“Komm, Mutti, lass uns Fotos von Vati angucken,” Elena said and took out one of the books of Hugo’s photographs that she owned. They sat flush against each other. The candles were lit; they had lit them at midnight, singing “Stille Nacht” one more time. Soon they would have to put them out. It wasn’t safe.
Elena had all of Hugo’s work. Eva had a few random photos, here and there, mostly of her daughter. Maybe one or two of Hugo and of herself. But Elena had books and books of Hugo’s work. She was the legal manager of his estate and the sole beneficiary. Eva had been named estate manager and beneficiary when Hugo died, but as soon as Elena was old enough, she gave the responsibility to her daughter. Elena was a better person for the job. There were the occasional requests to reprint his work, and even requests to include a photo in a show. Elena had organized a beautiful retrospective of his work five years ago, too. That was the last time Eva had really looked at his pictures. And even then, she didn’t look much—she glanced more than looked.
She knew he was a good photographer, but she didn’t care so much. So often, his picture taking seemed a way of not dealing with the world. Hiding behind the camera, trying to capture his subjects, and giving nothing of himself. Photography wasn’t a brave art. Perhaps no art was brave. Perhaps it was always a way of hiding oneself and stealing from others.
The book Elena had out was mostly family photos. Carefully printed, black-and-white pictures on thick paper. First came photos of Eva and Elena. Eva with her daughter, who was five at the time, in the backyard of their house. Eva’s hair, still thick and blonde, her skin smooth. Gravity had not called yet. Was she twenty-three in those pictures? Something like that. Wearing a dirndl she remembered well, a green, flowered bodice, a lavender apron. Her breasts were high and round, showing at the top of her dress. In the pictures, Elena could barely sit still. She had been a child! Eva knew she’d been a child, but to think of it too much was painful. Then came more photos of Elena: Elena in the kitchen, her head cocked sideways, a piece of fruit in her hand. A painfully huge grin. Elena quiet, a rare thing for her—she’d been such an active girl—sitting on her bed, naked, right after a bath.
And there were many photos of Eva. One photo was of her face, up so close that she looked strange, as if she were staring at her pores in the mirror. Eva hated that picture of herself. And Eva naked in bed, right after he’d made love to her. Eva in the kitchen, cooking. Eva in the backyard, reading. There were photos of Christa Wolf, the writer, a friend of Hugo’s. And of Fred Wander, another writer. Strange, how Hugo mostly socialized with writers. Strange how young they all were. It almost seemed impossible.
And then the photos jumped to years later.
Eva asked, “Was machen diese Fotos in diesem Album? Sie sind von viel später.”
“I know. But they are of Liezel. And I put them in, because she is family. And with Maggie coming, I thought it would be nice to have them.”
Liezel, during the one and only visit she made to Berlin. Right before she moved to Paris, where she then met Fred. Her dark hair, shiny and healthy, framing her face. Her eyes—she was all eyes. Slightly turned up on the sides—cat’s eyes. She had grown to be even more beautiful than Eva. Her baby sister. And then more photos of her, many without her clothes. Liezel in the guest room, naked, looking straight at the camera, but shyly covering her childish breasts. Liezel in the yard, sunning topless. Liezel, sitting up, most likely on top of him, her face covered by her hair, her body contorted with passion.
Well, it was the sixties, the beginning of them at least. That was what Eva thought, if she had the misfortune of thinking about that time. Both she and Hugo had lovers. Why did her sister feel like such a betrayal then? Her sister. Her baby sister. She didn’t know where to direct the anger, toward Hugo or Liezel. She was furious that they made her hate them, because she did hate them. For a very long time. But not forever—how could she hate them forever? Hugo died; Liezel moved so far away. Everything changed. Other things became important.
But looking at these photos on Christmas Eve, the blackness came over her. She wished it away. She prayed without saying a word. God, make it stop. The hate. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, she looked at Elena. Elena—her eyes hard. Eva hated her. An image of herself bashing her daughter’s head into the table came over her. She was outside of herself now, looking down on herself and Elena. She exhaled hard—she had been holding her breath. Mother and daughter held each other’s gaze. Then Eva grabbed Elena’s skinny forearm and pushed it down on the table, holding it there. She wanted to kill her, but at least she would maybe bruise her. Despite Elena’s youth, Eva knew she could physically dominate her. She knew she was bigger, and crazier. She had that blackness, the thing that hardens the heart cells.
“Au, Mutti, du tust mir weh!” Elena said, trying to pull her arm away from her mother’s grasp.
“Warum heute Abend?” Eva asked, leaning into her daughter, her grip strong. Elena’s hard eyes changed—she was afraid. Good.
