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The Photograph

[This was written within a creative writing class, where the challenge was to write something without names or dialogue, with a clear catalyst that does not change. It was argued that the photograph does change, but I think it only seems to change (crumple) before regaining its previous status in his life. One day I'll rewrite the story properly. -ssw]

He found the photo-album in the attic, whilst wandering around in the dust and dim light looking for a few moments of respite from the mundane life he had built around himself. A lot of his time had been spent in the attic since he had retired. The photographs were from his stay in Scotland as a POW; 50 years later he still believed it the happiest time of his life.

He leafed through the pictures, smiling at the images of himself as a young man working on a foreign farm, then pausing at the moody shots of the farmer's daughter.

She was young, confident, beautiful. Her dark hair and pale skin betrayed her Celtic roots; her bright eyes showed her intelligence and interest in the world around her. Her parents doted on her, their only child; it was her who kept the family in high spirits through the turbulent times of the Second World War.

He worked on her father's farm: POWs were not locked up in Great Britain, but integrated into the community. There was no-where for them to go, once on this small island, and few even considered escape to their home country, where life was much harder and they would be reprimanded for having allowed themselves to be caught by the enemy. There was never a risk of his leaving, for reasons of his own although not uncommon. He never resented the relative captivity nor the sudden hardship of manual labour for they gave him the chance to see her, be near her. He knew, from the first, that she was the one true love of his life, that they were meant to be together, and that no one else would ever quite do.

She grew to love him also, and in the dark days of the war they found a happiness neither imagined possible in each other. Their love transcended their political differences; their belief in the rightness of what they were doing removed the tragedy of the war from their lives. Their quiet hope was infectious: her family, surprisingly, approved of the liaison, impressed by his overly-correct courting of their daughter.

He had been happy there.

The war ended too soon as far as they were concerned, and it was a tearful time as he left her to return to his homeland. He did not have the option of staying in the country he now loved, but he held her tight and promised things would soon change, and he would return.

Back in Germany, his family needed him. His father had died in the War, and his brother was attempting to run the family business single-handedly. It did not take long before German soldiers were allowed to return to Great Britain just as any other visitor, but his full attention was needed to keep the family from bankrupting itself. Her address went missing in the tumult of his return to civilian life, although he did not worry overmuch. It would turn up as soon as he could find the time to go through all his paperwork; something so trivial would not get in the way of their shared fate. He threw himself into his work, waiting for his chance to regain his freedom and return to the country he loved.

A year passed, and then another. He found refuge from his new life in his photographs of Scotland, of the girl, but his responsibilities had grown heavier, not less. Even if he dared to keep her hopes alive by getting in touch, he had failed to find her address, and she had never had his. Slowly he came to accept that even if he could break away, he no longer knew how to find her. A part of him believed that perhaps it was better so, that his disappearance may make the pain more bearable for her, although he was under no delusions that she would be able to forgive him.

As time went on, his life appeared complete: married to a quiet young woman from the neighbourhood who raised their children and kept his household, the family business a success due mainly to his diligence and hard work. Still, in quiet moments his mind always returned to the only woman he had ever loved and whether it was yet too late to resurrect their future together.

The light from the small window was growing dim, dusk was falling. He sighed and set down the album when he noticed a white flutter: a photograph of the farm slipped out of the album. There was a scrawl of words in black ink on the back: after years of wondering, he held in his hand what he needed to make his life complete: her address.

He put the picture into his wallet, and carried it around with him for a week before gathering the courage to seriously consider his options. Finally, with great care, he wrote a letter in the remnants of English left to him. If his wife noticed his agitation, she gave no sign; their life continued as always, despite his inner turmoil and his desperate dreams of leaving it all behind to follow his destiny.

Having posted the letter, he spent his time pacing through the house, veering between desperate hope and dark depression. He admitted to himself that the chances of the address still being valid were slim, that half a century had come between them. He had almost convinced himself that his memories were all he would ever have of her when the letter arrived.

I still think about you (she wrote) and have often wondered what happened to you. My mother died earlier in the year, and we put the farm up for sale. I was taking out the last of my mothers' things when your letter arrived. I live in the next village now, with my husband and the youngest of my three children, who are now all fully grown.

He read the letter over and over, ecstatic. She was not hardened, or bitter, but wanted to hear from him, to know of him. He could hear the lilt in her husky voice as he read it, imagine the look on her face as she thought of him, almost taste the flavour of her lips as he imagined the reunion. His wife noticed his uncharacteristic frivolity, but had long since given up trying to get under the surface of her husband, and simply prepared for the holiday he booked to Scotland without questioning his motives.