"You're getting older now," was all he said, cigarette dangling rakishly between his lips. "I have to have at least one picture of you. What kind of father would I be if I didn't?" Of course, she can't answer that – she's only an eight-year-old girl. So she waits patiently, standing on a crowded street, as he goes to charm a camera away from Antje, their landlady.
He comes back minutes later, grinning like an idiot, waving the device at her with childish glee. "Come on then, Lenore; allons-y!" Taking her by the hand, he leads her to some uncrowded bit of nowhere. It's a long walk, and by the time they get there, her feet hurt because her shoes are two sizes too small, her stomach is grumbling, and so is she.
Like an experienced photographer, he fusses about, pretending to know what he's doing. The two of them get so caught up in the act that they forget all about time, the cold, and even her hunger. By the time that he's actually prepared to do anything, though, the magic has worn off. She just wants to go home to Antje's soup, perhaps a nip of vodka, and maybe some more hot cocoa. "Come along then, Miss," he says, holding out his mittened hand, a bright red in the middle of all the grey.
Grey. The day is gloomy, overcast, and an icky mixture of coldwetgrey. Coldwetgrey, coldwetgrey, her mind chants. So they march, through certain half-deserted streets, through the slush and the ubiquitous mud, which seeps in through the holes in her shoes. Even though her coat is warm and she has a scarf on, she's still shivering. Hatless, her ears are uncovered, bitten red by the cold because the way that Antje pins her hair up has left nothing to cover those surprisingly important pieces of skin.
"Wait a moment!" exclaims the man. "Stay put," he orders suddenly as he steps back. She half-expects him to pull out a scrap of paper and start scribbling madly, but he lifts up the camera instead. "Look at me—" and snap! the photo's taken. They venture on home, where Antje frets over their wet feet, and her father (who Antje calls Evan, for some reason, which confuses Charlotte) laughs and calls Antje a silly goose and it feels like this is what a home should be like.
《 ❀ ❀ ❀ 》
She doesn't get to see the film when he develops it. All her inquiries are met with a mysterious grin, and a "Maybe later," so after a week, she forgets all about it.
It only surfaces again when she's fourteen and packing up to move again. They've been wandering for the last few weeks with a group of Roma. Once again, her shoes are too small, and her pants are too short, but there isn't really anything she can do about it, other than change to wearing a long, draping skirt. Which she does. In the middle of rooting around for at least a pair of slippers (her toes are both very cold and very pinched), her hands hit a small, unfamiliar object.
Fishing it out of the trunk, she discovers that it's an old cigar case. Since when did Papa smoke cigars? Curious, she opens it, and a few letters come tumbling out. She catches them against her body, and then picks through the rest of the contents. They're all letters, all from Antje, and Charlotte feels a wave of something hit her. It can't be homesickness; she's never had a permanent home. Nonetheless, it's crippling, and it feels like her stomach is cramping (however unromantic that may be) with longing.
She wants soup.
She wants Antje's beef soup, the one with all sorts of rotten vegetables and herbs and a bit of special something. "I'll teach you someday," she'd said with a wink. They'd left before 'someday' ever came. She wants a warm fireplace and somebody to fuss over her instead of the rain that's seeping into her socks via the hole in her sneakers. She wonders where Antje is now, and if she'd be willing to share the secret still. She also wonders what she thought of this picture.
The picture-Charlotte, though only eight, has a serious look on her young features – an old, solemn look that is both immediate and distant at the same time, wisps of her hair blowing around her face. So solemn, the now-Charlotte marvels. So solemn, yet so young. Oddly enough, she doesn't think her childhood made her grow up all that quickly.
"Lenore? Lenore!" Her father's voice calls, excited.
"Coming, Papa," replies the girl, as she slips the photograph into one of the many pockets hidden in the folds of her skirts, shoves the letters back into the tin, and rushes out from their little makeshift shelter to see what's going on that's so urgent.