My dad used to hold the black box and look through it. There was a rectangle made of glass in the middle of it and a tall button on the side. Pushing the button down made a pleasant sound, longer than just a click, a circular sound, lulling and finite. My dad let me look through the black box’s little window, holding it by myself, while he covered my other eye. I got to see what he saw.
Through the little window, things seemed more distant — quieter and still, as if I were looking from the outside. As I held it I could feel its heaviness, the cold touch on my cheek, and its good smell … leather maybe, and something else… sweet… mysterious from foreign countries, where he had come from — before I was.
I watched my dad taking pictures. He would squint one eye, ready to push the button. For a moment, he looked like he was smiling, then the magical sound, and the moment was gone. Gently and quietly, he would put the black box inside the leather cover, back into darkness. He looked pensive and distant as if he were back in his foreign countries. He left me behind.
“Six weeks,” Mr. Eisenberg said. He was a photographer during the “evil war”. People said that he photographed Hitler. “You know, it’s so busy after the holidays… “ He said looking at my dad. “I hope this time the film is not so dark… I had to use special paper to print it last time, a special order from America… Check the light before you shoot, a camera is not a toy,” he said shifting his gaze to me, “not for little children… here….” he said with his German accent handing my dad a receipt, “take this so you won’t forget when to pick it up…”
While holding my hand, my dad put the receipt in his pocket, our two hands operated together like one, swinging up and down. His hands were big and dry; at times our palms were glued together and separated with a squeezing sound. I thought it was funny, but I didn’t laugh, to keep Mr. Eisenberg and his commentary out of it. Acting serious made it funnier, and as I held my giggle in I could hear my dad chuckle.
Six weeks we had to wait for the pictures to return. It was a long time to wait. I learned to name the continents of the world – all five of them; I saw America on the map, where the special paper came from, it had a boring shape, like a smashed box, not like the long elegant boot called Italy; my dog had five puppies, but four of them died; and I got my brother’s coat for the winter – it was really big and it was a boy’s coat, black with big brown buttons. Six weeks passed, my dad took the receipt out of his wallet, and we walked together hand in hand silently.
Mr. Eisenberg handed us a pile of pictures… “Don’t touch… careful… it just came out… let me put it near the ventilator… let it dry…” I was trying to reach over the high wooden counter when Mr. Eisenberg yelled, “it is not going to run away… patience … heaven’s sake… patience… this young generation has no time.” He pointed his finger at me and said to my dad, “no manners… no manners…” He sighed, “Where are the days when children knew how to behave?”
All his family had been killed, and he had a blue number on his arm — that’s why he was talking like that — we used to call him crazy-berg. Once we threw a dead lizard into his shop so we could see him standing outside yelling in that ugly language Hitler spoke. In the summer, he wore a shirt with one sleeve longer then the other so no one could see his number. I kept on trying to guess the number.
Going back home, while we were holding hands, I told my father about Mr. Eisenberg’s blue number. He didn’t say anything; he looked straight ahead and squeezed our hands tighter until they made that funny sound but he didn’t laugh. I knew what I said was wrong, but I couldn’t stop guessing the number. I was sure it was five digits, just like our telephone number: two numbers, a dash and three more. There were so many possibilities; I muttered them relentlessly hoping to somehow know when I reached the right sequence.
The picture we took is still with me. Mr. Eisenberg was right, it didn’t run anywhere… I look at the picture every morning; it hangs here, on my bathroom wall. It looks back at me every time I brush my teeth – the photo is here but the rest is gone. Mr. Eisenberg was left with a secret blue number, and I with a silent black and white picture.
Sometimes, I wish my dad were in the picture, so I could look at him. But every morning I get to look with him through the black box window at this picture — we freeze a black and white moment together. I can feel him standing close behind me, the cold touch of the camera on my cheek, the sweet leather smell, his hand covering one of my eyes, and my eye lid brushing against his palm — like a white sleeve brushing against a blue number.