Doppelganger

The accumulation of what can only described as “stuff” is incremental. Hardly noticeable until a surviving relative must plough through it and decided what will be saved and what will be demolished.

           I discovered among yet another box of old papers, a small black cylinder. I held it between my thumb and forefinger and lifted the lid carefully with my thumbnail. It contained an undeveloped roll of film. A label on the container read: “Eliza.”

           I thought for a few moments. Grandmother Sarah never mentioned anyone with that name. Actually, she never talked about her family—she refused to discuss the topic. All I knew about her was that she was from Eastern Europe.

The handwriting on the film canister was not Grandmother Sarah’s because my grandmother had a beautiful, even artistic handwriting, like the calligraphy seen on wedding invitations. No one else in my family had such beautiful hands. The writing on the canister was in masculine block letters: ELIZA.

I placed the film in my sweater pocket. I left the attic to work on emptying closets in the master bedroom. As I stacked clothes to take to the thrift store, I couldn’t take my mind off my discovery. My hand kept going to the object in my pocket. I stopped, looked at it again, then put it back in my pocket and rushed downstairs.

I drove to a chain drugstore, but they could not help me. They recommended a store downtown. I wasn’t paying attention as I drove downtown. All of my attention was on the film. Who is Eliza? Is she a relative? Does she know Grandmother Sarah or Aunt Rosemary? I thought she might be someone from my father’s side of the family, but I dismissed that as unlikely. It was my mother and grandmother’s belongings I’d been sorting through.

It was dusk when I exited. I drove around, almost going the wrong way on a one-way street, and finally found the recommended studio. I parked and hoped the store was not closed. I ran up to the door; luckily, they stayed open until 7:00 p.m.

The young man behind the counter, named Alan, appeared very excited when I showed him the film roll. He knew a lot about restoration and was very professional in his manner. He was able to estimate the age of the film. “Probably sixty years old, maybe more,” he proclaimed. Must be black and white. So cool.”

Although it was almost closing time, he shared my curiosity about what the film might depict. “I’ll go ahead and develop it now if you want.”

“Yes, please,” I said.

“It will probably take me about an hour. There is a Starbucks across the street.”

The coffee made me more anxious. The minutes crawled by. After 30 minutes, I couldn’t stand it any longer and returned to the photo shop. Alan let me in, seemingly annoyed by the interruption. I paced around the shop as he worked on my pictures. I looked at the photographs displayed on the wall. Most of them were brides. There were also a few graduation photographs and several family portraits. Happy faces beamed at me from the walls. My family never seemed as content as these people. I wondered if they harbored secrets. Don’t all families? I wondered.

Alan finally reappeared with a big smile on his face. “Got it,” he announced. He handed me the envelope and walked over to the cash register. “Thirty-six dollars,” he said.

I gave him two twenty-dollar bills and didn’t’t bother to wait for my change. I rushed out of the store like a thief. I knew I should have taken the time to talk to him about the photographs, but as soon as I had them in my hand, my stomach cramped up and I felt lightheaded. I did not want to faint in the store.

The fresh air revived me a bit and I was able to make it back to my car. I got in and sat for a moment behind the steering wheel. I tried to open the envelope with my shaky hands. A piece of glue attached onto my fingers from the envelope’s seal. I licked the pieces of glue away with my tongue and cleared my hand on my jeans. There were five black and white photographs. The first was a picture of a top of a building—like one found in any big ancient European city, such as Paris, Venice, or, Rome. I guessed it was most likely a church or a cathedral, maybe even a castle. The image was blurry, obviously a failed attempt. The next one had the same subject, but the masonry was a little more defined. It looked like a thick haze was in front of it. I could not tell if it was due to the weather or a technical difficulty with the photography equipment. The next picture was of the ground and two feet: women’s feet. The last was of a woman; the woman whom the photographer had worked so hard to capture. The focus was perfect.

I gasped with astonishment. I felt as if I was facing myself in the mirror. The woman staring back at me was my spitting image…I could not take my eyes of her. The black and white picture made the contrasts sharper, the lines more defined. The woman had full black hair, dark eyes and strong lined lips. Her smile was alluring. “Yes, that’s it,” I whispered. The way she gazed into the lens revealed she must have been in love. People don’t pose like that unless there is an intimacy between photographer and subject.

There was also a shyness about her, probably because she wore a two-piece bathing suite. Surprisingly, her navel was exposed. Puddles of water were on the terrace, which reflected off the top of the building behind her. I could not tell the location, but it was quite obvious that the photo was taken at least sixty years ago, probably in the 1940s in an urban area.

I estimated that the young woman in the picture was no older than twenty. She smiled with her mouth shut, obviously flirting with the man behind the camera—probably her lover. It was clear that she wanted to show her best side and win over his approval and admiration. She had a nice figure with broad hips. As a dancer, I was always jealous of my girlfriends with round hips, which suggested they have a waist. I had learned over the years that European men and Black men appreciated women with such curves, while many American men, like my father, preferred skinny women.

Besides the lust and admiration that the woman reflected in the picture at the photographer, her eyes showed a sadness; a certain insecurity that only a woman can see in another woman’s eyes, of heartache and longing. Her eyes made me want to give up on love. Her face appeared transparent, which allowed me to see into her mind, her soul, and her heart. Her shy smile illustrated good breeding, perhaps a good education. Something was special about her—even regal. I instinctively felt something nurturing about her, reminiscent of Aunt Rosemary. When I thought of Aunt Rosemary, tears welled up in my eyes. “Stop it!” I chided myself. “You are just feeling sentimental because of being back here in Austin.

 “This woman in the picture could be anyone.” I scolded myself the way Grandmother Sarah used to, “You have work to do.” But I was unable to resist the image and glanced down at the picture again.

The woman’s night black eyes twinkled; a light in her pupils betrayed her desire to a sparkling future, but at the same time, she seemed about ready to shut her eyes, as if she wanted to block out any thoughts and just be in the moment; the way I felt when I was dancing.

What struck me most was the woman’s nose. It was identical to my former nose. Barbara Streisand has the same nose. Children taunted me as I was growing up. “Hey Yentl,” they called out to me during recesses. I only saw the movie a few years ago about the Jewish woman who so longed for an education she disguised herself as a man. After living under my Grandmother Sarah’s influence for so long, I could not imagine a girl not being allowed an education. Still, no one in my family could ever explain my nose since it did not resemble either my father’s or my mother’s appendage. People used to joke with my mother that I must be the milkman’s daughter. If my father, who was a surgeon, hadn’t delivered me himself, had not pulled me out of my mother’s uterus, he would have probably thought that I was exchanged with another baby in the hospital.

It was actually Grandmother Sarah’s idea, not my mother’s, to consider rhinoplasty. My eighteenth birthday gift was a nose job from my grandmother. Of course, I was very happy to have a “normal” nose but could never understand why my nose was so problematic for her.

As I stared at the photo, my heart began to beat faster, and my eyes began to water. It occurred to me where the distinct nose came from. The young woman in the picture had to be a close relative to either Grandmother Sarah or Aunt Rosemary, there simply was no other explanation. Why had both of them been so secretive? Had something bad happened? Was this beautiful woman a criminal?

My body trembled and my mind raced: How can I find this woman? Is she still alive? How can somebody I don’t even know look so much like me? Did she do something bad to my grandmother? Is that why Sarah always seemed so angry with me?

Although the woman in the picture obviously had black hair and dark eyes, which contrasted with my bleach blond hair and green eyes, there was no denying that I looked just like her. We have the same cheekbones, the same nose, and the same countenance. Is this what they call a doppelganger or a poltergeist? I could not begin to guess where the picture came from, but what confounded me most was why my grandmother had saved this film for so long without feeling the need or the curiosity to get it developed. She must have known about its contents. Human beings are curious by nature. Wouldn’t she want to know? Had someone done something bad? If so, what?

I was both excited and nervous. I looked up and realized it was now pitch-black outside. I stared out at the people gathering along the sidewalks. I remained alone, quiet, although I had an overwhelming need to shout.

I had so many questions and no clue who would be able to answer them. Other than my brother, sister and remarried father, I had no other living relation to Grandmother Sarah or Aunt Rosemary, and like my parents, I was divorced. I felt confused, but at least I understood why I was shaking when I opened the envelope. Instinctively, I knew that it would change my entire life.

                                                     *****

      My work continued to be interrupted by the image of the woman in the photo. Not until I saw the black and white pictures of the mysterious woman did it occur to me that the 1940s had beautiful women—sexy, erotic women. The older women in my own life consisted primarily of my grandmother and Aunt Rosemary. I was convinced that the young women of our generation had invented female sexuality. Even my mother seemed like a prude compared to the other girls I knew.

The women I saw in movies, on television, and in music videos never shied away from their sexuality. Quite often, they flaunted it. They regularly showed their long legs, their belly buttons, and lots of cleavage. They wore provocative clothing and gyrated around muscular guys. I remember the first time I wore hip-hugger blue jeans and a midriff top to Aunt Rosemary’s house. She was alarmed at the amount of flesh I had exposed. My mother hadn’t noticed because it was December and I had put a coat on over my clothes before I left my bedroom. My mother was embarrassed when her mother scolded her for allowing her daughter to be “so loose” with her attire.

Maybe it was because of her past. I remember a letter she sent me my freshman year. I’d read it so many times, I had it memorized.

October 1, 1983

Dear Michelle,

You’re sad about Brad breaking up with you. My only advice to you is that love hurts.

One Saturday afternoon your dad told me he had to visit some of his patients. An hour after he left, the phone rang. It was our neighbor, Mrs. Harper. She asked me if I knew that my husband was playing golf with some woman, and they were close, laughing and hugging. Since they were in public, the neighbor assumed that I knew about it, “So you have an open marriage?” she asked, which was not the case. I didn’t know anything about it. I was humiliated, but I didn’t know what to say. I thanked her for calling, and said she was mistaken. I lied and told her Richard’s younger sister was visiting before ending the call. 

I was so upset; my stomach churned, and my temples throbbed. I went into denial and tried to convince myself that it was not my husband whom Mrs. Harper saw at the golf course. Although I already knew the truth. That’s why I lied. As you know, your father does not have a sister.

Your father is a charming man. I always told myself that he was only flirting—it never occurred to me that he could also be having an affair. I had just given birth to my third child. He seemed to adore Alice, but I was not a young woman anymore, and his assistants and secretaries worshiped him. He had so many choices and since he was not religious at all, faith didn’t keep him away from adultery.

Suddenly, I saw my husband differently. He was the father of my children, he was my husband, and we lived together under the same roof. But what else did we share? Nothing. There was no longer anything special about him—about us.

 You may wonder why I ever married him…because I was pregnant, with you. I’m sure he felt obliged, but he was probably not ready to get stuck with a family. Anyone could see that we didn’t fit together. Sarah liked him for some reason and wasn’t upset he got me pregnant. She liked that he was from a prestigious family who had been in America since the eighteenth century.

He was a young, promising doctor who made me feel that I was not on his level, not as accomplished, although Sarah made sure I had a stellar education. I only had one year to go at Smith, but I had to leave college because I was pregnant.

It was not easy to be a wife, a mother, and a good student. At that time men didn’t help their wives take care of their children. The only thing your father and I shared was lust. He was a terrific lover, and probably still is, but as a husband he was not successful. He made me feel insecure than. I thought if I was more beautiful, I could make him love me. The strange thing was that after Mrs. Harper’s phone call, suddenly, life became clear.

The most important thing in life is that you experience at least one victory—one life-changing event. My victory was I didn’t feel any pain for something I always thought would be painful. The more I learn about myself, the more it feels like I am nearing a victory. I can be a strong woman.

     Have a good semester.

                                         Mom

I had a sudden urge to find that letter and hold it again. I had an inkling it held the clue to the mystery of this photo. I went to my old room and rummaged through the drawers and closet. I found my old diary pushed back on the closet’s top shelf. I had saved the letter in it. I took it down, and popped it open since I did not have the key. I pulled out the letter, and when I did a scrap of paper fell to the floor.; it looked like the second page of an old letter. I picked it up and read:

It was my idea to name you Christina. That way no one would know you were born a Jew—not even you. I know about infidelity, but. I was not angry with Pal for taking a mistress—our needs were different. However, I did not expect her to get pregnant. If I never saw Pal again, but if I had, I would have told him, “I saved your daughter.”

As soon as I saw Eliza that day in Pal’s office and realized she was pregnant, I began to devise a plan. I had hoped that I would not have to enact it. As time went on, I knew there was no other way to escape the occupation.

My feelings about Grandmother Sarah remain conflicted. She lived a lie most of her adult life, but she also did what she thought she had to do to survive. My mother was a way out for Sarah, and it’s possible her actions saved my mother’s life as well. I ask myself, what would I have done in that situation? But all I can do is speculate.

                                                                The End