suggests romance, if only for fleeting moments.
‘If only…if only.’ Henry repeats the words, insistently: ‘If only…if only…’
Henry brings other photos in a black plastic bag when we next meet. He spreads them out on our usual table: Sonia at family gatherings surrounded by grandchildren. They are sturdy men and she, dwarfed by them, pale and hesitant.
There are photos of the grandchildren as infants, the Nissen clan expanding. The boys and their wives and girlfriends are seated at dining room tables covered in white cloths, with birthday cakes and grandchildren leaning over to blow out candles; and beside the cakes, white plates stacked in readiness for distribution.
A photo of Sonia by the kitchen stove, tending the food, an apron over her dress, her hair covered by a scarf. She looks like a babushka. And a group photo of the Nissens: Simche and Sonia standing behind the sofa, ageing patriarch and matriarch. Simche leans in towards her. Their cheeks are almost touching, and Sonia is almost yielding.
A photo taken in earlier times: the family on a summer outing in forest surroundings. Solly, Leon and Henry in shorts and sandals. Paul kneels in front. His arms are wrapped aroundSandra, the toddler. Between the older boys are Simche and Sonia. She wears a cotton dress. Her shoulders are slumped forward. Her face is pale, and ghostly. She stands slightly in front of her husband, yet she appears to be receding, fading into the forest behind him.
Sonia is both present and elsewhere. Her image suggests another dimension, a state of limbo. She is a bewildered soul in search of a way home, a foundation.
There is a photo of the family at the beach: Sonia and Simche with the pale faces and white bodies of the inner-city dweller, the factory worker. The children are darker. They are of a newer world. Henry remembers none of this.
And a photo of a wedding party, taken outdoors. It is summer. The men stand in open-necked shirts, and the women in light dresses. Henry, the groom, is dressed in a white shirt, white trousers and white jacket. He stands between his bride and his father. Simche wears a light grey suit, with a white carnation pinned to the lapel. Sandra, in her teens, is seated in front, cross-legged, and a bearded Leon stands in the back row, holding one of his two infants. The other is snuggled against Sandra.
Sonia stands in the back row beside her husband, enfolded in family. She wears an off-white dress and a matching jacket, with padded shoulders. She is more present than she appears in other photos. Almost grounded. This has been, her wan smile implies, a day worth living.
‘Mum, poor girl,’ says Henry.
He does not deviate. He will always talk of her good nature. He will insist that the four brothers and sister remained loyal,protective of themselves and of each other, subscribers to an unspoken pact—a collective response to a common peril.
‘Mum, poor girl. She taught us compassion. She made us grow up quickly. And made us able to take on the world.’
18
Some streets away from the house at 212 a woman sat on a veranda holding a jar of boiled lollies. From time to time she rose to her feet and stepped up to the fence to make her offering. She held the lollies in her upturned palm to passing children. She did not speak, but she sat in the chair with a shy smile, and an expression of childish wonder. The children accepted the sweets gladly. They called her the lolly woman.
She was middle aged but looked older. She was short and wiry, her hair prematurely white, her nose and chin sharp and angular. In winter she was rugged up in a wool coat that made her appear even smaller.
On summer days she wore short-sleeved dresses. Thechildren were struck by the tattooed numbers on her forearm. The dark-blue ink stood out against the white skin. The ugly asymmetry of the six figures spoke of a world they had glimpsed in reruns of wartime newsreels. The tattoo haunted them.
Her husband was never seen,
‘If only…if only.’ Henry repeats the words, insistently: ‘If only…if only…’
Henry brings other photos in a black plastic bag when we next meet. He spreads them out on our usual table: Sonia at family gatherings surrounded by grandchildren. They are sturdy men and she, dwarfed by them, pale and hesitant.
There are photos of the grandchildren as infants, the Nissen clan expanding. The boys and their wives and girlfriends are seated at dining room tables covered in white cloths, with birthday cakes and grandchildren leaning over to blow out candles; and beside the cakes, white plates stacked in readiness for distribution.
A photo of Sonia by the kitchen stove, tending the food, an apron over her dress, her hair covered by a scarf. She looks like a babushka. And a group photo of the Nissens: Simche and Sonia standing behind the sofa, ageing patriarch and matriarch. Simche leans in towards her. Their cheeks are almost touching, and Sonia is almost yielding.
A photo taken in earlier times: the family on a summer outing in forest surroundings. Solly, Leon and Henry in shorts and sandals. Paul kneels in front. His arms are wrapped aroundSandra, the toddler. Between the older boys are Simche and Sonia. She wears a cotton dress. Her shoulders are slumped forward. Her face is pale, and ghostly. She stands slightly in front of her husband, yet she appears to be receding, fading into the forest behind him.
Sonia is both present and elsewhere. Her image suggests another dimension, a state of limbo. She is a bewildered soul in search of a way home, a foundation.
There is a photo of the family at the beach: Sonia and Simche with the pale faces and white bodies of the inner-city dweller, the factory worker. The children are darker. They are of a newer world. Henry remembers none of this.
And a photo of a wedding party, taken outdoors. It is summer. The men stand in open-necked shirts, and the women in light dresses. Henry, the groom, is dressed in a white shirt, white trousers and white jacket. He stands between his bride and his father. Simche wears a light grey suit, with a white carnation pinned to the lapel. Sandra, in her teens, is seated in front, cross-legged, and a bearded Leon stands in the back row, holding one of his two infants. The other is snuggled against Sandra.
Sonia stands in the back row beside her husband, enfolded in family. She wears an off-white dress and a matching jacket, with padded shoulders. She is more present than she appears in other photos. Almost grounded. This has been, her wan smile implies, a day worth living.
‘Mum, poor girl,’ says Henry.
He does not deviate. He will always talk of her good nature. He will insist that the four brothers and sister remained loyal,protective of themselves and of each other, subscribers to an unspoken pact—a collective response to a common peril.
‘Mum, poor girl. She taught us compassion. She made us grow up quickly. And made us able to take on the world.’
18
Some streets away from the house at 212 a woman sat on a veranda holding a jar of boiled lollies. From time to time she rose to her feet and stepped up to the fence to make her offering. She held the lollies in her upturned palm to passing children. She did not speak, but she sat in the chair with a shy smile, and an expression of childish wonder. The children accepted the sweets gladly. They called her the lolly woman.
She was middle aged but looked older. She was short and wiry, her hair prematurely white, her nose and chin sharp and angular. In winter she was rugged up in a wool coat that made her appear even smaller.
On summer days she wore short-sleeved dresses. Thechildren were struck by the tattooed numbers on her forearm. The dark-blue ink stood out against the white skin. The ugly asymmetry of the six figures spoke of a world they had glimpsed in reruns of wartime newsreels. The tattoo haunted them.
Her husband was never seen,
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