History
by William—Age 44—St. Paul, MN
I worked on the archive for a year, and felt I knew the man whose papers I cataloged. The collection started with birth, ended with death. All he’d done was meticulously stored in a series of boxes. These had to be examined before his wealthy family donated them to the historical society. They wanted to know what was there before they opened the collection to public scrutiny. He’d been an artist. He painted, composed. His work wasn’t great, though he did possess one great talent: he supported artists, people whose work would stand the test of time.
The snapshot was in a box of miscellaneous photographs. It was small, black and white, creased. On the reverse it read: Munich, 1942. There were three figures. I recognized two of them: the philanthropist’s brother and sister. They stood with a third figure next to a plane. It was the plane’s logo, repeated on the third figure’s shirt, that startled me. The plane, the man’s uniform, were covered in swastikas. It was inexplicable. I started its database entry and froze when it came time for a description.
It should have been simple. I’d catalog it. Someday, some historian would explore the archive and come across this photograph that seemed without context.
It could have been simple. I’d destroy it. History was filled with gaps in narrative that historians filled in as they could. I’d become a part of the making of that unstable canvass. The philanthropist was a good man. Was there value in preserving his name? Was this the price? As a child, I believed in absolutes. The urge, programmed into us, is learned not by questions, but by route. As an adult, I learned the power of ambiguity.
Daylight was fading. I switched on a lamp. It illuminated the photograph. His sister’s smile was graceful. His brother was laughing. Even the Nazi looked friendly. He may have had a family. He was somebody’s son. In this, the void that divided him from me, from anyone, was not so vast; this truth was disquieting.
I put on my jacket, reached for the photo, stopped. How would history judge these people? How would it judge me if I stole the photograph? If I didn’t? I heard a bus rush by and looked up to see it moving toward my stop. I hurried for the door.
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