The Fountains of Silence Read online

  ALSO BY RUTA SEPETYS

  Between Shades of Gray

  Out of the Easy

  Salt to the Sea

  PHILOMEL BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York

  First published in the United States of America by Philomel Books, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 by Ruta Sepetys.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Philomel Books is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

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  library of congress cataloging-in-publication data

  Names: Sepetys, Ruta, author. Title: The fountains of silence : a novel / Ruta Sepetys. Description: New York : Philomel Books, [2019] | Summary: At the Castellana Hilton in 1957 Madrid, eighteen-year-old Daniel Matheson connects with Ana Moreno through photography and fate as Daniel discovers the incredibly dark side of the city under Generalissimo Franco's rule. Identifiers: LCCN 2019018127| ISBN 9780399160318 (hardback) | ISBN 9780593116708 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593115251 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593174511 (eBook) Subjects: LCSH: Spain—History—20th century—Juvenile fiction. | CYAC: Madrid (Spain)—History—Fiction. | Spain—History—20th century—Fiction. | Dictatorship—Fiction. | Hotels, motels, etc—Fiction. | Photography—Fiction. | Secrets—Fiction. | Franco, Francisco, 1892-1975—Fiction. Classification: LCC PZ7.S47957 Fou 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019018127

  Ebook ISBN 9780698174511

  Edited by Liza Kaplan. Design by Ellice M. Lee. Text set in Bembo.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The oral history excerpts included herein contain the personal recollections and opinions of the individuals interviewed and are meant to provide historical context. The views expressed should not be considered official statements of the U.S. government or the Association for Diplomatic Studies and Training.

  Bullfighting was popular throughout Spain in the 1950s. Save the bulls. Learn more at PACMA.es.

  Version_1

  For Kristina and John

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Also by Ruta Sepetys

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Epigraph

  Part OneChapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Chapter 115

  Chapter 116

  Chapter 117

  Chapter 118

  Chapter 119

  Chapter 120

  Chapter 121

  Chapter 122

  Chapter 123

  Chapter 124

  Chapter 125

  Chapter 126

  Chapter 127

  Chapter 128

  Chapter 129

  Part TwoChapter 130

  Chapter 131

  Chapter 132

&nbs
p; Chapter 133

  Chapter 134

  Chapter 135

  Chapter 136

  Chapter 137

  Chapter 138

  Chapter 139

  Chapter 140

  Chapter 141

  Chapter 142

  Chapter 143

  Chapter 144

  Chapter 145

  Chapter 146

  Chapter 147

  Chapter 148

  Chapter 149

  Author’s Note

  Research and Sources

  Acknowledgments

  Glossary

  Photographs

  About the Author

  Everett Collection Historical / Alamy Stock Photo

  Francisco Franco's victory parade in Madrid celebrating his triumph in the Spanish Civil War. May 1939.

  The Spanish Civil War (1936–1939) began as a military revolt against the democratically elected Second Spanish Republic and continued as an armed conflict between the Nationalists and the Republicans. The Nationalists were led by Generalísimo Francisco Franco and aided by Hitler and Mussolini. The Republicans were led by the democratic government at the time and aided by Mexico, the Soviet Union, and volunteers from over fifty countries, with support from academics, creatives, workers, unions, and leftists. Internally divided, the Republicans were not able to stop the Nationalist advance and surrendered in March of 1939.

  Franco’s dictatorship lasted thirty-six years.

  We have only died if you forget us.

  —anonymous epitaph

  SPANISH CIVIL WAR MASS GRAVE

  PART ONE

  1957

  MADRID, SPAIN

  I’ve never been happy about sending an Ambassador to Spain, and I am not happy about it now, and unless Franco changes in his treatment of citizens who do not agree with him religiously I’ll be sorely tempted to break off all communication with him in spite of the defense of Europe.

  —HARRY S. TRUMAN, 33rd president of the United States

  August 2, 1951

  Memorandum from Truman to Secretary of State Dean Acheson

  Acheson Papers—Secretary of State File

  Truman Library Archives

  1

  They stand in line for blood.

  June’s early sun blooms across a string of women waiting patiently at el matadero. Fans snap open and flutter, replying to Madrid’s warmth and the scent of open flesh wafting from the slaughterhouse.

  The blood will be used for morcilla, blood sausage. It must be measured with care. Too much blood and the sausage is not firm. Too little and the sausage crumbles like dry earth.

  Rafael wipes the blade on his apron, his mind miles from morcilla. He turns slowly from the line of customers and puts his face to the sky.

  In his mind it is Sunday. The hands of the clock touch six.

  It is time.

  The trumpet sounds and the march of the pasodoble rolls through the arena.

  Rafael steps onto the sand, into the sun.

  He is ready to meet Fear.

  In the center box of the bullring sits Spain’s dictator, Generalísimo Francisco Franco. They call him El Caudillo—leader of armies, hero by the grace of God. Franco looks down to the ring. Their eyes meet.

  You don’t know me, Generalísimo, but I know you.

  I am Rafael Torres Moreno, and today, I am not afraid.

  * * *

  “Rafa!”

  The supervisor swats the back of Rafael’s damp neck. “Are you blind? There’s a line. Stop daydreaming. The blood, Rafa. Give them their blood.”

  Rafa nods, walking toward the patrons. His visions of the bullring quickly disappear.

  Give them their blood.

  Memories of war tap at his brain. The small, taunting voice returns, choking daydreams into nightmares. You do remember, don’t you, Rafa?

  He does.

  * * *

  The silhouette is unmistakable.

  Patent-leather men with patent-leather souls.

  The Guardia Civil. He secretly calls them the Crows. They are servants of Generalísimo Franco and they have appeared on the street.

  “Please. Not here,” whispers Rafael from his hiding spot beneath the trees.

  The wail of a toddler echoes above. He looks up and sees Julia at the open window, holding their youngest sister, Ana.

  Their father’s voice booms from inside. “Julia, close the window! Lock the door and wait for your mother. Where is Rafa?”

  “Here, Papá,” whispers Rafael, his small legs folded in hiding. “I’m right here.”

  His father appears at the door. The Crows appear at the curb.

  The shot rings out. A flash explodes. Julia screams from above.

  Rafa’s body freezes. No breath. No air.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  They drag his father’s limp corpse by an arm.

  “¡Papá!”

  It’s too late. As the cry leaves his throat, Rafa realizes. He’s given himself away.

  A pair of eyes dart. “His boy’s behind the tree. Grab him.”

  * * *

  Rafa blinks, blocking the painful memories, hiding his collapsed heart beneath a smile.

  “Buenos días, señora. How may I help you?” he asks the customer.

  “Blood.”

  “Sí, señora.”

  Give them their blood.

  For more than twenty years, Spain has given blood. And sometimes Rafa wonders—what is left to give?

  2

  It’s a lie.

  It has to be.

  I know what you’ve done.

  Ana Torres Moreno stands two levels belowground, in the second servants’ basement. She rips the small note to pieces, shoves them in her mouth, and swallows.

  A voice calls from the hall. “Hurry, Ana. They’re waiting.”

  Dashing through the windowless maze of stone walls, Ana wills herself to move faster. Wills herself to smile.

  A weak glow from a bare bulb whispers light onto the supply shelf. Ana spots the tiny sewing kit and throws it into her basket. She runs to the stairs and falls in step with Lorenza, who balances an assortment of cigarettes on a tray.

  “You look pale,” whispers Lorenza. “¿Estás bien?”

  “I’m fine,” replies Ana.

  Always say you’re fine, especially when you’re not, she reminds herself.

  The mouth of the stairway appears. Light from a crystal chandelier twinkles and beckons from the glittering hall.

  Their steps slow, synchronize, and in perfect unison they emerge onto the marble floor of the hotel lobby, faces full of smile. Ana scrolls her mental list. The man from New York will want a newspaper and matches. The woman from Pennsylvania will need more ice.

  Americans love ice. Some claim to have trays of cubed ice in their own kitchens. Maybe it’s possible. Ana sees advertisements for appliances in glossy magazines that hotel guests leave behind.

  Frigidaire! Rustproof aluminum shelving, controlled butter-ready.

  Whatever that means. Beyond Spain, all is a mystery.

  Ana hears every word, but guests would never know it. She scurries, filling requests quickly so visitors have no time to glance out of their world and into hers.

  Julia, the matriarch of their fractured family, issues constant reminders. “You trust too easily, Ana. You reveal too much. Stay silent.”

  Ana is tired of silence, tired of unanswered questions, and tired of secrets. A girl of patched pieces, she dreams of new beginnings. She dreams of leaving Spain. But her sister is right. Her dreams have p
roven dangerous.

  I know what you’ve done.

  “For once, follow the rules instead of your heart,” pleads her sister.

  Follow the rules. To be invisible in plain view and paid handsomely for it—five pesetas per hour—this is the plan. Her older brother, Rafael, works at both the slaughterhouse and the cemetery. Between two jobs he makes only twelve pesetas, twenty cents according to the hotel’s exchange desk, for an entire day’s work.

  Ana hands the sewing kit to the concierge and heads quickly for the staff elevator. The morning is gone, but her task list is growing. Summer season has officially arrived at the hotel, pouring thousands of new visitors into Spain. The elevator doors open to the seventh floor. Ana shifts the basket to her hip and hurries down the long corridor.

  “Towels for 760,” whispers a supervisor who shuttles past.

  “Towels for 760,” she confirms.

  Four years old, but to Ana, the American hotel smells new. Tucked into her basket is a stack of hotel brochures featuring a handsome bullfighter, a matador, holding a red cape. In fancy script across the cape is written:

  Castellana Hilton Madrid. Your Castle in Spain.

  Castles. She saw old postcards as a child. The haunting newsreel rolls behind her eyes:

  The tree-lined avenue of Paseo de la Castellana—home to Spanish royalty and grand palaces. And then, the bright images fade. 1936. Civil war erupts in Spain. War drains color from the cheeks of Madrid. The grand palaces become gray ghosts. Gardens and fountains disappear. So do Ana’s parents. Hunger and isolation cast a filter of darkness over the country. Spain is curtained off from the world.

  And now, after twenty years of nationwide atrophy, Generalísimo Franco is finally allowing tourists into Spain. Banks and hotels wrap new exteriors over old palace interiors. The tourists don’t know the difference. What lies beneath is now hidden, like the note disintegrating in her stomach.

  Ana reads the newspapers and magazines that guests discard. She memorizes the brochure to recite on cue.

  Formerly a palace, Castellana is the first Hilton property in Europe. Over three hundred rooms, each with a three-channel radio, and even a telephone.