History in the Making #photography #history #shortstory

Looking back I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like had I not chosen to study journalism. I was the only women in a class of twenty five males. Oh there were a few who kept their arrogance in the closet, but the testosterone was thick. My aunt scolded me like the Ukrainian mama she was. “Angelica what are you thinking? That is a man’s world. Women are not welcome.” My aunt understood life in a man’s world she had suffered and lost much as a Jewess fleeing Ukraine in the ‘30s with a little girl – my mother. I remember as a child seeing her cradle  pictures of loved ones long gone. She wanted a safer world for me. I wanted adventure.

I squealed like a child when I opened the gift from my aunt’s visit to Eastern Europe. “Europe is struggling, picking up the pieces. It’s a great time to find bargains. I overheard that you needed this. It was too good to pass up sérce moje.”  I smiled she always called me that; it was Ukrainian for “my heart.”  I held the precious gift, it was black, and it fit perfectly in my hands. My first Leica wasn’t new but it was mine to capture photographs that no one else caught. “Now if I can shoot something that I can get in a newspaper – any newspaper.” I winked at my dearest aunt. My first roll of film was of my family; of course auntie was the first shot. Mother was so grateful for those pictures. Not long after, auntie died. I can’t tell you how many times, when I looked at her portrait, I heard her say “change the world sérce moje.

I got so frustrated at times I would stomp and huff wishing I were a man. “Another female assignment?” I would say under my breath to the assistant editor. I hated them:  modeling sessions, back stage at the ballet,  a myriad of “safe” stuff.  I wanted to be in the seedy parts of town when all hell broke loose. I held my Leica and dreamed of getting the perfect shot that would grace the cover of Newsweek and gain acclaim in the world of  journalism. In spite of the editor, I was getting my work in the university’s paper; the San Francisco Tribune had a few of my pieces as well. Nothing on the front page – yet. “We will do this won’t we?” I’d stroke my Leica and she seemed to purr with assurance.

A national magazine contacted my editor and asked if they could use several of my shots from a local story I had covered about demonstrations at Berkeley. Then it happened, I was shopping in the Haight district when there was a huge drug bust. “Stop that Pig!” a long-haired guy with baggy pants and sandals yelled as mattresses were being tossed into the streets. He spat on an officer as he was roughly being shoved into a van; a girl not more than fourteen was thrown in next to him. Too bad I couldn’t capture odors. The smell of burnt rope filled my nostrils. I didn’t understand the drug culture, but I knew instinctively what police brutality looked like. I had the full story in pictures – several magazines wanted it.  It wasn’t the cover of Newsweek –I was getting closer.

I was up late developing some of my pictures from a recent tour of historical homes and buildings in San Francisco. I loved working with chemicals in an orange lit closet. I refused to send my work out if I messed up there was no one to blame but myself. “These aren’t mine,” I looked at pictures of ghost-like figures. “It can’t be that late” I looked at the hands of the clock reminding myself not to rub my eyes. “They aren’t my style. Where did these come from?” I whispered to my Leica. My journalist’s curiosity got the best of me. Even though I had a deadline, I needed to know what these negatives were of.

I lined up the pictures a dozen of them; they told a story of people wearing ragged clothes some with stars on their sleeves. I couldn’t count the number of people was so great. They were lined up along the edge of a ditch in a forested area. There were little ones clutching their mamas and elderly couples clinging in desperation to each other. I could feel them: the unspoken words, the terror, and the pleas for mercy. Mercy fell flat on the dark, sinister backdrop. Cars and trucks, swastika laden, were in the wings of this evil performance… I gasped, feeling chilled to my bones. When I was finished, I held a story in my grasp. It wasn’t pleasant; it had not been told in the media. One of the pictures made my stomach wretch. It was the up close face of a young man as blood spurted from his head. He didn’t seem to fit into the scene. He wasn’t in uniform, wasn’t in ragged clothing like the Jews, but the terrain told me he was there. I noticed a pin; I couldn’t see it clearly. I went back to work and blew up the picture. It was a pin from the Eaton insignia and a year. “Who is this? I need to find out.” I spent weeks researching, asking questions, looking for teachers from Eaton who may recognize the face. As I fingered my Leica, words were whispered in my ear “she’s a good and faithful friend this Leica.” A strong English accent echoed in my mind. “Could this man have been the original owner of my Leica?” I wondered. “Maybe he was a photojournalist.”

I finally spoke with a teacher from Eaton who gave me a name -“Thomas Dewy. He was a devil in school but we all liked him just the same.”  Then I talked to a journalist who had worked with Thomas. “He got the angles that others didn’t; he took absurd risks to get those angles. One day we couldn’t locate him; we were in Ukraine it was dicey. We all had fake passports in case we got caught. All we knew was he got a tip; that guy always went for the tips. We knew the Germans would be merciless. Based on the picture, you tell me about, it appears to be a point blank execution of a village and a journalist. Oh Tommy – you fool!” I could hear the journalist shudder. Instinct told me there was more to this story; a story that  might never be told. “Good luck with your story, Angelica. Tommy would be grateful if his sacrifice meant something.” I heard a voice “tell the world sérce moje.”

I took time in getting the story that the pictures told. I met Ukrainians who had fled to America. They always seemed to get the worse end of the Russians and any invader. All those I interviewed  had family who had died. Each one carried the sorrow of the ages in his or her eyes. I was directed to a young man who escaped Kortelisy the very day the pictures were taken. “Will my interview break the shred of sanity he holds onto?” I asked my Leica. Demetri, Dema for short, had that barren, hollow look. “I must tell you for in telling my sorrow might be weakened. Yes I remember that place well. My papa took me out hunting in those woods. He died in the woods he loved with my mother and babushka and moy sistra. See them that is my family huddled next to the Rabinski family.” When I asked how he fled he looked guilty. “I was in love with a girl in another silo (village.) Her family had let me take her on a picnic. We laughed because there was such a little amount of food. We enjoyed telling stories of childhood and pretended to eat too much. I was told to stay the night as rumors of the black demons scouring the countryside  were spread around her village. That night I heard cries, ghosts of my people calling for vengeance against this evil. I was too late to help.” I thought Dema would be unable to continue. His face seemed to age with the furrows of an old man. “The next morning I was put under the hay on a rickety farmer’s cart. He took me as far as he could without questions.” “Run away and tear that yellow poison off your jacket,” the kind farmer instructed. “Hurry! He cried as I looked back with thanks. The jacket was so old the arm ripped off.  I ran. Each night, as I slept, I heard the voices. They will never stop Miss Angelica.” Dema was able to give me the names of each of the people in the pictures. He had actually met Tommy and told me he had a funny way of talking.

There were moments in the dark room when I heard a voice. A male with an accent. I listened carefully. I wanted to speak to him but I did not. He told me names, places, facts…. I travelled to Europe. I looked in city after city for his safe deposit box. Sometimes I heard a voice in alleys. I wanted to turn around and see his smile. When I found the safe deposite box I smiled – our Leica had the combination for the safe deposit box inscribed on her belly. The safe deposit box was filled with film canisters. “Oh Tommy, I’m sorry you had to see these things. We will finish this for you my friend.” I wept one night as the last of his negatives were developed. Tommy and my Leica had suffered to bring a story that revealed atrocity to the world. I spoke to the ghost of a man a lot in my dark room. I pieced it together. The last manila envelope was sealed and ready for delivery to Newsweek. A water stain was evident to an observant eye. A tear for those who had suffered and died; a tear for a man who lovingly stroked his Leica with his last breath, a tear for a friend I would never know. Fortunately, the editor at Newsweek had known Tommy; they had competed for the same stories as young reporters. He was more than willing for Tommy and I to get the credit for the stories the Leica’s pictures told.

I not only got my dream of cover shots on Newsweek; I  seemed to always get the best shots of history in the making. Some photojournalists blamed the ghost of Tommy Dewy; I just smiled at the pictures of him holding our Leica. He chuckled back. Years went by and some of Tommy’s, by now, famous shots hung in the memorial for the victims of the holocaust in Jerusalem. Dema had contacted me several times over the years thanking me each time as if I had saved him from something. When the holocaust memorial was built, he told me the ghosts haunted him no more. He had named his first son Thomas. One night I awoke and for the last time heard a voice it was soft and sweet it was her “you told the world sérce moje ~thank you!”

October 24, 2011 | Categories: Short Stories | Tags: Leica, Massacre, moodustwriter, Ukraine, World War 2 | 3 Comments »