interviews. Mama Sarah Reisman was blessed for her visits but after a time she was also turned away. Yousep’s mother took to her bed, with ill grief; they mourned their only son, and could not be comforted. They packed, and left for Chicago, and they would never see New York City again.
Papa found a use for his hands and it was never cameras again. But he would saw a little wood on the back step, and began to carve it. Even on cold days he might be out there, making his designs. When he finished his family was well pleased, he made two sturdy boxes with lids hinged in brass, and two delicate locks on their face. They were beautiful as Yousep’s Waterbury, and the same color of stain. Papa loved those boxes, for they had a purpose and he guarded them well. To move them would make him cross, so they were not touched. On his best days he would putter about the shop, ask for a bit of paper, once he begged for some fine silk. His daughter would run his small errand, find him his little things to busy his hands and he would take them and smile, calling her “ Malekh,” Angel, something he was never known to call her.
Soon the Waterbury left the dusty stand in the studio, and Papa was seen to place it in one of the chests, satisfied he had done very well; the camera was perfectly fit. Into this chest were placed two glass plates, and they were wrapped in a fine red cloth, but other cherished things were placed thoughtfully inside. The image of Yousep at his roses, and the smile of love upon his face, that paper went in as well. Nothing else came out of the chest, once hidden within it. Papa would remove the photograph often and show it to his family, speaking gentle words he would not be cross, when the boy returned to his work.
His devotion to the dead child made them weep to see it. He would not believe Yousep was dead, but they must - the boy never returned to his home. That clerk was not a lad to leave his parents in torment unknowing. Only a dead child would never go back home for the comfort of his grieving parents. A living child would do no such thing. But Papa spoke to Yousep often and to a girl he would not name, and he spoke as sweet to this child as he might one of his own. Papa spoke to ghosts, and the neighborhood was becoming aware, the old man was fading into madness.
The last day he was known to speak with a clear mind, Papa left the back of the studio and was gone the entire afternoon. His family was frantic; he was unable, for weeks before, to walk about and would be lost in his own neighborhood. They searched without luck, and they were again talking to police in the front of the store, when Papa suddenly came in from the cold. He walked passed his teary wife and went to the divan to fall asleep. It was never explained where he had gone, none of the other shops or neighbors glimpsed him out on his strange walk. It would be his last moments of control; within another year, Menashe Reisman died in the studio on his divan, unhealed grief in his heart.
The shop was closed but a day when he died. They spent all their grief long before his passing, and it was no slight upon the memory of the old man, no one thought ill that his family paused so brief a moment. After he passed, the neighborhood blessed the family for their love and their care, he could rest and they could hold up his good name.
The holding of his name became the greatest burden to the eldest son of Menashe and Sarah Reisman, for as it was first hinted, they never knew Yousep kept a girl in that shop, and, Papa had other secrets. The Reisman Portraits might live into many generations beyond him, but Papa’s oldest son would wonder at times, should he burn it to the ground…and forget the ash that it made?
CHAPTER SIX
The Reisman family still owned the lovely little building, the slums driven out by new hands and convenience; the decades changed the slums from squalor to quaint comfort for its residents. A few
Papa found a use for his hands and it was never cameras again. But he would saw a little wood on the back step, and began to carve it. Even on cold days he might be out there, making his designs. When he finished his family was well pleased, he made two sturdy boxes with lids hinged in brass, and two delicate locks on their face. They were beautiful as Yousep’s Waterbury, and the same color of stain. Papa loved those boxes, for they had a purpose and he guarded them well. To move them would make him cross, so they were not touched. On his best days he would putter about the shop, ask for a bit of paper, once he begged for some fine silk. His daughter would run his small errand, find him his little things to busy his hands and he would take them and smile, calling her “ Malekh,” Angel, something he was never known to call her.
Soon the Waterbury left the dusty stand in the studio, and Papa was seen to place it in one of the chests, satisfied he had done very well; the camera was perfectly fit. Into this chest were placed two glass plates, and they were wrapped in a fine red cloth, but other cherished things were placed thoughtfully inside. The image of Yousep at his roses, and the smile of love upon his face, that paper went in as well. Nothing else came out of the chest, once hidden within it. Papa would remove the photograph often and show it to his family, speaking gentle words he would not be cross, when the boy returned to his work.
His devotion to the dead child made them weep to see it. He would not believe Yousep was dead, but they must - the boy never returned to his home. That clerk was not a lad to leave his parents in torment unknowing. Only a dead child would never go back home for the comfort of his grieving parents. A living child would do no such thing. But Papa spoke to Yousep often and to a girl he would not name, and he spoke as sweet to this child as he might one of his own. Papa spoke to ghosts, and the neighborhood was becoming aware, the old man was fading into madness.
The last day he was known to speak with a clear mind, Papa left the back of the studio and was gone the entire afternoon. His family was frantic; he was unable, for weeks before, to walk about and would be lost in his own neighborhood. They searched without luck, and they were again talking to police in the front of the store, when Papa suddenly came in from the cold. He walked passed his teary wife and went to the divan to fall asleep. It was never explained where he had gone, none of the other shops or neighbors glimpsed him out on his strange walk. It would be his last moments of control; within another year, Menashe Reisman died in the studio on his divan, unhealed grief in his heart.
The shop was closed but a day when he died. They spent all their grief long before his passing, and it was no slight upon the memory of the old man, no one thought ill that his family paused so brief a moment. After he passed, the neighborhood blessed the family for their love and their care, he could rest and they could hold up his good name.
The holding of his name became the greatest burden to the eldest son of Menashe and Sarah Reisman, for as it was first hinted, they never knew Yousep kept a girl in that shop, and, Papa had other secrets. The Reisman Portraits might live into many generations beyond him, but Papa’s oldest son would wonder at times, should he burn it to the ground…and forget the ash that it made?
CHAPTER SIX
The Reisman family still owned the lovely little building, the slums driven out by new hands and convenience; the decades changed the slums from squalor to quaint comfort for its residents. A few
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