Free The People in the Photo by Hélène Gestern Page A

Saturday after a very enjoyable family holiday. My brother Philippe is a charming person, with a terrific sense of humour too, and I’m very fond of him; he’s the one who’s got the photography gene, but as an amateur (he’s an architect by profession). I’d love you to meet him; I’m sure you’d get on like a house on fire.
    Since I flew, I wasn’t able to bring back as many albums as last time, but it’s a good crop. Not so much for our investigation, but rather for me: I found a series of family photos, taken around 1969–70. All four of us are in the shots, which was very unusual. I’ll send you one, as a curio, or a sociological sample, whatever you prefer to call it, of what a model Swiss family looked like (outwardly, at least). Of course you’ll recognise yours truly in the well-scrubbed little boy to the left of the picture – please don’t laugh.
    I found another series taken in Brittany, but dated1970 this time, with incredible views of the grand hotel you told me about and which I now dream of visiting. The place is straight out of a Vicki Baum novel (yes, I admit it, I read ‘hotel novels’. Promise me you won’t tell anyone.)
    Put on an exhibition? Why not? Like you I believe that the photos are easily as good as those of some fine art photographers: the Brittany albums alone make an excellent series. My father was a fervent admirer of Atget, and he took inspiration from him in choosing certain angles for his shots. Extraordinary shapes, a particular way of capturing emptiness, the silence of surfaces. Our investigation has given me the opportunity to rediscover his work and to think differently about this man who seemed to be fascinated by the absence of any human life.
     
    Love,
     
    Stéphane

    Paris, 12 January (email)
    Dear Stéphane,
    Before I go any further, there are two things I simply must tell you: 1) You’re irresistible in short trousers and 2) If ever you feel like starting up a Vicki Baum fan club, count me in. I’ve read every single one of her books.
    My holiday went well, thank you, and I’m glad to hear yours did too. I cut my trip to Germany short by a few days; I didn’t much feel like being around people, so I came back to Paris to give Boubou his Christmas present – lots of cuddles (the big fatty doesn’t deserve anything else after living off a diet of non-stop treats at my neighbour’s).
    I made the most of my unexpected free time to visit Rue de l’Observatoire. I don’t know if you’ve read anything by the German novelist, W. G. Sebald; he wrote a short story about the body of a guide frozen inside a glacier and spat out again decades later. My father’s study is starting to have the same effect on me.
    I went over some of the lower shelves with a fine-tooth comb, followed by the ones at the very top. That’s where I got another surprise in the shape of a black archive box fastened with cord, of the kind usedin libraries – and in fact, it still had its class mark and label on. The only thing inside was a parcel sent from Geneva in January 1973 with no return address. An unsealed letter was enclosed with the kind of flat metal tin you’d put biscuits or sweets in. This is what it said:
    Having been at the hospital at the time of her death, I was able to collect your wife’s personal effects, which I am now returning to you. Nataliya was my dearest friend and an extraordinary person, and we have all been left devastated by her death. May I take this opportunity to extend my deepest sympathies to you and your little daughter Hélène at this terribly sad time. Jean Pamiat.
    The address on the label informs me my parents were living in Brest at the time, at 71 Rue Félix-Gray.
    The string around the tin had not even been undone, and I started to tremble as I went to cut it. I gathered everything up and brought it home with me and have so far left it untouched. So it’s true, Nataliya died in an accident in Geneva. And my father wasn’t there. Could she