come to do it, his eldest son and daughter and their mother, Sarah, brought him each day, and returned him home each night; he failed for a week to complete his daily routine. He would be found on the back step, the shop never opened, or he would do his day’s work as if he were well, and Yousep but late in his own morning walk. Without help, the shop would stay closed…so he was walked, within their grasp, and they tried to sell his cameras. They would starve if the shop never opened. Papa’s son vowed it would not be allowed; so another youth, but a year older than Yousep’s tender fifteen, became master of the Reisman Portraits.
The police could turn no trace of the thug who lived in that awful basement hole under the stoop. The man quit his pubs, his mates never saw him, and he made no footprint in the grime at the bottom of his stair. The three people vanished from the street, and many said that at least two were gone from this world. With duties to uphold, the police questioned at least five who were known to do mischief in the neighborhood. The urchins, who lost one of their own, were questioned, for hope of clues. Papa was tormented the instant police came into the studio, hats in their hands and apologies on their lips, but please…could the old man but recount the awful tale again? We must learn what might help, and we have learned nothing -
Mama Sarah would try to comfort Papa, but those were the worst times for him, he would be ill the remainder of the day on the divan. But he was not always insensate, not always unable to walk. He would speak in volumes about the hiding and plans that the authorities would be called in the morning, but he would speak these things to the air in the room - not to persons around him, and he would be found standing amid the roses, wondering if Yousep were going to water that day. Papa was not completely mad, but he could not do any work.
Only a week after the shop was opened in his family’s care, he was found screaming in the darkroom closet. He did develop a plate, but wept for an hour, and would not let anyone have it. His son found Yousep’s camera on a stand in the studio within another day, and Papa forbid that it be moved.
Perhaps, they chanced to hope, he would find his lens and feel comforts from them, but his camera only looked into the empty room, never anything more. They let him try to work, yet the developing of the plates he exposed would bring a terrible rage, and it would be worse when the task was complete. Hours he would spend, in the closet, weeping at broken glass. They must leave him alone at those times, because to intervene was simply to do more harm. He would surprise them, by making a plate, then breaking the image, and would perhaps repeat his pains again a week later, perhaps two.
Several months passed in this fashion and the police no longer visited. The Kogens were gone, never to return to the shop. Papa would sit on his divan and speak with spirits, and he stepped to his camera almost never. He was far older in only the space of the summer turned to crisp fall. When the roses died off for the winter his grief came anew, and he cried, saying Yousep would miss them, they meant so much to the boy. Papa’s senses were leaving him.
In spring, he seemed much improved, suddenly about again, and walking the neighborhood. He was closer to his appointed times and could be expected to open the shop some days, but he still would often wander away when his children would come. Evening would fall, and Papa would enter the door before closing, and seem weary. The hope of spring did not last; he did not strengthen so well again. The weariness was seen more often after his walks, and then he stopped leaving at all, and he would not open the store.
Where had the Kogens gone? They fled the city; their sorrow unabated, and the questions caused too much pain. Mr. Kogen refused to admit the police into his home; he refused to return to the shop for
The police could turn no trace of the thug who lived in that awful basement hole under the stoop. The man quit his pubs, his mates never saw him, and he made no footprint in the grime at the bottom of his stair. The three people vanished from the street, and many said that at least two were gone from this world. With duties to uphold, the police questioned at least five who were known to do mischief in the neighborhood. The urchins, who lost one of their own, were questioned, for hope of clues. Papa was tormented the instant police came into the studio, hats in their hands and apologies on their lips, but please…could the old man but recount the awful tale again? We must learn what might help, and we have learned nothing -
Mama Sarah would try to comfort Papa, but those were the worst times for him, he would be ill the remainder of the day on the divan. But he was not always insensate, not always unable to walk. He would speak in volumes about the hiding and plans that the authorities would be called in the morning, but he would speak these things to the air in the room - not to persons around him, and he would be found standing amid the roses, wondering if Yousep were going to water that day. Papa was not completely mad, but he could not do any work.
Only a week after the shop was opened in his family’s care, he was found screaming in the darkroom closet. He did develop a plate, but wept for an hour, and would not let anyone have it. His son found Yousep’s camera on a stand in the studio within another day, and Papa forbid that it be moved.
Perhaps, they chanced to hope, he would find his lens and feel comforts from them, but his camera only looked into the empty room, never anything more. They let him try to work, yet the developing of the plates he exposed would bring a terrible rage, and it would be worse when the task was complete. Hours he would spend, in the closet, weeping at broken glass. They must leave him alone at those times, because to intervene was simply to do more harm. He would surprise them, by making a plate, then breaking the image, and would perhaps repeat his pains again a week later, perhaps two.
Several months passed in this fashion and the police no longer visited. The Kogens were gone, never to return to the shop. Papa would sit on his divan and speak with spirits, and he stepped to his camera almost never. He was far older in only the space of the summer turned to crisp fall. When the roses died off for the winter his grief came anew, and he cried, saying Yousep would miss them, they meant so much to the boy. Papa’s senses were leaving him.
In spring, he seemed much improved, suddenly about again, and walking the neighborhood. He was closer to his appointed times and could be expected to open the shop some days, but he still would often wander away when his children would come. Evening would fall, and Papa would enter the door before closing, and seem weary. The hope of spring did not last; he did not strengthen so well again. The weariness was seen more often after his walks, and then he stopped leaving at all, and he would not open the store.
Where had the Kogens gone? They fled the city; their sorrow unabated, and the questions caused too much pain. Mr. Kogen refused to admit the police into his home; he refused to return to the shop for
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