The Fountains of Silence(4)

Girls were no different. “Daniel Matheson. My, my, where have you been hiding?” joked the pretty debutantes crowding the jukebox at Nelson’s.

He hadn’t been hiding. He’d always been there but the girls had never noticed—until he returned as a senior, four inches taller and several yards stronger. His phone started ringing. They loved his truck, his photos, and hearing him speak Spanish with the waiters at El Fenix. Suddenly, he was “interesting.” And suddenly, he was foolish enough to believe them.

After three months of dating Laura Beth, “interesting” no longer interested her.

“What about penny loafers instead of boots?” she suggested. “Let’s take your father’s Cadillac instead of your truck.” And, “Oh, him? He’s just a good friend of the family.”

His school buddies at St. Mark’s laughed. “What did you expect? She rides dressage. You ride rodeo. Everyone knows she’s fickle. She’s not worth the whiskey.” Thankfully, it was his Spanish heritage that ended the relationship with Laura Beth. He was “too ethnic.” Gracias, Madre.

Daniel passes a café. The dry, windy air infuses with oil, garlic, and paprika. Heaps of prawns, eel, fried peppers, and spiced sausages fill the large glass window. He snaps a picture. The warm wind funnels through his hair. Madrid is as hot as Dallas. He turns a corner onto a narrow, cobbled street and tucks into a doorway. Daniel looks at his watch and then to the position of the sun. His parents are waiting at the hotel for lunch. His father will be annoyed with him. Again.

Approaching heels echo in the distance. Daniel raises the lens to his eye.

A nun.

Her steps are quick. Purposeful. She carries a small bundle wrapped in cloth. She looks constantly over her shoulder, as if she’s being followed. Daniel remains in the doorway, unnoticed, waiting for the perfect shot. A breath of wind swirls the nun’s black robes. She reaches down with a hand to tame them. As she does, the breeze lifts the cloth, revealing the contents of her bundle.

A baby’s face, gray like smoke, stares at Daniel.

His breath hitches as he presses the shutter.

The child is dead.

The nun’s eyes, wide with panic, snap to his lens.

Hammering the shutter produces nothing but an empty clicking. He’s out of film.

His hand dives into his pocket for a new roll. He loads as fast as he can, but it’s no use. When he looks up the nun has disappeared, replaced by two men in capes and wing-shaped hats. They’re carrying rifles.

The Guardia Civil. The military force that serves Franco.

Daniel’s favorite poet, Federico García Lorca, described them: Who could see you and not remember you? Patent-leather men with patent-leather souls.

“Steer clear of them,” warned his father.

But their sinister appearance, like human crows, curls a beckoning finger toward Daniel’s lens. He slides farther into the doorway to conceal himself. It’s not illegal to photograph the Guardia Civil, is it?

Just one picture. For the contest.

Daniel presses the shutter. Did he get it?

A flap of wings. A silent bomb explodes.

The men are instantly upon him, slamming him against the door, yanking the badge hanging from his camera strap.

“?Americano?”

“Sí, se?or. Americano,” replies Daniel, fighting the urge to shove them away. He tries to remain polite. “Yo hablo espa?ol.”

The guard sneers. “?Y qué? Because you speak Spanish you think you have the right to photograph whatever you please? Hand over the film. Now!”

Daniel fumbles nervously to open the back of his camera and remove the roll. Are they going to arrest him?

The guard rips the film from his hand. “Your badge is worth nothing here. Where are you staying?” he demands.

“The Castellana Hilton.”

Wait.

No.

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Daniel wants to grab them, take them back, and hide them.

But it’s too late.





. . . The system was very rigid. It was Franco’s Spain. You did not want to fall under the hands of the Guardia Civil or the police. The jails were pretty bad and people were getting thrown in there all the time.


—ALEXANDER F. WATSON, U.S. consular officer, Madrid (1964–1966) Oral History Interview Excerpt, September 1996

Foreign Affairs Oral History Collection

Association for Diplomatic Studies and Training Arlington, VA www.adst.org





4



Puri holds a baby on her lap. She ties strings on the booties that match the pale rose of the child’s cheek. This tiny girl loves sounds, so Puri makes popping noises with her mouth. The infant giggles and smiles in delight, alive with joy and wonder.

A brass medallion hangs from the child’s neck by a white string. Puri turns the pendant over and runs her thumb across the engraving.

20 116.

20 116 is unaware she’s an orphan. She doesn’t realize she’s been brought to the Inclusa, the orphanage in Madrid. She has no idea she is held by Purificación Torres Pérez, or that Puri wears a black apron bearing the red arrows of the Falange, the Spanish fascist movement.

“Your duty, your mission as a woman is to serve,” lectured her school instructors. Puri is grateful to serve through working with children.