by Ruta Sepetys
“Do you remember me, by chance?” he asks.
Puri breaks her gaze and turns to Daniel. She does not meet his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure I do.” The fingers on both of her hands extend like a starfish and then ball tightly closed.
“Please, have a seat. This is my sister, Cristina.”
Puri sits down at the table carefully, as if the chair might explode.
Daniel looks to Cristina and nods.
“Good day, Sister. It’s so lovely to meet you. Thank you for taking the time. I’m on a trip down memory lane, you see. Well, I don’t actually have memories, only what I was told by our parents. I came to the Inclusa sometime around spring of 1957. I was sin datos. My parents came to Spain from Texas and Mother desperately wanted another child and—well, that’s too much detail. My parents came here to the Inclusa and you persuaded them to adopt me.”
Puri’s eyes widen. “No, no, I didn’t.”
“Oh, forgive me. Mother always said a young girl spoke very kindly of me. She convinced them that I was worthy and suited for the family. I thought perhaps it was you? If so, you were instrumental in my good fortune.”
“Forgive me if I . . . don’t recall the situation,” says Puri. Her eyes shift to Daniel momentarily and then back to Cristina. “Tell me. Are you happy, child?”
“Yes, Sister.”
“You were raised speaking Spanish in Texas?”
“Yes, Mother was from Galicia and insisted that we speak Spanish.”
“And you’ve been raised in the Catholic Church?”
“Yes, Sister.”
“And how are your parents?”
“Mother died six years ago.”
“Oh, dear girl.” Puri’s face pinches with distress.
“My brother and father have done a wonderful job, though.”
“Is your father still working in oil?” she asks.
“Oh, you remember our father?” asks Daniel.
Puri pauses, then shakes her head quickly. “Many oil men were in Madrid at the time.”
“Yes, our father is still very successful in oil,” says Cristina. “Daniel works with him . . . well, he was a great photographer but quit when Mom died. He came home to help raise me.”
Puri nods carefully. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. I graduated in May with high honors, Sister, and I’ve been accepted to Vanderbilt University. I had my debutante ball last year.”
Puri’s face brightens. “My, how wonderful. What a blessed child you are. Such a lovely young lady with a caring and successful family. Your future sounds plentiful with opportunity.”
Daniel watches Puri. She’s sincere but solemn. Detached. He vaguely remembers her as a giddy girl, someone who asked a lot of questions. But something has stolen the light from her eyes. Puri must favor her father’s side. She’s Ana’s cousin, but looks nothing like her. Puri must see the resemblance between Cristina and Lali. Does she pretend not to? Is that why she seems so unnerved by their conversation? Of course she has no idea that he has reunited with Ana.
“If my birth parents ever came to inquire about me, would there be record of it?” asks Cristina.
Her question pains Daniel. He has to tell his sister.
Puri shakes her head. “As you said, you were sin datos. You arrived with no name, no information. You were likely issued a number. Upon your adoption, a birth certificate was created. In Spain, the adoptive parents are listed as the birth parents.”
Cristina nods acceptingly. “Would it be possible to take a tour of the Inclusa? I’d like to see where I slept and played.”
“There’s not much to see. Our Inclusa is much quieter these days. We don’t have nearly as many children. If you were here for a short time as an infant, you would have been in the nursery,” says Puri. “But if you’d like, I can ask someone to guide you through.”
Puri enlists the help of a young aide to assist Cristina.
“I’ll wait here for you,” he tells his sister.
Puri rises to leave.
“Sister Purificación. Please, stay a moment?”
149
Puri sits, staring at Daniel. He’s relaxed. Quietly confident. So handsome. And so unaware.
“It’s nice to see you again,” he says.
Puri manages a smile.
“I’m wondering, Sister. Are there many adoptive families who come from outside of Spain?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know,” shrugs Puri. She carefully rests her clasped hands on the table. “Señor Matheson, what a beautiful life your sister has. Clearly, she wants for nothing and every opportunity lies before her. It brings me indescribable joy to see how profoundly she has benefitted from adoption. That’s not always the case.”
Daniel looks at her and Puri’s nerves begin to tingle. Why does he stare like that? Could he know something? She feels compelled to fill the space.
“You mentioned you were here before. Do you remember our former director, Sister Hortensia? Sister has gone with God, but was responsible for most of the adoptions.”
“Yes, I vaguely remember her,” says Daniel.
“She would have placed your sister. She placed so many. Plenty have returned looking for her”—she clears her throat—“and I imagine many more will come.”
Daniel says nothing, just nods. Silence continues to tick between them.
The look on his face. Discomfort. “Are you unwell, Señor Matheson?”
“Forgive me, Sister. I’m very well, just a bit disappointed that you don’t remember me. I came here with a lot of questions. I still remember the day we spoke in front of the hotel. You told me I was terrible with secrets and that I liked your cousin Ana. You were right. I did like Ana. And you were also right—I’m terrible with secrets. I don’t like them.”
But he has no real intimacy with secrets, thinks Puri. His genes are true to his name.
“Sister, could you have known who Cristina’s birth parents were?”
Puri’s face fills with sadness. She still does not know who her own birth parents are. “You speak of knowing, Señor Matheson. The time you speak of, I would have been a teenager, a frightened teenager, at that. My ‘knowing’ was probably quite limited. Through my own struggles I’ve learned that knowing is something that evolves. What we think we know can be quite far from the truth. If we continue to seek and ask questions, we may one day find our way into the answers. But sometimes the answers only lead to more questions.”
Daniel sits, absorbing her words. “Speaking of questions, what if one day I was to reunite with Ana . . . permanently.”
Puri smiles wide. Her face is completely transformed by authentic joy. “Oh, that would be wonderful! Ana is a beautiful human being. She deserves every happiness.”
“I agree. Of course I have no way of knowing how things will progress. But I’m hopeful.” Daniel shrugs and smiles. “I’m just trying to imagine the blending of our families—Julia, Antonio, Rafa, my father”—he pauses—“Julia’s daughter, Lali, together with my sister, Cristina. I’m told they’re the same age.” He gives a questioning look. “Perhaps they’ll have things in common and become friends?”
Is Daniel speaking hypothetically or does he really know something? He’s treading suspicion, searching for air between a break in the waves. She knows exactly what it feels like and she feels badly for him. He has the desire to search and turn over rocks, but also the fear of what might lie beneath. Fear. It’s kept her mute and alone for many years.
“Friends,” says Puri quietly. “Yes, maybe they could be friends. Maybe one day we could all be friends.”
Daniel pauses. “Forgive me for saying so, Sister Purificación, but your path to the religious order has surprised me. But I’m happy you have found contentment,” he says.
The familiar twinge appears inside Puri. H
e speaks of contentment. He is probably well acquainted with it. He pursues his questions with a rigor of authority. He is never chastised, threatened, or laughed at for seeking explanation. Puri hears the threatening words of Sister Hortensia.
God is calling to you through these questions, Purificación. Rather than sharing your sinful queries aloud, you will devote yourself to contemplation and prayer. You will.
Puri rises to leave. Yes, she sees it all around him. Handsome and kind Daniel Matheson knows contentment, so he assumes she does as well.
“It’s not contentment,” says Puri, walking to the door. “It’s a vocation, from the Latin vocare, ‘to call.’ It’s a calling—to love and serve. We all choose to live out our vocations in different ways. Your father has a calling to oil. Your sister mentioned your calling to photography. Our former director, Sister Hortensia, she had a calling to orphans and placed so many of us.”
Daniel’s brow lifts in surprise.
“Yes. Any life choice involves sacrifice. Perhaps you’ve discovered that? I chose to enter this order seeking God, not explanations. So, you see, Señor Matheson, after many years of questions and prayer, I finally felt a calling of my own. And my calling was to silence.”
“But, something you said,” begins Daniel. “It resonates with me. You said that knowing is something that evolves, that what we think we know can be quite far from the truth.”
“Yes.”
“But what if we actually do arrive at certainty? In your opinion, Sister, once we discover the truth”—he stares at her—“what should we do?”
A note of hope rings through Puri’s heart.
He knows.
She walks back to the table.
“When you discover the truth, you must speak it aloud and help others to do the same, Señor Matheson. Truth breaks the chains of silence.” Puri puts a trembling hand to her chest. Her voice drops to a whisper.
“It sets us all free.”
Thousands of babies were stolen from their parents during the Franco dictatorship in Spain, but the story was suppressed for decades. Now, the first stolen-baby case has gone to court. The trial is expected to last months. As Lucía Benavides reports from Spain, it’s a dark part of Spanish history that is finally getting more recognition.
Between 1939 and the late 1980s, it is alleged that over 300,000 babies were stolen from their birth mothers and sold into adoption.
—LUCÍA BENAVIDES
from “First Stolen-Baby Case from Franco Dictatorship Goes to Court in Spain”
NPR
August 14, 2018
Spaniards after Franco’s death and during the transition to democracy entered into what has long been called here a pact of silence, which the new law clearly aims to undo. As the historian Hugh Trevor-Roper put it 40 years ago, about a different regime, “A single personal despot can prolong obsolete ideas beyond their natural term, but the change of generations must ultimately carry them away.”
—MICHAEL KIMMELMAN
from “In Spain, a Monumental Silence”
The New York Times
January 13, 2008
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Fountains of Silence is a work of historical fiction.
The Spanish Civil War and the ensuing thirty-six-year dictatorship of Francisco Franco are, of course, very real. If this novel intrigues you, please research the history of Spain, the Spanish Civil War, and the dictatorship.
I am indebted to the many incredible writers, historians, scholars, diplomats, artists, photographers, and journalists who have chronicled both the dictatorship and the Spanish Civil War. If historical novels stir your interest, I encourage you to pursue the facts, nonfiction, memoirs, and personal testimony available. These are the shoulders that historical fiction sits upon.
I first explored Spain while on tour for my debut novel. I fell in love not only with the country, I fell in love with its people. From Bilbao to Barcelona, through Madrid to Valencia, Tarragona and beyond, I met readers from varied family backgrounds who displayed deep empathy for hidden history. They welcomed me with open arms and shared insight on conflict, human suffering, and resilience. I discovered that Spain is a classroom for the human spirit.
In 2011, Tamra Tuller and Michael Green at Philomel sent me an article by Raphael Minder from the New York Times entitled “Spain Confronts Decades of Pain over Lost Babies.” I began to research the Spanish Civil War and the postwar period—from 1936 to Franco’s death in 1975, through the transition to democracy. I studied birthright, the many definitions of fortune, and the lines that divide. I embarked on research trips to Spain, meeting witnesses who brought the country’s history and hardship to life. During my trips I heard common refrains:
It’s very difficult to explain.
It’s nuanced and complex for an outsider.
You just can’t understand.
Like the character of Daniel, I wanted to understand. I wanted to reciprocate the affection, comprehension, and compassion that the people in Spain had shown toward me and the history within my books. As my research progressed, I realized that the refrains were accurate. Not only is it difficult for an outsider to understand, I often found myself asking, “What right do we have to history other than our own?”
My previous projects have contained threads of my own personal family history, so I was able to write those stories from the inside out. When I began my research for what became The Fountains of Silence, I realized that if I wanted to write about Spain I’d have to write from the outside in.
So I studied the postwar intersections between the United States and Spain, examining the difficulties between two very different nations attempting to interact and cooperate while also pursuing individual goals.
How can they bridge the width to understanding?
I then pulled the focus tighter—hopeful young people from different backgrounds, desperate to cooperate, express love, and pursue truth, but fenced by culture and circumstance.
How can they bridge the width to understanding?
During my study and examination, the fragile tension between history and memory emerged. Some were desperate to remember and others were desperate to forget. I was haunted by the descriptions of the war—and also war after war. Hunger, isolation, fear, and the socialization of silence. Suffering emerged the victor in Spain, touching all sides and breaking many hearts.
History reveals that, amidst war, the highest tolls are often paid by the youngest. Helpless children and teenagers become innocent victims of wretched violence and ideological pressure. Some in Spain were orphaned or separated from their families. Others, like Rafa and Fuga, were sent to social aid “homes,” where they were fed a steady diet of torture. During the postwar period and dictatorship in Spain, young people were left amidst the wreckage to navigate an inheritance of heartache and responsibility for events they had no role in causing. The young adult narrative is what I chose to represent in the story—innocent youths who, instead of pursuing hopes and dreams, became fountains of silence.
Following Franco’s death in 1975, Spain began the herculean task of transitioning to democracy. In hopes of pursuing peaceful progress, an amnesty law was passed in 1977 that freed political prisoners and allowed those in exile to return to Spain. The law also granted impunity to those who may have committed or participated in crimes during the war and the dictatorship. The law paved the way for El pacto del olvido in Spain, the Pact of Forgetting.
Some historians have described the Pact of Forgetting as necessary for a smooth and peaceful transition. Others question the long-term effects of silence on historical memory, identity construction, and human dignity. Scholars question whether the absence of a common historical narrative creates painful obstructions of justice and trust.
Studies estimate that over three hundred thousand children in Spain were possibly stolen from their birth parents and transferre
d or sold to families deemed “less degenerate.” The adoptions and thefts began in 1939 and lasted into the 1980s. During and after the Civil War, some infants were taken as punishment to those who opposed Franco. In the postwar period, the thefts were seen as a way to “rehabilitate” children who had parents or grandparents with the “Red gene.” In later years, the stolen children were said to be part of a continued trafficking operation involving doctors and the Church.
Today, there are many wonderful groups in Spain advocating tirelessly for stolen children. The United Nations has urged human rights investigations. Some have suggested the creation of a special DNA database (as was done in Argentina for stolen children) to pursue truth and reunification. Although this is incredibly complex, I am confident that progress is possible. I am also confident that readers can be part of that progress—particularly young readers.
I am considered a “crossover” author because my books are read worldwide by both teens and adults. It will be the young readers who carry our fading stories, their associated challenges, and necessary dialogue into the future. I have every confidence that the young generation—a generation of empathy—will gently clean the wounds and work together toward strength and healing.
Every nation has scars and hidden history. When stories of historical conflict are read and discussed, we have an opportunity to be united in study and remembrance. In that way, books join us together as a global reading community, but also a global human community striving to learn from the past.
I extend my heartfelt gratitude to the people of Spain and the regions within its borders. Thank you for allowing me to study your history. My hope is that this novel might inspire others to conduct their own research in an effort to learn, grow, and build bridges that will endure the tests of time and historical memory. When that happens, history will no longer stand between us, it will flow through us.
—Ruta Sepetys
