The illustration features a handsome family around a table in an American kitchen. Everything sparkles, especially their smiles. But the ad is annotated. A large arrow points to an appliance. Above it is written, REFRIGERATOR—ELECTRICALLY WARMED THERMOSTAT, CONTROLLED BUTTER-READY. Thought bubbles are drawn over the family members’ heads, exclaiming:
“Ana! We like ice!”
“Have any more ice?”
“Hooray for ice!”
And over the man’s head is written, “Ana, I have an idea!”
Relief floods through her. It’s a joke. From Daniel. She smiles and begins to laugh. A mirror on the wall hands back her reflection and the laughter knots into a catch of breath. The jeweled gowns shimmer next to her dark hair and olive skin. Expensive fabric has never touched Ana’s body, has never draped across her shoulders. She suddenly thinks not of herself but of someone else.
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.”