Daniel nods. Of course. His father has an arrangement with Mr. Van Dorn and the embassy. A quiet safety net in the event of trouble. But there is no trouble. Is there? Ana said the crow-like guards don’t patrol the city center. But . . . Max Factor says he saw them today?
“Listen, forget about your dad’s motives,” says Ben. “People discouraged me from journalism too. But clearly, you’ve caught the bug. The stuff in this portfolio is as serious as my blood pressure.” Ben wipes sweat from his hammy brow. The speed of his lecture accelerates.
“Sincerity. It’s important. If you take photos with this type of sincerity you may as well be holding a gun. There’s a meaningful story here in Spain, a human story. But it’s virtually impossible to tell and even harder for an outsider to understand. You need to be smart about it. This is a dictatorship. Franco’s regime censors everything. Freedom of the press doesn’t exist here. And you better believe the censors read everything I write before I send it to New York. I’m too visible. But you . . . You!” Ben slams his hand on the table. A waiter comes running.
“We’re fine. Sorry, Pepe,” he tells the waiter.
He leans in to whisper. “But you. You can capture a real story here—a photo essay to show a different side of Spain than the one on the postcards. All the foreign correspondents are chasing the same threads—that Hitler survived and Franco smuggled him to South America; that Texaco secretly fueled Franco during the Spanish Civil War.”
Daniel’s eyes expand. “Are those things true?”
“Who cares if they’re true. That’s the wild boar everyone’s hunting so one day they’ll run it down. But they’re missing something. What about the people of Spain? What is life like under a dictatorship? What’s it like for young people when textbooks are government sponsored? What are their hopes and dreams when there are no free elections and only one religion?”
The waiter delivers their hamburgers and milkshakes. Ben gestures to the plate with his cigarette. “Everyone seems to understand what 1950s Middle America is like. They say it’s hamburgers and milkshakes, right? For years I’ve been trying to explain to the world what it’s like for the average person in Spain.”
Daniel looks at Ben, not certain he understands. Is he baiting him or trying to inspire him? “But life seems fine here. My mom’s Spanish and she claims Franco’s sympathetic. Nick says things are better now.”
“Franco’s an architect,” whispers Ben. “Maybe things are better than when the war ended, but wages here—they’re still lower than what they were in 1936. But that’s not the point.” Ben drills his finger on the cover of Daniel’s portfolio. “You’re a photographer, a storyteller. In a dozen pictures, you showed me ten layers of Texas. Choose an angle and show me ten layers of Madrid.”
Daniel stares at Ben, trying to interpret his comments. “And you’ll print my pictures in the Herald Tribune?”
“Hell no. I can’t do that. I’m the visiting correspondent here. I have to play by the rules. I’m knuckled by the censors. Why do you think it’s been so hard to tell this country’s story?” He pauses, looking over his shoulder. “But meaningful photos, human beings enduring hardship, that’ll get the attention of the Magnum judges. That’ll win you the cash prize and get you to J-School. And who knows, when you get back to Dallas you might happen to stumble upon a contact for LIFE magazine. Madrid through the eyes of a young American—pretty interesting stuff, don’t you think?”
LIFE.
Daniel sits, frozen, not willing to believe what Ben is suggesting. A potential photo essay in LIFE magazine? Robert Capa, Eugene Smith, Gerda Taro—all of his heroes shot in Spain. LIFE printed their photos. The image of the nun with the baby returns to Daniel. Why is he hesitant to tell Ben about it?
Ben takes a wide bite of the hamburger. He removes a package of Bisma-Rex antacids from his pocket and sets it on the table. His voice returns to a whisper.
“Focus your lens on the Spanish people,” Ben lifts his cigarette and points it at Daniel, “but don’t be stupid. There is a dark side here. Sure, they’re selling sunshine and castanets to the tourists. But that’s not all Franco’s selling. One wrong move and the police will be on you. You’ll be dead in a dirt pit.”
The major thrust, I think, of the Political Section was to give to Washington an idea of how the ordinary Spaniards were living under the regime, how they felt toward it, and what the regime’s relationships with the European countries were. Obviously, Spain’s relations with us at that time were somewhat controversial since there were many people in this country, particularly in the Congress, who felt strongly unfavorable to the Franco regime.
—STUART W. ROCKWELL, U.S. political section chief, Madrid (1952–1955)
Oral History Interview Excerpt, October 1988
Foreign Affairs Oral History Collection
Association for Diplomatic Studies and Training
Arlington, VA www.adst.org
One of the amusing things to me was that there was a ministry called The Ministry of Information and Tourism headed by an old line Falangist who I am sure hadn’t had a new idea in a long while. On the one hand he was the chief censor, that’s what information meant. Information did not mean giving out information, it meant control of information.
—FRANK ORAM, U.S. public affairs officer, USIS, Madrid (1959–1962)
Oral History Interview Excerpt, April 1989
Foreign Affairs Oral History Collection
Association for Diplomatic Studies and Training
Arlington, VA www.adst.org
20
Julia carries a package wrapped in stiff brown paper. Before she arrives at the open door, she hears the baby begin to cry. “Mamá is coming, Lali.”
Her husband, Antonio, carries the infant back and forth across the earthen floor. The slight drag of his left foot is a teenage souvenir, courtesy of the Guardia Civil. At fourteen, Antonio and his friends thought they were mature. They shared cigarettes, analyzing Spain’s political straitjacket, and whether Franco was using memories of the war to control the population. Their secret conversation resulted in brutal beatings that cost one boy an eye, another his teeth, and Antonio his gait.
Julia closes the door. A tin kerosene lamp dangles from a wire stapled to the sagging ceiling. Absent the daylight from the door, the only remaining light in the room comes from the primitive lamp and a small broken window.
“Why are you home so early?” asks Antonio, concern striping his face. “And why are you closing the door? It’s too hot.”
Julia kisses her husband and the baby. She sets the papered bundle on a chair and reaches into a crate for a piece of folded fabric. With a flick of her wrists the fabric billows and settles over the scarred wooden table. “Luis sent us out of the shop. An American actress wanted to discuss a custom cape. She requested privacy.”