September 2020 - New York

Bella:

February 7th. A non-date in historical records. My own history if it's ever written will show February 7th as the day my long journey of discovery began.

Seven months have passed. It's now September and I've returned to the college library where the journey began. I need to look again at the newspaper which sparked my curiosity. My heart is hammering as I walk through the door as I expect my suspicions about the photographs I saw that day are about to be corroborated.

I remember Friday, February 7th well. A rainstorm and high winds had given me a valid reason to delay leaving college for home and spend time in the library. Most Friday's I scuttle here to de-stress after my final class. My friends say I spend an unhealthy amount of time in here - I'd agree with that assessment. The library has become a sanctuary. A place where I can deposit my anxieties associated with student life at the door. My favorite seat and the one I always head for is in the gloomiest corner where lamps are dimmed for good reason. Here reside the library's treasures; the oldest, most precious books and publications that need protection from harsh white bulbs. Like me, these ancient tomes prefer shadow and consequently, they avoid scrutiny under too bright a light.

The shelves in my corner support heavy, leather-bound folders that contain carefully preserved magazines and newspapers dating back to the nineteenth century. My favorites are the rare editions of The Daily Graphic, which first hit New York's newsstands in 1880. A pioneer in photojournalism, the publication provided readers glimpses of events they would never witness with their own eyes.

I like to imagine the feelings of wonder folks from that era would experience as they turned the pages. Pictures of the first prototype airplanes, followed a few years later by the Wright Brothers' Kitty Hawk with its intrepid pilots. In one rare edition, the weathered face of the Apache Chief, Geronimo, stared back at me. I admit I cried that day.

My usual formula when studying old photographs is 'first decipher the where the how and the when,' before I turn my attention to 'the clothes, the cars and the people.' Sometimes I like to invent a subject's life, although I guess in most instances I'd be wide of the mark.

Quaint words that accompany the photographs hold my interest only as a fact-finding source. My true interest lies in the images taken during this medium's infancy. The earliest photojournalists provided the first accurate pictorial record of real life. My ambition is to emulate them.

The oldest photographs reveal a monochrome world that apart from the surviving buildings, has vanished along with the people. A genteel time when well-heeled men raised their hats in greeting and refined women floated along the sidewalks on unseen feet. Cities built for the wealthy not the poor. Roads built for carriages, not for cars.

I'm not naïve. I accept the pictures in these magazines don't show a true record of the time. Such publications are the equivalent of today's 'Hello'. The wretched poor had no place on these pages. If you could afford to buy a newspaper or magazine in those times, you wouldn't pay to be reminded of the destitution on the outskirts of the cities and in the countryside. Such photographs exist, only photographers at the time couldn't make a living from taking pictures of poverty and hardship.

Going back to my journey, I first saw the man's face gracing the front of a newspaper dated March 1923.

No!

I recognized the young man, who I now believe is the doctor's son, in two photographs that accompanied the article, although at the time I dismissed the similarity as fanciful.

'Looking but not seeing again, Ms. Swan?'

My tutor would admonish me for this on a regular basis, only I had seen something that day although what I saw couldn't be possible.

From the date of the newspaper, I presumed the young man would be long dead, which could explain why the image didn't register, other than a momentary flash of recognition. My presumption could prove erroneous now.

The article which caught my interest began with a bold headline.

'GUARDIAN ANGEL' SAVES CHILD FROM CERTAIN DEATH

And continued in the dramatic language journalists used at the time …

'On Fifth Avenue, a mysterious stranger caught a terrified child who plunged from a 22nd-floor hotel window. The well-dressed gentleman handed the screaming infant to the doorman and disappeared without giving his name. One passer-by claimed the gentleman appeared from nowhere and caught the child, 'As easy as Babe Ruth catches a baseball'.

'Mr. M. O'Reilly', the hotel doorman, pronounced, "Lord Jesus, I witnessed a miracle."

A quick-thinking photographer, taking pictures of the hotel from the opposite side of the Avenue, snapped pictures of the hero before he vanished into thin air.

His face caught my eye that day; gaunt but still striking, even in black and white. A tall, slim man with piercing eyes, a strong jaw, and dark, luxurious hair. Also, and de rigueur for Fifth Avenue, his attire in keeping with the fashion of the day, with one exception - no hat.

In both pictures, his unbuttoned overcoat flared like an old-fashioned cloak around his calves. Proof he wore it for style, not warmth. I remember back in February looking at the man and wondering what his story was and why he didn't remain to receive the praise that would no doubt have been showered on him.

Seven months after that day and six months since the college was closed because of Covid, I've returned to the library to re-examine the article, to prove without doubt that my eyes hadn't played tricks on me. Although I'm confident my suspicions will be validated, my heart still races as I open the folder.

A familiar icy sensation crawls across my scalp as I scrutinize the two grainy black and white images I saw in February. The evidence before me cannot be dismissed anymore. Something extraordinary has presented itself and needs an explanation.

Now that I'm able to look with a more knowledgeable eye than before, the expression on the young man's face tells me there's another side to his story than an anomaly with physics and time.

If I'd saved a child from certain death, my face would show a combination of relief, joy and pride.

All I can see in this young man's face is fear.

To be continued ...