by Ruta Sepetys
There are photographs. Her mother in gowns and beautiful jewelry. Attending elegant events. Dancing alongside those who will later order her arrest and imprisonment.
How different things could be. Why didn’t her family flee to Mexico or France like some of the others? She doesn’t speak of it, but on occasion tourists do.
“The little general is doing a fine job here,” they say. “Spain’s economy is picking up. See, things aren’t so bad here after all.”
It takes all the force within her to remain silent, to resist the reminder that they weren’t in Spain after the war. They haven’t seen hope eaten by hunger and dignity destroyed. And now, in describing Madrid, the new guidebook says: Everyone who isn’t a maid has one.
Yes, Ana is a maid. Temporarily. Soon she’ll move to the business office. But for now that’s a secret dream. She once made the mistake of sharing a dream. How many notes will she have to swallow because of it?
Ana’s gaze returns to the mirror.
What possessed her to leave Daniel that magazine clipping? He’s a hotel guest. Yes, she’s assigned to his family but initiating private jokes with an American boy who lives the life of a prince? Foolish. But he’s so kind and they communicate so easily. It was just a bit of fun. She’s supposed to be conversational, isn’t she? It was rude to ignore his questions in the cafeteria. His family won’t give her a recommendation if she’s rude.
No. Why is she trying to rationalize? Because he’s handsome? She’s kidding herself.
Even in a country where both God and peasant are called señor, the line between “have” and “have not” is deeply carved. A singular truth shines revealing light.
Her sister is right.
The life and liberties Ana sees at the hotel do not belong to her. The war’s outcome will forever dictate her future. But . . . it’s just a bit of harmless fun.
She folds the envelope from Daniel and puts it back in her apron pocket.
No one needs to know.
30
The three-hour siesta is ending. Shutters part or rattle up, revealing storefronts awakening for business. Daniel makes his way to the camera shop. He looks for photo opportunities along the way, distractions from his mother’s telegram.
Madrid is a city of hardened soil. Amidst the heat and dryness, spots of color draw his lens. Hues emerge from the palette of children. Girls skip rope down the street in beautiful dresses. Boys bounce brightly colored balls.
“Children—they’re treasured in Madrid,” Ben told him during their lunch. “Contraception is illegal. Franco’s family policy laws reward parents with the most kids. Six to ten children is not uncommon. Big family photos.”
Daniel’s family photo is small. When he was little, he asked constantly for siblings. One night his father sat on his bed and gently explained that asking for siblings made his mom very sad. “Let’s not talk about that, okay, partner? We don’t want to make Mom sad.”
But many years later, his mother still seems sad. Perhaps that’s why they’re supporting an orphanage now.
There are colors of beauty in Madrid, but also colors of hardship. Ghosts of war walk the streets in Spain. Daniel passes blind lottery vendors, citizens missing limbs, young people using canes. Should he look directly at them and acknowledge their sacrifice or look away and honor their dignity? Are veterans treated differently in Spain than they are in the States? When Daniel was five, he told his parents he wanted to join the soldiers and fight in Germany. They bought him a toy helmet and plastic grenades. His father, however, did not fight in the war and seemed relieved to have flat feet.
The wooden door to Miguel’s small shop stands open, but unattended.
“Hola,” calls Daniel, as he sets his camera on the counter.
He turns to the framed photos on the wall. One catches his eye immediately, pulling him closer. Young children sit on a sidewalk, playing a game. Behind them is a ruin of a building with ammunition holes the size of grapefruits. The door of the building is caved in. Stone shrapnel covers the area where the children play. The photo is signed in black ink.
Robert Capa.
“Do you know his work?” Miguel asks, entering from the street.
“Sí, very well,” says Daniel. “How did you get a signed photo?”
“I developed it.” Miguel smiles, and his eyebrows, a winged mix of black and gray, rise as if they could take flight.
“You met him?”
“Many times. Some rolls with personal photos—he didn’t want them developed by the newspapers or magazines. We speak of film; let me get yours.” Miguel disappears behind the curtain.
Capa fascinates Daniel. Robert Capa was born Endré Friedmann, a Hungarian Jew, who fled to Paris. While exiled in Paris, Endré and his girlfriend created the identity of “Robert Capa.” They sold their photos to news agencies under the guise of an American photographer.
“Did you know him as Endré Friedmann or Robert Capa?” Daniel asks.
Miguel’s voice calls from behind the curtain. “Ah, you know the story. To me he was always Capa. His ruse was eventually discovered and abandoned, but the name ‘Robert Capa’ endured.”
Daniel considers the concept of alternate identity. What name would he choose?
“Do you know what his motto was?” calls Miguel from the back.
“Sí. ‘If your pictures aren’t good enough, you’re not close enough,’” says Daniel.
He returns his gaze to the photos on the wall. Capa’s photos make Daniel feel as if he’s inside them. But how close is too close? Three years ago, Capa died stepping on a land mine in Indochina.
Miguel returns with an envelope. “Photographs are personal. Perhaps you’d like to see them privately.”
“Not at all,” replies Daniel. “I’m a finalist in a photography contest in the States. I’d welcome your help.” He opens the paper sleeve and begins removing the photos. He doesn’t look at them. Instead, he quickly lays them on the counter, like he’s dealing from a deck of cards. Once all of the photos are displayed, Daniel steps back to evaluate. He immediately realizes: One photograph is missing.
The photo of the nun and the baby. It’s not among the pictures. He swears he pressed the shutter. The photograph should be there. He sees Miguel eyeing him from behind the counter.
Daniel quickly selects one picture and sets it off to the side, facedown. He chooses two more and moves them to a different position. He then creates two groups, arranged in lines. Miguel watches Daniel with fascination, as he assembles a narrative with the pictures.
“¿Qué piensas?” Daniel asks Miguel for his thoughts.
Miguel studies the squares like a chessboard. He opens his hands, asking for Daniel’s permission.
“Por favor.” Daniel nods.
Miguel moves the photo of the hungry girl outside the candy shop next to a shot of the Van Dorns’ lush dinner table.
“Sí,” agrees Daniel. “That’s good.”
Some lines create a narrative with pictures from the same setting. Others build a story by the positioning of opposites.
Daniel and Miguel stand in silent evaluation, arms crossed, brows creased. Daniel suddenly jumps to the counter. He pulls the photos of children and creates a new line. The poor girl at the candy store window, Carlitos posing proudly in the hotel lobby, and the small son of an American diplomat in a miniature suit and tie.
“Sí,” applauds Miguel. “The next generation. The future.” Miguel then takes the photo of the American child and positions it between the two Spanish children.
“That’s it,” says Daniel. “America within Spain.”
They both smile, satisfied with the story threads they’ve created.
Miguel steps back from the counter. “Muy bonito. Is this how you always do it?”
“It’s not how I do it; it’s how I see it,” explains Daniel. “
A single photo has to be powerful to tell a story on its own, like Capa’s. I haven’t mastered that yet. For now, I create stories by positioning things side by side. But—” Daniel reaches into the envelope for the negatives. “One photograph seems to be missing.”
“¿Ah, sí?”
Miguel remains silent while Daniel inspects his negatives. It’s there. The image is there. Why didn’t Miguel develop it?
Before Daniel can ask, Miguel points to the single photo that sits alone outside the groupings. He turns it over. It’s the photo of Ana, her bright smile reflecting amidst the multiple mirrors in the elevator.
“And this one? Where does she fit in?”
Daniel looks at the picture. It’s perfect. Natural and fun, like their conversation in the basement. “I guess that one’s a story all her own.” He begins to gather the photos.
Miguel bellows a hearty laugh, loud enough to float outside and bounce among the balls on the street. “That’s what Rafael would say.”
Daniel slides the photos back into the paper sleeve. “Rafael’s her boyfriend?”
Miguel watches Daniel avoid his eyes, yet wait for a reply.
“No, Texano,” he says quietly. “Rafa is her older brother.” And after a pause, “She has an older sister too.”
Daniel nods without raising his glance. He reaches for his wallet to pay. “Gracias, Miguel. But . . . I think you missed one frame on the strip.”
Miguel takes the money from Daniel and drums his tobacco-stained fingers on the counter. He disappears behind the curtain. When he reappears, he’s holding a photo. “Ay, I thought perhaps this one was a mistake.” He sets it on the counter.
The swirling robes of the nun. The empty stare of the dead child. The image is there, just as Daniel remembers it. It’s haunting, unsettling. There’s a story, but what is it? He should have paid more attention to his surroundings, to the buildings on the street.
Miguel clears his throat. “You’re very talented. But remember, Spain is not your country. Be careful, amigo.”
The Guardia Civil delivered a similar message. Daniel knows the words of caution are meant to dissuade him. They should.
But they don’t.
Mr. Capa, specialist in the shot-and-shell school of photography, was the kind of close-up lens artist who made veteran combat troops blink in uneasy disbelief. . . . He jumped with paratroopers into Germany; he landed on the Normandy beachhead on D-Day; he was one of the advance arrivals on Anzio. And he shrugged away the risks with the remark that “for a war correspondent to miss an invasion is like refusing a date with Lana Turner after completing a five-year stretch at Sing Sing.”
“Cameraman Capa Killed in Vietnam: Photographer for LIFE Dies in Explosion of a Land Mine—At Front Only Few Days”
The New York Times, May 26, 1954
31
Ana stands on the sidewalk near the hotel, laughing at her inquisitive cousin.
“Ay, don’t laugh,” says Puri. “Julia must know Ordóñez. She makes suits for all of the famous matadors. Has she met him? Just tell me.”
Ordóñez. To her cousin, he is Spanish perfection. Bullfighter, husband, father.
“Julia doesn’t speak of the customers. You know that,” smiles Ana. Puri is remarkably naïve. La Sección Femenina, the women’s section of the fascist movement, is succeeding with her cousin. Women should aspire to the ultimate cultural archetype—the Virgin Mary.
For some girls, nature dissolves doctrine once they’re noticed by boys. Ana wonders when Puri’s innocent world might become more complicated. Daniel’s photograph of the Texas party and the sultry girl blowing a kiss to his camera returns to Ana. Is that his girlfriend?
“Is it true that Rafa’s friend will fight near Talavera de la Reina?”
Ana wipes a meandering hair from her cousin’s eyes and takes her hand. “Puri, in the few minutes we have, let’s speak of something other than bullfights. How are Aunt and Uncle?”
“They’re fine,” she says with a sigh. “Mother would like to see Julia and Lali. It’s been a month.”
Ana nods. Puri’s mother is her aunt Teresa, her mother’s younger sister. Aunt Teresa took care of Ana while her mother was in prison. She longs for details of her mother’s final days, but her aunt still refuses to provide any. Is it too painful or too dangerous? Ana avoids the alternative: It is too shameful.
“¡Dios Mío! Ana, look. The tall one. Is he a famous actor?”
Ana raises her eyes to the street. It’s not an actor. It’s Daniel. He sees her and waves. She waves back.
“He’s a hotel guest,” whispers Ana.
“Ay, mi madre, you know him?” Puri quickly smooths her hair and skirt.
“Howdy. Taking a break?” asks Daniel.
Ana nods. “This is my cousin, Purificación. We’re visiting for a few minutes. She doesn’t speak English.”
Daniel introduces himself to Puri in Spanish.
Puri’s eyes expand. “Where are you from?” she asks.
“Texas. But my mother is from Spain. Galicia.”
“El Caudillo is from Galicia,” says Puri with a bob of approval.
“Oh, really?” says Daniel.
Puri nods, appraising him. “How old are you?”
Ana shoots an apologetic look, but Daniel smiles. “Nineteen soon.”
“Nineteen,” nods Puri. “In Texas, are you Catholic?” she asks.
“Puri!” gasps Ana.
“I’ve heard that some Americans aren’t Catholic.”
“Many Americans aren’t Catholic,” says Daniel.
“Why?” asks Puri.
“Because some are Protestant, some are Jewish. There are quite a few religions in America.”
Puri’s brow knits in confusion.
“I’m sorry, señor,” says Ana, trying to reroute the conversation in English. “She hasn’t met many Americans. She’s just curious. She doesn’t mean any offense.”
“I’m not offended. My mom is Catholic. My dad had to convert to marry her. Kind of an ordeal in Texas.”
Puri frowns at their English, excluded from the conversation.
Daniel looks at Ana. “Say, I just picked up my photographs from Miguel.”
“Are you pleased?”
“I think so. I’d like your opinion. But I better be careful.” Daniel lowers his voice. “Did you hear? Boys from Dallas are getting lost in the basement.”
Ana raises her eyes to his. “Yes, I heard. Probably hunting for ice.”
She glances casually to the street, trying to conceal the blush deepening down the length of her neck. She hopes he does not see it.
He does. His grin says so.
Ana notes Puri trying to decode their exchange, trying to rejoin the conversation. Puri’s eyes land on Daniel’s boots. They’re the color of toffee, have a squared toe, and are well past the effort of a shine. “Do you ride a horse in Texas?” she asks.
“I do. We’ve got a bay quarter named Tony.”
“You have a horse named Tony?” Puri bursts into a nervous fit of giggles.
Daniel looks to Ana. “I guess that’s funny? Well, I’m going to head up to my room.” He gives a wave to the girls and departs down the sidewalk.
Puri grabs Ana’s arm. “I just met an American,” she whispers.
“Yes, you did.”
“Nice to meet you, Daniel!” Puri calls after him.
“Nice to meet you too, Puri.” He points to Ana and switches to English. “She called me Daniel. Sounds pretty good, don’t you think?” He smiles and shrugs his shoulders.
“What did he say?” asks Puri.
“He said goodbye,” says Ana quietly, watching the retreating figure of Daniel Matheson cast a tall shadow on the sidewalk.
32
Puri stares at her cousin. Ana is lying. Again.
&nbs
p; The American boy said more than goodbye. Does Ana speak with many boys at the hotel? Is she properly chaperoned in their rooms when she cleans? Ana’s cheeks are flushed. The look in her eyes, is that what Puri has been warned about?
Puri thinks of all that Ana might see at the Hilton. Are some of the guests Protestants and Jews, like Daniel mentioned? Sister Hortensia says Americans are known to be indecent and libertine. Puri thinks of it with equal parts pity and fascination. What, exactly, defines indecency? Was it indecent of her to call out to Daniel on the street?
Her parents whisper about Ana. They say it is not her fault. They say Ana is a beautiful girl, punished by her father’s blood.
Spanish Republican blood. The “Reds” tried to pull Spain away from virtue. But what does that really mean? wonders Puri. And why won’t anyone answer her questions?
“Thanks for coming to visit me,” says Ana sweetly.
Puri wraps her arms around her cousin. Poor Ana. But perhaps all is not lost. Perhaps Puri can help Ana like she helps the orphans at the Inclusa.
Perhaps she can save her.
The sensual woman has sunken eyes, flushed cheeks, transparent ears, pointed chin, dry mouth, sweaty hands, broken waist, insecure step and a sad overall being. . . . Only her damaged imagination remains active with the representation of lascivious images which fill it completely. The sensual woman should not expect serious work, serious respect, clean feelings or welcoming tenderness.
—FATHER GARCÍA FIGAR
Medina, magazine of the Sección Femenina, August 12, 1945
33
Rafa finds Fuga in the cemetery work shed. On most nights, when Fuga’s not roaming the pastures or visiting Rafa, this is where he sleeps. In the corner of the corrugated metal hut between stacks of shovels sits a lantern and a pallet of straw. Apart from his tattered clothing, Fuga has only two possessions that Rafa knows of—a magazine clipping of a Miura bull and a small gold pendant with a serene, hand-painted likeness of Blessed Mother Mary.