Authors: Roger Barry
‘Paris is a city for lovers’ she replied matter of fact, ‘do you have a lover?’
‘Oh em, well I donno, I ah, I’m not sure’ he stammered. Tom was a little embarrassed at having an octogenarian ask him about his relationships.
Ella gave a low chuckle.
‘You don’t know? Well Tom, I hate to break this to you, but if you don’t know, I’m afraid you haven’t’.
‘When did you come to the States?’ he asked, hoping to change the subject.
‘Oh, a long time ago, nineteen fifty three to be exact. I spent the first few years in New York, then moved up here to Boston when I got offered a better job. Been here ever since.’
‘Oh right. And what brought you to the US, did work get scarce in Paris, or were you just looking for a new experience?’
Ella’s features became slightly strained, Tom noticed, and he went to change the subject.
‘Sorry, I can be a bit forward sometimes. Forget I asked.’
Ella didn’t speak for a bit, as if she was mulling something over in her head, searching for words.
To Tom’s surprise, when she finally did speak, those words caught him completely off guard.
She spoke uninterrupted for quite some time. When she had finished, she looked over at Tom.
‘You know, I don’t know why I told you my story. I’ve never spoken about it to anyone. It’s funny that you Tom, a neighbor who I’ve only known briefly, are the only other person left living in the world who knows the story of my life’.
Suddenly, Tom’s cell phone erupted. He felt relief at the interruption, because he got the uneasy feeling that he’d just been witness to something that he was maybe not entitled to hear.
‘Hello?’
He listened intently for a few moments, before turning to Ella.
‘I’m afraid I have to go’ he said quietly, ‘my father just died’.
Joshua Dexter grew up on a small holding about five miles east of Custer in South Dakota. At ten years old he found an old brownie box camera which had belonged to his father, and he was hooked. The idea of being able to capture forever a fleeting moment in time fascinated him. Every chance he got to head into Custer would be seized, and each time would necessitate a visit to Custer library, where any books dealing with photography would be poured over intently. He soon discovered some of the tricks of the trade. A country boy may not have had access to fancy developing chemicals and such, but when he realised that in their absence ordinary household items like coffee and washing soda could suffice, he was elated. He began to be known as ‘Dexter the snapper’ in the surrounding town-lands, and when any event of note was happening locally, they sought out Josh to record it for posterity.
From the time his father had died when Josh was six, his mother had been his driving force, always encouraging him to explore, to ask questions, to investigate the world around him. Margaret Dexter may never have had the opportunity to travel, but she always possessed an innate curiosity about the world around her, even if it only stretched to what lay over the next hill, or over the county line.
‘South Dakota might be a fine place to live’ she’d say, ‘but there’s a whole world of other fine places out there too. You don’t need to spend the rest of your days scratching a living here on this homestead Joshua. If you long to see the world, the only thing that’s stopping you is you’.
When war broke out in Europe, Josh saw this as his best chance to leave South Dakota behind.
This was not what his mother had in mind for her son. She wanted him to see the world, but not under these circumstances. However, she could see him straining at the leash, wanting it so bad, that when he turned seventeen and begged to enlist, she didn’t stand in his way. She bit her lip and smiled weakly the day he signed up. To Josh the war was, more than anything, an opportunity to see the world and capture some great images. By this stage he had progressed, through scrimping and saving and getting paid the odd commission from a local paper, from that box camera to a beat up but usable speed Graphic.
So off he went.
It was 1942 when he began basic training. He befriended two other conscripts, Billy Ashton from Colorado, and Sam Patterson from Utah. All three were enthusiastic country boys, out to conquer the world. After training, they awaited orders. They sat around kicking their heels for what seemed like an eternity, until eventually the three were assigned to the 4th US Infantry Division. On 6th June 1944, two days after Josh’s nineteenth birthday, he found himself squatting beside his pal Billy in the bowels of an amphibious landing craft as it crashed through the waves towards Utah beach, his Speed Graphic folded and stuffed up under his tunic. Then the craft ground to a halt on a sandbar, the front ramp dropped, and Josh got his first vision of hell. As he reached the water’s edge, he felt an enormous kick to the chest and his shoulder erupted in fire as he was spun sideways, ending up face down in the wet sand, semi-conscious. He lay there for more than two hours. After the bullet was removed, as he lay in recovery, he was told the bad news and good news. The bad news was that his camera was trashed. The good news was that if it hadn’t been, he would have been trashed instead, as it had deflected the bullet which was destined for his chest. Within two months he was back with his unit. He never saw Bill Ashton or Sam Patterson again.
So, he now found himself without a camera for the first time since he was a boy, and that irked him. Still, he had survived, and being back with the 4th Infantry, he was among the first wave of American troops to enter Paris on 25th August 1944. He immediately fell in love. Largely spared the destruction of war, Paris was the most beautiful, vibrant place he’d ever set eyes on. When the war ended he opted, not to return to South Dakota, but to Paris. He wrote to his mother hoping she’d understand. She did. In spite of the language difficulty, he managed to land a job as a photographer with one of the Paris newspapers, having impressed them with his portfolio of war images. They figured that if he could capture these images under such hostile conditions, capturing Paris society in peacetime should be a piece of cake. So, he spent the next six years enjoying Parisian society and recording their exploits.
Then he met her.
He was sitting alone outside a small café, at the end of a winding, cobbled street in Montmarte.
Pre-occupied with trying to load a first film into his new pride and joy, a Contax IIa, he only half noticed the waitress as his coffee was being poured. Then their eyes met, and he forgot about the camera. She had shoulder length raven coloured hair, tied back in a pony tail with a length of black ribbon, high cheekbones that framed a full mouth, and dark sultry eyes. She wore a white blouse and black pencil skirt which was partially covered by a white linen apron, and a gold chain with a single white pearl hung around her neck.
‘…will there be anything else sir?’ she repeated.
‘Huh? Oh sorry. No thanks, I’m fine’.
Her accent surprised him. It was clipped, definitely not Parisian, quite possibly not even French.
He watched as she walked on to another table. Her outfit was the same as the other girls who waited. However, instead of the flat black pumps which seemed part of the normal uniform, she wore black suede, knee high boots. She also appeared to limp slightly as she walked. Josh wondered if it was an injury from the war.
How old was she? Younger than him, definitely. Too young?
He guessed h
er to be around twenty-one, maybe six years younger than he. Not a huge age gap, but then again, maybe she mightn’t agree.
He decided to try and return his attention to loading his new camera. The Contax was much more compact than the cameras he’d been used to, and he was finding it more difficult than he had anticipated getting to grips with it. He glanced back up in her direction, and found her looking over at him as she wiped down a table.
I have to get back here tomorrow,
he thought.
She was becoming highly curious of this strange man she had waited on. Who was he, and where was he from? With his mop of tossed blond hair, open collared white shirt with rolled up sleeves, and those vivid blue eyes the colour of the Mediterranean, he was not from these parts. The blond hair and blue eyes could have placed him as German, but then the slightly dishevelled hair and clothes disagreed with that assessment. She found herself strangely attracted to this unorthodox blond photographer. Josh stood up, and having placed some coins on the table, strolled from the café, hoping to portray an air of nonchalance he did not feel.
I wonder will he return?
thought Ella with a feeling of disappointment.
Next day, Josh was back at the same table as on his previous visit. Ella hadn’t noticed him as she was busy serving a large group at another table, so he took the opportunity of capturing a couple of images of her unnoticed with his new camera. Even when he stopped photographing, he couldn’t drag his eyes away from her for more than a few seconds. Then she spotted him, a broad smile illuminating her features. She made her way to his table, pen and notebook in hand.
‘Miseur?’
‘Coffee, please’.
She returned a short while later with his coffee, and their eyes met again.
‘You’re not Parisian, are you?’ he asked. This may have been a bit forward he knew, but still, worth the risk.
‘No’ she answered simply.
‘Are you French?’ he continued, again, pushing the boundaries of etiquette.
To his surprise, she smiled before answering.
‘Ah, the inquisitive mind of the photographer’ she replied, before continuing, ‘I was born in Dresden, Germany. And you, I take it, are not Parisian either?’
‘Why do you say that, do I not look Parisian?’
‘Not with those blue eyes and that mass of blonde hair, no I’m afraid not’.
‘So, where do I come from, seeing as how you seem to be such an expert of nationalities?’
‘From a place where combs appear to be in short supply, I imagine’ she retorted.
They both smiled together, before Josh answered his own question.
‘I’m American’ he said, ‘I come from a place called South Dakota in America. I’m actually more American than most. I’ve a bit of Native American in me. My grandmother was a member of the Sioux tribe, not that that probably means anything to you, I’d imagine. My names Josh, by the way’.
‘I’m Ella’ she responded simply.
By the fact that she’d offered her name, Josh knew that there was at least a passing interest on Ella’s behalf. He decided to push the boat out further.
‘So, would there be any possibility of you allowing an admiring American to walk you at least part of the way home when you finish work some evening?’ he asked.
‘There might’.
‘And, what time do you finish work?’
‘It depends on the day’ she answered.
‘Today, for instance’.
‘Today, I finish work at six’
‘Ok, that’s good, I’ll wait’.
‘Wait? But it’s only two o’clock?’
‘I’ll wait’.
Ella led the way as they ambled through the narrow streets. Even though it was well into April, there was still a chill in the air once evening came. They talked as they walked.
‘So, how does a Dresden girl end up in Paris?’ asked Josh.
Ella looked away, her features darkening slightly, before she finally turned back to answer.
‘Well, I’m Jewish’ she began, ‘or at least my father was. Being Jewish in Dresden in 1939 was not a good thing. I was smuggled out to Paris by my French aunt as a child. I live with her here’.
‘And your parents?’
Ella just shook her head slowly.
They walked on in silence for a time. Eventually, Ella turned to Josh.
‘So what about you? What brings an American to Paris? Are you on vacation?’
‘I live here. I’m as much a Parisian as you. Well, maybe not. I’ve been here since the war ended. I arrived in Paris with the American army, and just fell in love with the place. I promised myself at the time that if I survived the rest of the war, I’d return here, and try and stay if I could. So, here I am, seven years later, and they still haven’t managed to get rid of me’.
They walked on through the winding streets, talking in turns, until Ella came to a stop beside a row of steps which led to an ornate wrought iron embellished, dark blue wooden front door.