The Fountains of Silence

by Ruta Sepetys

  “I’m not sure what it says,” replies Daniel. “That’s why I’m asking questions.”

  “It says the topic of Spain is very controversial. Look, you study Hitler and Mussolini in school, but you don’t study Franco,” whispers Ben. “Because he’s still alive. The history hasn’t written itself yet, Matheson. But you’re capturing it as we speak with your photos. Exciting stuff.”

  Ben’s mention of his photos makes Daniel uncomfortable. And something else makes him uncomfortable—the fact that Franco and his men personally invited his father to Spain to discuss a collaborative project. Why is his family doing business with a dictator?

  “You’re asking good questions, Dan. I hope your photos are as interesting.”

  Daniel nods absently, his mind cluttered with confusion. Despite his better judgment, he decides to ask one last question.

  “Say, Ben, do you think Nick likes Ana?”

  Ben exhales a sleeve of smoke and chases it with the last of his scotch. “Likes her? Oh no, cowboy, he loves her.”

  While the Americans have been using their time establishing shopping centers and supermarkets, the Spanish people have been working to build a monument and tomb. It now rivals the greatest works of the Pharaohs.

  This monument, known as the Valley of the Fallen, has been opened to tourists for two years. The Spaniards put sixteen years of hard work into its construction and they expect it to become one of the world’s prime tourist sights.

  This tomb, conceived by General Franco, is estimated to have cost six million dollars. It is located in Cuelgamuros, 30 miles from Madrid. It is longer than St. Peter’s Cathedral, which is the largest church in the world. It has often been claimed that the gigantic monument will be Franco’s tomb, but no one is yet certain of this. Some twelve tons of bones of soldiers killed during the Spanish Civil War will be buried behind the Chapels. The Valley is dominated by a great cross, higher than the Eiffel Tower, which can sometimes be seen in Madrid. The Valley of the Fallen is just another of the examples showing the magnificent abilities of the Spanish people.

  “Spaniards Complete Gigantic Monument”

  The Rosebud News, Rosebud, Texas, May 6, 1960

  57

  Ana looks at the box of violet clovers from Daniel. She has no choice. She must sell it and give the money to Julia for their debts. After much morning pleading, Julia allowed her to keep the other box.

  A waiter at the hotel eagerly buys the discounted candy for his wife’s birthday. Ana pinches a few pesetas from the sale and requests permission to make a phone call. When she hears Nick’s voice, she contemplates hanging up.

  “Ana, I know it’s you. You always hesitate, as if you might change your mind. Don’t worry, no one’s here,” says Nick.

  “How are you feeling?” asks Ana.

  “I look worse than I feel.”

  Ana stares at the telephone. “Nick . . . why did you do it?”

  There’s silence on the line. “Did he actually show up in Vallecas?” asks Nick.

  “You knew he would. You told him to. He even brought gifts. Rafa adores him and talked him into driving them to a bullfight on Sunday.”

  “Ana, I’m so sorry,” replies Nick. “I was lit. You have every right to be mad. We were sitting at the table and Dan was asking about you, and suddenly I thought, Wait, why not? Ana deserves some fun for a change. I pegged Dan for a coddled rich kid, but he’s not. He’ll speak his mind and, man, he’ll take on a fight. I think he’s a really good guy.”

  “He is a good guy, Nick. So just leave him alone. Please don’t create problems.”

  “Ana, I don’t create problems. I try to solve problems. You know that.”

  She does know that, but it doesn’t matter. She quickly hangs up the phone.

  58

  “¡Buenos días, señor!” calls Carlitos. He sprints to the front door to meet Daniel. “A telegram has arrived this morning for Señora Matheson. Does she want it delivered to her room or shall I give it to you?”

  Daniel sees the telegram and tries to resist. He can’t. “Thanks, Carlitos. I’ll give it to her.” He puts it in his back pocket and exits the hotel.

  * * *

  “Texano!” says Miguel. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

  “Me neither. But I have some photos that need rush processing. They’re for Ana’s brother.” Daniel sets two rolls of film on the counter.

  “Photos for Rafa?”

  “Yes, his friend is an aspiring matador.”

  “Aren’t they all,” laughs Miguel.

  “Well, this one has an amateur fight on Sunday. So when I was in Vallecas, Rafa asked me to take some photos.”

  Miguel looks intently at Daniel. “When you were there, did you see it?” He points to the Robert Capa photo of the children in front of the bombed building. “That photo you admire. Capa took that in Vallecas.”

  “Really?”

  Miguel nods. “There are many unique frames in Vallecas.” He looks at the film on the counter. “I generally let the prints dry for several hours. If you want to come back before I close, they might be ready.”

  “That’s fine. I’m heading to take photos of the Inclusa.”

  “What sort of photos could you take at the Inclusa?”

  Daniel shrugs. “Ana’s brother-in-law, Antonio, said I might find it interesting.”

  “¿Por qué?” presses Miguel. “I think you misunderstood.”

  “Something about people not being able to afford photos. I guess I’ll find out.”

  Daniel heads to O’Donnell Street. The Inclusa, a large buttercream-colored building, spans an entire block. Flanking both sides of the arched sandstone entry is an inset figure of an infant with empty eyes, arms outstretched, and palms open. Although large and imposing, the building is otherwise unremarkable. Why would Antonio send him here? There is nothing to photograph. Perhaps, as Miguel suggested, it was a mistake?

  He walks down the side street of the Inclusa. A chorus of young voices jingles in the distance. As he reaches the edge of the building, he sees dozens of children at play in a large garden. Young women wearing white dresses and black pinafore aprons supervise the children. The children are clean and tidy, their hair neatly combed or tied in ribbons. They are jubilant and appear healthy, a much brighter scene than orphanages in America. Maybe that’s why Antonio sent him? Could this be the orphanage his parents are donating money to?

  Daniel snaps a picture.

  A billow of black and white appears in the distance within his viewfinder. A nun. He turns and quickly walks away before anyone spots him. Was that the sister he saw with the dead child? He looks at the surrounding buildings. They are medical facilities. Clinics. Hospitals. Was the nun with the baby walking to a clinic or to the Inclusa? Were the Guardia Civil escorting her?

  As he turns back onto O’Donnell Street, Daniel sees a small boy, standing near the entrance of the Inclusa. His shoulders quiver and his face is streaked with tears.

  “¿Estás bien, chico?” asks Daniel.

  The little boy shakes his head. His trembling lips, holding tight to his sorrow, open and release a deep sob.

  Daniel kneels quickly to the boy on the sidewalk. “Hey, there. ¿Qué pasa?”

  The boy clutches a wrinkled note in his shaking hand. He extends it to Daniel and through a rush of tears issues the heartbreaking pronouncement:

  “My mamá doesn’t love me anymore.”

  59

  Puri rushes through the aisle of file cabinets, hoping to find more information. She must hurry. If she doesn’t join the other aides outside, someone may notice she’s missing.

  The questions remain fixed in her mind, but she’s limited in whom she can ask. If the Inclusa wants to find homes for the children, why are the adoption fees so high? What are the huge sums of money used for? Were the dough-faced man and his wife
with the pillow willing to pay two hundred thousand pesetas for a child?

  Perhaps she could ask the priest these questions. But the priest may reprimand her again for speaking of others instead of herself. Or maybe she can ask the doctor who brings newborns through the back door of the Inclusa? She cannot ask Sister Hortensia. If she does, Sister will know that she looked at a file without permission. But Puri’s concern for the children surpasses any guilt about snooping. If her access to the file room continues, perhaps she can reference files from some of the recently adopted children.

  Puri knows she can’t ask her mother. She will scold her curiosity. She will say what she always says:

  Estamos más guapas con la boca cerrada. We are prettier with our mouths shut.

  She opens the last cabinet on the end. The folders are labeled GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. Near the back of the drawer are multiple files marked RESOLVED. Puri pulls a file.

  She flips through memos and arrives at a handwritten letter addressed to a doctor.

  Dear Dr. López,

  I send another letter, not to disturb you, kind Sir, but simply to appease my conscience. My wife said the child she gave birth to was bald and had a red birthmark on his arm. The deceased infant shown to us was larger than our son, had a bit of dark hair, and did not have the marking on his arm. You and Sister Hortensia advised that grief over our child’s death was clouding our recollection. But is it possible that perhaps there was some mistake? Perhaps it was the child of another couple that died? Of course we infer no accusation of you or your clinic, simply an honest error. We anxiously await your reply and hope you will help us pursue the matter in more detail.

  Puri looks at the next letter.

  Dear Sister Hortensia,

  In contemplating our finances, we’ve found that 300,000 pesetas to adopt a newborn is simply not within our means. You had suggested payments of 30,000 pesetas over ten years but that is also beyond our reach. Unfortunately, we will not be able to pursue adoption of a newborn. With gratitude for your understanding. ¡Viva España!

  Three hundred thousand pesetas? Puri looks at the letter. It’s dated several months prior. The next letter is unsigned and contains only a few handwritten sentences.

  You stole our child.

  God forgive me if I am wrong. If I am right, there is no forgiveness for you.

  Puri looks at the first sentence.

  You stole our child.

  What does that mean? Who stole their child?

  Puri thinks back to the woman who stopped her on the sidewalk. She said her child had been taken for baptism but was never returned. Her tone was insistent, desperate, but also full of fear.

  A noise sounds in the hallway. She must return to the garden. Puri rolls the remaining letters from the correspondence file and puts them down her blouse, where they are secured by her undergarments and hidden by the apron.

  Heart pounding, she dashes up the stairs. As she passes the receiving office, she hears a male voice.

  “I found him crying on the sidewalk. He was holding this note.”

  “Thank you for bringing him inside.”

  Puri stops in the doorway. A boy with tearstained cheeks and holes in his pants is perched upon a chair. A young man crouches in front of him. He rises to leave and she gasps.

  “Daniel?” exclaims Puri.

  The young man looks at her, confused. Sister Hortensia shares his expression.

  Puri brings a hand to her chest. “It’s me, Puri. Ana’s cousin.”

  But the words are hardly audible. When Puri’s hand touches her chest, a crunching of paper sounds from beneath her apron.

  60

  “He seems nice enough,” says Antonio. “Maybe a bit naïve.”

  “Of course he’s naïve. Arriving in Vallecas uninvited? He’s from a rich American family. He knows nothing of Spain.” Julia lifts Lali from her crate for feeding.

  “That’s not true, his mother was born here. He speaks Spanish well,” says Antonio. “And he seems generous. It’s kind of him to take the boys to the bullfight.”

  “I’m not worried about the boys. I’m worried about Ana. Did you see the way he looked at her?”

  “Most everyone looks at Ana like that. You should be more concerned about the way Ana looked at him.”

  Antonio is right. Julia noticed the way Ana downplayed her excitement while scrubbing her face and pinning her hair. She also noted the silent rhythm between her sister and the Texan. She wishes she could encourage and support Ana instead of blocking her at every pass.

  “Ay, even if he is nice, he’s a hotel guest. She mustn’t jeopardize her job,” she tells Antonio.

  The infant wiggles in Julia’s arms. She looks at her daughter. She’s still so small. Another woman in Vallecas has a two-month-old child who’s already larger than four-month-old Lali.

  “Mi amor, we’ll be short again this month,” says Antonio. “Is there any way Luis could give you an advance?”

  Julia releases a deep sigh. “I can’t ask Luis again. Take the candy from La Violeta to work. See if you can sell the box somewhere along the way.”

  “Didn’t you tell Ana that we would keep one box?”

  She did. Ana promised to sell one box at the hotel but begged Julia to keep the other.

  Julia recalls the way Ana hugged the ribboned box to her chest, pleading, “Just this once, Julia. Por favor. For me.”

  She hates disappointing her sister, but hates poverty more. Why did she open the wine? It would have brought a dear sum. They’ve been saving money to move and every peseta counts. By Julia’s calculations, in two months they will be close to having the money.

  “Mi amor, tell me the truth. Is it the candies you want to get rid of—or the Texano?” asks Antonio.

  He means to tease, but fatigue has stolen her humor. “We don’t have the luxury of candies, Antonio. Please, sell it. We need the money.” Julia recalls the conversation.

  The war is over. We must accept our fate and make sacrifices. Pursue peace and stability above all, Julia. Leave truth for some distant day in the future, her mother had said.

  How distant is that day? It’s been nearly twenty years since the war ended and truth still clings to the shadows. But Julia reassures herself that even if withholding the truth is painful, it is the right thing to do. It keeps the peace. It is what her mother wanted.

  61

  Daniel takes the Metro to Puerta del Sol, reflecting upon what transpired. The nun in the office, who introduced herself as Sister Hortensia, was older than the nun he photographed with the baby. Ana’s cousin seemed happy to see him, but suddenly began to cough and quickly excused herself to the garden.

  “How do you know our Purificación?” asked Sister Hortensia suspiciously.

  When Daniel explained that his family was staying at the Castellana Hilton where Puri’s cousin worked, the nun suddenly became inquisitive.

  Thinking about the episode gives Daniel an uncomfortable feeling, similar to the feeling in confession. As he exits the Metro, he sees police in gray uniforms surround a young man. No one dares to look. Pedestrians pass quickly with their heads down. He does the same. He walks briskly and turns down Calle Echegaray.

  Rather than return to the hotel, he decides to wait until his photos are developed. A faded green sign pulls Daniel in off the street. Men in flat caps stand at a bar under a fly-specked light bulb, while the barkeep marks their tab in chalk on the wooden counter. The chemistry in the room changes the moment he walks in. Clearly, tourists are not frequent visitors.

  Rows of dust-smeared bottles line the shelves behind the bar, but the drink selection is small. Jerez and tap water only. Daniel orders a Manzanilla, his mother’s favorite. It is the only drink he recognizes and he remembers it smells good.

  He selects a table in the back and sets his bag behind a chair. A
gruff man delivers a complimentary plate of crisp green olives and sausage marbled with ivory-colored fat.

  Daniel reaches in his back pocket for the telegram that Carlitos delivered at the hotel.

  He places the folded envelope on the table in front of him. It’s addressed not only to his mother but to his father as well. He turns it over. Half of the envelope flap is not sealed. He eats an olive and tries to distract himself. It’s none of his business. Opening someone else’s mail is illegal. He’ll have to go to confession again. But maybe it will provide answers.

  The temptation is too great. Daniel slides his finger under the flap. He gently loosens the remaining adhesive and removes the telegram. The Western Union form is the color of onions. The cabled message is printed on thin white tape affixed to the form.

  WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM

  —VIA CABLE

  SENDER: BUD MATHESON—DALLAS, TX

  MR. AND MRS. MARTIN MATHESON—CASTELLANA HILTON, MADRID

  PRIEST SHARED NEWS. HAVE YOU TOLD DANIEL? WORRIED WILL BE HARD ON HIM. WILL PREPARE THE HOME STAFF FOR CHANGE.

  Daniel stares at the message from his uncle. His father’s brother is a pragmatic man, who rarely expresses emotion or concern. His worry ignites fear in Daniel, bringing back the questions—the edge in his mother’s voice, her emphatic desire to come to Spain, his father’s mention of a “tough time.” Has he gotten it all wrong?