Veterans Day brings thoughts of my Dad, who died of
cancer almost thirty years ago.
He was a
veteran of WW II, but never liked to talk about it.
I learned more about his service experiences
from letters he left behind, and
a WWII scrap book he kept.
He was the "accidental soldier" like so many other
GIs, ones who were drafted away from their families and friends. He was a most unlikely candidate for
warrior. Perhaps that is why he brought
his profession, photographer, with him, becoming a member of the Signal
Corps. But that doesn't mean he didn't
risk his life at times. He expressed not
only his fears in his letters, but his hope he was fighting a war to end all
wars as well. At the war's conclusion he
was delayed in Germany as part of the occupying force. I vaguely remember his return.
I have a deep respect for what he did, and for all
veterans who answered the call. The war that lives in my mind was the senseless
one in Vietnam.
From a killing field
then, to a top tourist attraction now.
My draft status at the time was 3-A as I was married and had a child. By
the time the draft lottery was instituted in 1969, I was exempt as I was born
before the 1944 birth-date cut off.
But
good friends of mine were called,
Bruce,
Ray, and
Ron, friends to this day.
I salute their service.
Soon after my Dad's death I wrote a tribute to him, a
recollection which tried to capture his essence and our relationship. I had called it "An Ordinary Man"
as his story is not exceptional, but one of a man who lived his life as best he
could, trying to do the right thing. Of
course to me he was anything but "ordinary."
Recently I felt that essay, written so many years before,
needed work, and I revised it, not only to be more accurate (the passage of
time helped recall details) but with the intention of submitting it to the
New York Times Magazine section as a
suitable piece for their "
Lives"
section. But I knew it was unlikely they would publish it as the paper tends to
be partial to professional writers or journalists.
And as they have not, I include it here.
It is really the story of how, or why, I did
not go into business with him, but I think it is a good depiction of him as
well.
So, in loving memory of my Dad, a veteran:
An Unspoken Obligation
Up Park Avenue we speed
to beat the lights from lower Manhattan in the small Ford station wagon with Hagelstein
Bros., Commercial Photographers since 1866, 100 Fifth Avenue, NY, NY imprinted
on its panels. The Queens Midtown Tunnel awaits us.
It is a summer in
the late 1950s and, once again, I’m working for my father after another high
school year. In the back of the wagon I share a small space with props, flood
lamps, and background curtains. The hot, midtown air, washed by exhaust fumes
and the smoke from my father’s perpetual burning cigarette, surround me.
My father’s brother
and partner, my Uncle Phil, occupies the passenger’s seat. They have made this
round trip, day-in and day-out since my father returned from WWII. They speak
of the city, its problems, the Russians, and politics disagreeing on most
matters. Meanwhile I sleepily daydream about where my friends and I will cruise
that evening in one of their cars, a 57’ Merc, probably Queens Blvd., winding
up at Jahn’s next to the RKO on Lefferts Boulevard.
The family
photography business was established right after the Civil War, soon after my
great-great grandfather, Carl, emigrated from Cologne, Germany with his
brother, settling in New York City.
Their portrait photography business at 142 Bowery flourished in the 19th
century. The 20th century
brought a new focus: commercial photography which necessitated moving to a
larger studio, better located, at 100 Fifth Avenue on the corner of 15th
Street. There the business remained
until the 1980’s, occupying the top floor.
My father took it
for granted that I was being groomed for the business, the next generation to
carry it on. Uncle Phil was a bachelor and since I was the only one with the
name to preserve the tradition, it would naturally fall to me.
This was such an
understood, implicit obligation, that nothing of a formal nature such as a
college education was needed to foster this direction. Simply, it was my job to
learn the business from the bottom up, working first as a messenger on the NY
City streets, delivering glossies to clients for salesmen’s samples, or for
catalog display at the annual Furniture Show. As a youngster, I roamed NYC by
subway and taxi with my deliveries without incident – after all, this was the
innocent, placid 50’s. Eventually, I
graduated to photographer’s assistant, adjusting lamp shades under the hot
flood lamps so the seams would not show, and, later, as an assistant in the
color lab, making prints, dodging negatives of a clients’ tables, lamps, and
sofas to minimize any overexposures.
I see my father
through the lens of his working life, revealing a personality normally
invisible to me. At home he was a more contemplative, private person, crushed
by a troubled marriage. My mother expected more, often reminding him of his
failures. But strolling down the halls of his photography business he is a
transformed person, smiling, extending his hand to a customer, kidding in his
usual way. “How’s Geschaft?” he would say.
His office overlooks
the reception area and there he, my Uncle, and his two cousins preside over a
sandwich and soda delivered from a luncheonette downstairs. I sit, listen, and
devour my big greasy burger. They discuss the business among themselves. Osmosis
was my mentor.
In spite of the
filial duty that prompted me to continue learning the photography business, I
inveigled his support to go to college – with the understanding I would major
in business. By then I think I knew going to school would be the first step
away from the family business, a step, once taken, would not be taken back. The
question was how to reveal this to him.
However, as
silently was the expectation that I would take over one day, my retreat was
equally furtive. We both avoided the topic as I went to college and yet
continued to work there during the summers. Once I switched majors from
business to the humanities, we both knew the outcome of the change, but still,
no discussion. This was territory neither he nor I wanted to visit at the time.
My reasons were instinctively
clear to me, in spite of the guilt I often felt. In the studio he was larger
than life, the consummate photographer, but he was also provincial in his
business thinking. He had bet the future on producing those prints for salesmen,
discounting the impact of the developing mass media. My opinion on the matter would mean little.
After all, he was my Dad and I was his kid. So I kept my silence and
progressively moved away.
Why he never
brought up the subject I will, now, never know, although I suspect he
understood I wanted to find my own way in life. Ultimately, I married and found
a job in publishing with an office, ironically, only three blocks from his
studio. I still occasionally joined him for that greasy burger at his office during
those first few years of my publishing career, his greeting me with a smile
when I arrived, “so, how’s Geschaft?
Recently I felt that essay, written so many years before,
needed work, and I revised it, not only to be more accurate (the passage of
time helped recall details) but with the intention of submitting it to the New York Times Magazine section as a
suitable piece for their "Lives"
section. But I knew it was unlikely they would publish it as the paper tends to
be partial to professional writers or journalists. And as they have not, I include it here. It is really the story of how, or why, I did
not go into business with him, but I think it is a good depiction of him as
well. So, in loving memory of my Dad, a veteran:
It is a summer in
the late 1950s and, once again, I’m working for my father after another high
school year. In the back of the wagon I share a small space with props, flood
lamps, and background curtains. The hot, midtown air, washed by exhaust fumes
and the smoke from my father’s perpetual burning cigarette, surround me.
On this Veterans Day I take a moment to remember my father who fought in WW II. He was a Signal Corps photographer, and although that doesn't sound very dangerous, he had his share of close calls, fears, and uncertainties. He did things he never imagined he'd be asked to do or see, such as having to film a German concentration camp as soon as it was liberated witnessing first-hand those demonic atrocities. Or having to go up in gliders to silently land near enemy lines, and, generally, having to be away from his wife (Penny) and young son (me). He rarely talked about those war years, preferring to just put that part of his life into a compartment, locking it and throwing away the key.
Now that he is long gone I regret not trying to talk to him more about the experience. I have some of his letters that he wrote to my mother and my Uncle and below I quote one of my favorite passages as it is so revealing. Towards the end of the War he wanted to get home so badly. Who could blame him? I'm sure all Veterans, current and past share those feelings.
