, the furniture clean.“
“You can count on it, yes, Miss, I’ll take care of everything with care.“
Isabel went up to her room, without imagining that she had just given the last orders of her life. Joana waited 20 minutes, enough time to lull her into a deep sleep. Then she took a basin of warm water and some clean cotton cloths. Benedito whispered before she went upstairs.
“If anyone asks, say I went to change the sheets.“
“Go with God, Joana. I’m going with justice.“
The wooden staircase creaked softly under bare feet. As Joana ascended to the upper floor, for the last time as a submissive slave, when she descended again, she would be a murderer, an avenger, a woman who had repaid with blood the tears shed for three decades.
“Mistress,” she whispered as she entered the room. “I brought fresh water.“
Isabel mumbled something incomprehensible, half asleep in the afternoon heat. She lay on her side, her face relaxed, showing for the first time in years an expression that wasn’t cruel. She breathed slowly, completely surrendered to restorative sleep. Joana approached silently, observing the woman who had made her life a wicked one. There was Isabel Almeida, the viper of Santa Clara, reduced to the most basic human vulnerability—a person sleeping defenseless, unconsciously trusting in the protection of those around her.
“This is for my Ana,” Joana murmured, wetting the cloth in the warm water.
With a quick and precise movement, she covered Isabel’s face with the damp fabric and pressed with all the strength of three decades of muscles hardened by hard work. Isabel awoke instantly, her eyes widening in utter panic as she realized she couldn’t breathe.
“Mistress,” Joana whispered, maintaining the relentless pressure. “There’s no point in struggling. It’s your time to pay.“
Isabel tried to scream, but only muffled sounds escaped through the soaked cloth. Her hands desperately scratched Joana’s arms. Her nails were always meticulously manicured, leaving red marks on the dark skin, but the slave was much stronger.
“This is for my daughter, whom you sold,” Joana said in a controlled, almost maternal voice. “The lady promised she would stay. She promised in front of the priest, in front of the whole world.“
Isabel’s small, cruel eyes filled with tears of terror. For the first time in her life, she was experiencing the utter despair of someone completely at the mercy of another person. It was the same feeling she had imposed on hundreds of slaves over the years.
“The lady thought she could play with a mother’s heart,” Joana continued, watching coldly as Isabel struggled weaker and weaker. “She thought Ana was the little doll she could throw away when she got tired of her.”
Isabel tried to stammer something through the cloth, perhaps a plea, perhaps a threat, but the words were lost in the wet fabric, which prevented any sound from escaping.
‘I am, I am your owner,’” she managed to whisper in a last desperate attempt to invoke the authority that had always protected her.
“No more,” Joana replied with absolute serenity. “Now I’m in charge. Now I decide who lives and who dies in this house.“
Isabel’s movements grew weaker and weaker. Her arms stopped scratching, her legs stopped kicking the embroidered blankets. Within minutes she was completely still, her glazed eyes staring at the intricately carved wooden ceiling, which had silently witnessed so many cruelties planned in that room. Joana maintained the pressure for a few more minutes, ensuring that death was final. There could be no mistakes, there could be no turning back.
When she finally released the curtain, Isabel Almeida was dead, freeing not only Joana, but all the slaves on the Santa Clara farm from the reign of terror that had lasted for decades.
“You’ve discovered what it’s like to lose someone you love,” Joana murmured, closing the dead woman’s eyes. “It’s a shame you won’t be able to tell anyone.“
Carefully, Joana tidied the room exactly as Isabel had instructed. She changed the sheets, putting the dirty ones in a bundle to be washed. Then she stored the murderous cloth along with other clean fabrics, where it would never be found or identified. She positioned Isabel’s body in a natural sleeping position, as if she had died peacefully in her rest.
“Rest in peace, yes, Miss,” she said ironically before leaving. “Finally, you won’t torment anyone anymore.“
When she went down to the kitchen, she found Benedito waiting anxiously.
“It’s done,” she said simply. “How empty you feel, as if you’ve poured out all the poison that’s been stored in your heart for 30 years.“
“And now?“
“Now we’re waiting for someone to find out. And when we find out, we’ll put on the biggest show of our lives.“
Two hours later, when Isabel did not come down for her afternoon snack, Colonel José went up to check on her. The scream he let out echoed throughout the farm, sparking panic among slaves and farmhands.
“Isabel died!” he yelled as he ran down the stairs. “My daughter died!“
Joana ran along with the other slaves, feigning surprise and despair.
“It can’t be, Colonel,” she cried, tears that weren’t entirely fake. “The mistress was doing well at lunch.“
“He died in his sleep,” the colonel said, his voice breaking. “It must have been the heart.“
“Poor Mistress,” lamented Joana, embracing other enslaved women who were genuinely weeping. “She was still so young.“
During the following days, Joana played the role of the faithful enslaved woman, devastated by the loss of her beloved mistress. She organized the wake, prepared food for the visitors, and took care of all the domestic details while Colonel José surrendered to mourning.
“Joana,” he said the day before the burial, “I will continue taking care of the house. Isabel always said she trusted you more than anyone else.“
“I will do everything for her memory, Colonel. Thus, Isabel was like a mother to me.“
These were words as bitter as death, but necessary to maintain the charade. Joana knew that her freedom depended on no one ever suspecting the truth about Isabel’s death. On the day of the funeral, she carried the coffin along with other enslaved women. She heard the priest speak about the kindness of the deceased. She saw neighbors and family members weep for dear Isabel, who had departed so young.
“Isabel was a virtuous woman,” the priest said during the homily. “She cared for the slaves with Christian love, treating them all as spiritual children.“
Joana almost choked on his words but maintained her composure. Inside, she felt a profound satisfaction she hadn’t experienced in decades. Justice had been done even if no one knew it. Isabel had paid with her life for years of cruelty, for broken promises, for the tears shed by hundreds of enslaved mothers.
“Ana, my daughter,” she whispered softly as she threw earth onto the coffin. “Your mother avenged you. Now the viper doesn’t hurt anyone anymore.“
True freedom hadn’t yet arrived, but at least the tyranny was over. And when the time came to flee in search of Ana, Joana would leave with the clear conscience of someone who had taken justice into her own hands.
The wet nurse from the valley of the bells had transformed into something Isabel never imagined possible: a slave who was no longer afraid because she had nothing left to lose.
The morning after Isabel’s death, the silence on the Santa Clara farm was unlike any previous silence. It was no longer the silence of fear, but the silence of uncertainty. Joana went down to the kitchen before dawn, as she always did, but she knew that this would be one of the last times she would prepare the masters’ coffee as a submissive slave.
Benedito whispered to his still-sleeping husband, “The time has come to decide our future.“
“What do you mean? Isabel is dead. The colonel is broken. The house is without leadership. It’s our chance to escape and go after Ana.“
“But if we flee now, right after her death, they’ll suspect something.“
“They won’t suspect anything. They’ll think we took advantage of the confusion, that it’s normal for black people to do things this way. But if we wait too long, the colonel might recover and tighten his control even further.“
During the three days of the wake, Joana attentively observed everyone’s reactions on the farm. Colonel José was truly devastated by the death of his only daughter. He wept openly, refused to eat. He spent hours looking at Isabel’s portrait in the living room.
“I don’t know how I’ll go on without her,” he told Father Anselmo during the wake. “Isabel was my eyes and ears in the house. She knew how to handle the black people better than any man.“
“God gives and God takes away, Colonel, we have to accept his will.“
“What kind of will is it that takes a daughter before her father? Isabel had her whole life ahead of her.“
Joana served coffee to the visitors, feigning grief for her deceased mistress, but inwardly she calculated every move. She knew the colonel’s mourning would be deep and long-lasting. She knew he wouldn’t have the energy to personally manage the domestic slaves in the coming weeks.
“Catarina,” she said to a young slave girl who helped in the kitchen. “When I leave here, you’ll take my place, you know how to do everything that’s needed.“
“Leave? Where are you going?“
“I can’t say now, but if anyone asks about me the day after tomorrow, say I left early to gather medicinal herbs in the woods. That’s all.“
“Okay, Dona Joana. But why are you saying these things?“
“Just as a precaution, girl. Sometimes we have to travel long distances to get good medicine.“
On the day of the funeral, Joana carried Isabel’s coffin to the chapel cemetery, with conflicting feelings. On the one hand, she felt deep satisfaction seeing her torturer buried forever. On the other, she knew she was participating in the funeral of the last person who might have information about Ana’s whereabouts.
“Isabel took my secret to the grave,” she murmured as she threw dirt on the coffin. “Now only God knows where my daughter is.“
“What did you say?” asked Benedito, who was beside her.
“Nothing, just saying goodbye to the mistress.“
During the ceremony, Joana paid special attention to the conversations of the visitors, slave traders, neighboring farmers, and local authorities. Everyone was talking about Isabel’s business, her recent transactions, and the contacts she maintained in other cities.
“Dona Isabel always made good deals,” Colonel Silva commented to a merchant from Porto Alegre. “I always sold her pieces at the best price.“
“It’s the truth. I bought several from Dona Isabel over the years, always black, of the highest quality. You even bought one recently, didn’t you? A little black girl.“
“Yes, I bought it. Pretty girl, well cared for. I’ve already resold her to Uruguay. It yielded a good profit.“
Joana felt her heart race. They were talking about Ana. Her daughter had been sold to Uruguay, to lands beyond the border, where it would be nearly impossible to find her.
“Which part of Uruguay?” Colonel Silva asked out of curiosity.
“In the Melo region, a rancher named Dom Fernando Mendoza pays well for a young, healthy child.“
“Is it far from here?“
“About 15 days of travel on horseback, but if you go on foot…“
Joana memorized every word of the conversation. Dom Fernando Mendoza, Melo region, Uruguay. It wasn’t much, but it was more information about Ana than she’d had in weeks. At least now she knew the general direction to look. After the burial, when all the visitors had left, Colonel José retired to his office with a bottle of cachaça and a portrait of his daughter. Joana took the opportunity to make the final preparations for her escape.
“Benedito, we’re leaving tonight.“
“Are you sure it’s the right time?“
“I have to. I found out where Ana was sold. Uruguay, Melo region. We have to leave soon before the colonel recovers from his grief.“
“It’s very far, Joana, and dangerous. Two weeks of travel through unfamiliar territory.“
“No matter the distance, no matter the danger. I’m going to get my daughter, even if it’s the last thing I do in my life.“
Benedito looked at his wife and saw in her eyes the same unwavering determination he had seen the day before Isabel’s assassination. He knew he wouldn’t be able to dissuade her, and deep down, he didn’t want to either. Life on the farm, even without Isabel, would continue to be captivity.
“So let’s go together. If we are going to die, let it be trying to be free.“
“You don’t need to come, Benedito.“
“It’s what I’m searching for. Ana is also my daughter now, and you are my wife. Wherever you go, I’ll go.“
That night, while Colonel José drank alone in his office, mourning his daughter’s death, Joana and Benedito made their final preparations. They took only the essentials: some clothes, food for a few days, the money they had managed to save selling eggs and vegetables, and the small image of Our Lady that Ana had received as a gift.
“Ana, my daughter,” whispered Joana, holding the image. “Mom is coming to get you. Wait for us.“
“Let’s go before things change,” Benedito said nervously.
They left the Santa Clara farm silently one March morning, when the new moon made the darkness almost absolute. The south wind blew strongly, carrying the scent of freedom that was finally within their reach.
“Don’t look back,” Benedito said when Joana hesitated for a moment as she passed through the property gate.
“I’m not looking back, I’m looking ahead, to where Ana is.”
During the first week of their escape, they walked only at night, hiding in dense thickets during the day to avoid capture patrols. They fed on wild fruits, water from streams, occasionally begging for food at isolated ranches, where they presented themselves as free blacks seeking work.
“Where are you going?” a rancher asked suspiciously one morning.
“Southward, the boss is looking for work at the Pelotas charqueadas,” Benedito lied.
“I have a letter of manumission. We lost it in the river flood, boss. But we’ve been free for five years.”
“I don’t know. A free black person always carries a document. You don’t seem free to me.”
It was a moment of terror. If they were captured there, they would be returned to Colonel José and publicly executed as an example to other slaves. Joana quickly thought of a convincing story.
“Boss,” she said in a humble voice, “We worked for 20 years to save up money for our freedom. When we managed to buy our freedom, we celebrated by the river. That’s when that big flood came last month. It took our house, our documents, everything we had.“
“And why didn’t they go back to ask for a duplicate?”
“The man who granted us our freedom died in the same flood as our boss. His family sold the farm and left. There’s no one left to provide a duplicate.”
It was the elaborate story that touched the rancher’s compassion. He had heard about the truly devastating flood that had hit several farms the previous month.
“Okay, you can go ahead. But be careful out there, there are many slave catchers in the region looking for the runaway slave.”
“Thank you, boss. May God repay the Lord for his kindness.”
As they drove away from the ranch, Benedito sighed with relief.
“You think fast, woman. This story saved our lives.”
“I learned that lying well is a matter of survival. Isabel taught me this unintentionally.”
In the second week of their journey, they finally arrived at the banks of the Jaguarão River, which marked the border between Brazil and Uruguay. It was a strong and dangerous current, but it was also the line that separated captivity from freedom.
“On the other side is another country,” said Benedito, observing the turbulent waters. “If we manage to cross, we will be truly free.”
“And Ana is on the other side too. I can feel it.”
They found an abandoned canoe among the vegetation on the riverbank, likely left behind by smugglers who regularly made the clandestine crossing. It was small and had holes in some places, but it still floated.
“It’s risky,” Benedito warned. “If the canoe sinks in the middle of the river, we will drown.”
“I’d rather die trying to be free than live as a slave. And I’d rather die searching for Ana than live without her.”
The crossing was terrifying; the current was stronger than they had anticipated, and the canoe was constantly taking on water. Several times it seemed as if they would be swept downstream or that the boat would permanently crack.
“Row!” Joana shouted as she bailed water out of the canoe with her hands. “Ana is on the other side, waiting.”
“I’m rowing as hard as I can.”
When they finally reached the Uruguayan shore, they fell onto the wet sand and kissed the foreign soil. They were free. For the first time in their lives, they were setting foot on land where they belonged to no one.
“We did it!” Joana cried. “We are free, Benedito, truly free. Now comes the hard part. We have to find Ana in a land we don’t know, speaking a language we don’t understand.”
“Let’s learn, let’s search, let’s find our daughter.”
During the following months, Joana and Benedito traveled through the interior of Uruguay, searching for Dom Fernando Mendoza’s ranch. It was a desperate search in a vast land, where each farm was days away from the next.
“Do you know Dom Fernando Mendoza?” they asked in every village they came across.
“If you’re with us, but many live here,” the locals would reply, always pointing towards different horizons.
They worked as temporary laborers in various jobs to obtain food and shelter. Joana cooked for the workers. Benedito helped with branding the cattle, always asking questions, always searching, always hoping that the next farm would be the right one.
“Madam,” said a foreman at a ranch near Melo, “Don Fernando has a large ranch close to the river, but he won’t want to bother with you. Dom Fernando doesn’t like being asked about his slaves; he said that it was a private matter.”
But Joana was not intimidated. After killing Isabel and fleeing across two countries, wouldn’t an arrogant farmer be the one to stop her from finding Ana?
“Where exactly is his ranch located?”
“Three days and it will end there in Elsuro. Be careful, ma’am. Dom Fernando has gunmen who don’t like visitors.”
The following morning, Joana and Benedito set off for Dom Fernando Mendoza’s farm, a three-day walk across the Uruguayan plains, guided only by vague directions and Joana’s maternal intuition.
“Ana, my daughter,” she repeated like a prayer during the journey. “Mom is coming. Wait a little longer.”
When they finally sighted Dom Fernando’s ranch, it was an immense property with a main house in the Spanish colonial style and sheds that stretched as far as the eye could see. Hundreds of workers, many clearly Brazilian slaves—either escaped or sold—tended to enormous herds.
“How are we going to find Ana in the middle of so many people?” asked Benedito, disheartened.
“We’ll keep searching until we find her. A mother truly recognizes her child.”
After years apart, they approached the workers’ warehouses pretending to look for work. Joana watched intently each face, each child running between the buildings. Her heart raced every time he saw a girl Ana’s age.
“Looking for work?” a foreman asked.
“Yes, sir,” Benedito replied, in the little Spanish he had learned.
“Where did they come from?”
“From Brazil. We are free.”
That’s when Joana saw her. A little girl of about 2 years old playing in the yard with other children, but clearly different from the others. She had a golden complexion that Joana would never forget, and her large, expressive eyes, which were just like hers.
“Ana!” she shouted, unable to contain herself.
The girl raised her head when she heard the name and looked in Joana’s direction. For a moment, their expressions met across the dusty courtyard. Ana didn’t run immediately, but something in her face changed, as if a dormant memory was awakening.
“Ana?” said the girl hesitantly, pointing to herself.
“Yes, my daughter, Ana, it’s me, your mom.”
The child started walking towards Joana, slowly at first, then faster and faster. When they finally met in the middle of the courtyard, they embraced as if the world were about to end at that moment.
“Mom,” said Ana in a small but clear voice. “I knew you were going to come and pick me up.”
“My daughter,” Joana cried. “Mom would never give up on you. Never.”
The foreman watched the scene, confused, not understanding what was happening. Other people began to approach, drawn by the shouts and emotional hugs.
“What’s going on here?” he asked.
“She is my daughter,” Joana explained in a mixture of Portuguese and Spanish. “They stole her from me, you dirty thing. This little girl belongs to Dom Fernando, but she is my daughter who was sold without my consent.”
The situation quickly became tense. Dom Fernando was summoned and arrived in the courtyard accompanied by several armed men. He was a middle-aged man with a white mustache and an authoritarian expression, unaccustomed to being questioned.
“What does this scandal mean?” he asked in Spanish.
Joana didn’t understand the words, but she understood the tone. It was the same tone Isabel used when her power was challenged. But Joana was no longer the submissive slave of months before.
“This is my daughter,” she said in Portuguese, hugging Ana to her chest. “She was sold without my permission. I came to get her.”
Dom Fernando spoke enough Portuguese to understand what Joana was saying. His expression became even more severe.
“This girl was bought legally. I have documents that prove it.”
“Documents for the sale of a child are a crime against God,” Joana replied with a courage that surprised her. “It doesn’t matter what paper you have, a mother doesn’t sell her child. In my country, perhaps, it’s a crime, and what isn’t? But in a mother’s heart, there are no borders.”
The tension was escalating dangerously. Dom Fernando’s men reached for their revolvers, ready to end the argument by force. Benedito positioned himself beside Joana, also prepared to fight if necessary. That’s when Ana, at only 2 years old, did something that completely changed the situation. She looked directly into Dom Fernando’s eyes and said in clear Portuguese:
“I want to go with my mommy.”
The words of such a small child, speaking a language she had learned before being sold, touched something in the farmer’s hardened heart. Dom Fernando looked at Ana, then at Joana, then at a crowd of workers that had gathered around.
“How much did you pay for her?” he asked.
Joana didn’t understand the question, but Benedito replied: “We don’t understand Spanish, sir.”
Dom Fernando sighed and repeated in Portuguese: “How much can you pay for her?”
“All the money I have in the world,” Joana replied without hesitation.
“How much is it?”
Joana took out the small bag where she kept her savings. They were coins collected over the years, selling eggs and vegetables, plus some coins she had earned working in Uruguay. It wasn’t much, but it was all she possessed. Dom Fernando counted the coins and shook his head.
“In the end, I paid more for it.”
“Then keep the money and let me work to pay the rest,” Joana proposed desperately. “I’ll work for free until the debt is paid off.”
“For how long?”
“For as long as it takes, a year, two years, five years, it doesn’t matter.”
Dom Fernando remained silent for a long time, observing the scene. A mother willing to work as a slave to buy her own daughter’s freedom was something even his hardened heart could understand.
“Alright,” he finally said. “You work for free, I’ll pay you later, Joana.”
“A year?” Joana asked to be sure. “If I try to escape, she will be lost forever.”
“I’m not going to run away. A mother’s word is sacred.”
During the following year, Joana worked at Dom Fernando’s ranch with a dedication that impressed even the most demanding foremen. She cooked for hundreds of workers, washed clothes in the main house, tended the gardens, and did any job that was needed. And every night, when she finished her chores, she spent precious hours with Ana.
“Mom, are you going to take me away from here?” Ana asked one of the first nights.
“Yes, my daughter, in a year we’ll leave and we’ll never be apart again.”
“Where are we going?”
“Wherever we want to go. We are free, Ana. We can go anywhere in the world.”
During that year, Joana told Ana the whole story of her family, all the siblings she had lost, and all the struggle she had gone through to find her. Ana listened with the attentiveness of an intelligent child, understanding more than one would expect for her age.
“Did my mother kill Isabel like this?” Ana asked one night.
“I killed her because she sold you after promising she wouldn’t. Was she a bad person?”
“She was very bad, but now she can’t hurt anyone anymore. My mother was brave. A mother will do anything for the children.”
When she completed a year of work, Dom Fernando kept his word, summoned Joana, Ana, and Benedito to the office in the main house, and handed them a document written in Spanish and Portuguese.
“This is the girl’s freedom ticket,” he said. “Now she is legally your daughter.”
“Thank you, sir. May God reward your kindness.”
“You can stay working here if you want. I’ll pay a fair wage.”
“Thank you, but we want to leave. We’ve lived too long on other people’s property.”
“Where are they going?”
“We don’t know yet, but we’ll decide together. As a free family.”
The following morning, Joana, Benedito, and Ana left Dom Fernando’s ranch, carrying only the clothes on their backs and the small image of Our Lady that had accompanied them throughout the journey, but for the first time in their lives, they were walking as a complete and free family.
“Where are we going, Mom?” Ana asked as they walked across the Uruguayan plains.
“Where is our happiness waiting for me, my daughter? I don’t know where that is yet, but we’ll find out together.”
Years later, when abolition was finally proclaimed in Brazil, Joana’s story became a whispered legend in the old slave sheds throughout Rio Grande do Sul. They told of the wet nurse who had killed the mistress and the cruel woman and fled to retrieve her sold daughter. They told stories about the woman who had crossed borders and worked as a voluntary slave to buy her own child’s freedom.
“Be careful who takes care of your children,” the former slaves used to say to each other, “because they also have children to take care of.”
At the Santa Clara farm, Colonel José never fully recovered from Isabel’s death. He died a few years later, lonely and bitter, without ever discovering the truth about what had happened to his daughter. The property was sold and divided. The slaves were dispersed to other farms, but Joana’s memory remained alive among those who had known her. She was remembered not as a murderer, but as a courageous mother who had proven that maternal love knows no limits or boundaries.
Since that afternoon in March, the old folks said, no one in the countryside of Rio Grande do Sul slept peacefully, knowing that mother and child had been separated. Somewhere in Uruguay, in a small house near Montevideo, a woman who was once a slave teaches her daughter to read and write. Ana, now 15 years old, grew up knowing the complete story of her family, knowing the price that was paid for her freedom, knowing that she is the daughter of a woman who faced the whole world for love.
“Mom,” Ana says on a sunny Sunday afternoon, “don’t you regret what you did?”
“What, my daughter?”
“For having killed Isabel like that.”
Joana looks out the window of the small house they built with honest work. Benedito is in the backyard repairing the roof, whistling a gaucho song he learned in childhood. Ana studies mathematics at a table they made themselves from wood bought with earned money, sweating, but without a whip on her back.
“I don’t regret having done justice,” she finally replies. “I regret taking so long to do it. If I could go back in time, I would, but not to change what I did. I would return to bring my brothers as well.”
Ana hugs her mother, understanding the weight of her words. She knows she’s the only daughter Joana managed to save, but she also knows she represents the victory of love over cruelty, of determination over despair, of hope over resignation.
“You are the bravest woman in the world, Mom.”
“I’m not brave, daughter. I’m just a mother. And a mother who truly loves is capable of anything.”
The wind blows across the Uruguayan plains, carrying stories of ancient struggles and victories won with blood and tears. Somewhere in Brazil, in the old warehouses that once housed slaves, the story of the wet nurse is still told, proving that not every broken promise goes unanswered. And forever, whenever someone dares to separate mother and child, a voice whispers in the south wind: “Beware of those who care for your children, because they too have children to care for.”
Joana’s story ends where it began, with a mother embracing her daughter, but this time it’s a free embrace in a free country, in a free life that was won drop by drop of courage and tear by tear of determination. The wet nurse from the valley of the bells had become what Isabel never imagined possible: a woman who was no longer afraid because she had nothing left to lose and had already regained everything worth having.
