Road to Avignon

Love, memories and delusion bring characters together in this story of a young man’s journey into adulthood. It takes place in the 1950s in Europe with the horrors of wars of the 20th century ever present, and there are no innocent bystanders.

June 1956

The boy, or was he a man, stuck out his thumb as he walked on the side of road. The woman driver passed him by without notice. Then she looked in her rearview mirror and saw the boy. He wore a gray beret and looked somehow familiar. Carrying a rucksack and guitar on his back, the boy leaned forward, obscuring his face. The woman stopped her car, reflected for a moment, and put it in reverse. The boy ran toward the car.

“Ou vas-tu?” the woman asked, peering out the side window of her old Peugeot.

“Avignon.”

“I’m going to Arles. You can get in the back seat if you can move the suitcase over a bit.”

“Merci, Madame.” The boy settled in the back seat with his rucksack on his lap and the guitar between his legs and the front seat. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re American?”

“Yes,” he said, as she pulled out on the road. “I thought I might have to sleep on the side of the road. So few cars are going south this late in the day.”

“We should reach Arles while there’s still light.”

Soon the boy nodded his head, asleep.

The woman readjusted her inside mirror to look at the boy. She stared. The Peugeot went over a bump in the road, and the boy awoke. He looked up and saw the woman staring at him. Their eyes met. Both looked away.

“We’ll be reaching Arles in half an hour. Have you eaten today?” the woman asked.

“I had breakfast at the hostel in Lyon.”

“Let me take you to dinner in Arles, then you can head to Avignon.”

The boy was silent.

“I know a place with wonderful fish, fresh from the Mediterranean.”

“That would be nice, thanks,” the boy responded, not understanding why the woman would make such an offer to a hitchhiker. The anticipation of a meal, however, tempered any anxiety of the woman’s motives. He could take care of himself.

The woman drove through Arles to the coast and stopped at a small restaurant with a pier going into the water. The proprietor kissed her in greetings and led her and the boy to a table for two on the pier. Sitting across the table, they were able to study each other. The woman was middle-aged and not attractive. She used heavy makeup to cover blemishes that looked like they could have been scars. In her youth, she may have been attractive, but now her face showed the wear of years. Only her olive-colored eyes that glistened as she reached over the table to pour the boy a glass of white wine provided a hint of beauty.

The boy was maybe 21. When he took off his beret, his sandy hair fell over his brow, and he quickly pushed his hair away. The stubble on his chin was hardly more than peach fuzz. He was unaware of his youthful good looks. Her stare made him blush.

“I never asked your name,” the woman said.

“Jake.”

“Nice to meet you, Jake. I’m Madame De Viers. You probably are wondering why I picked you up.”

Jake looked at her, puzzled how to respond.

“I live in Amsterdam," she said, “and every summer I come down to Arles. I finally bought a small place last year, very primitive, and I am slowly trying to bring it back to life. In my trunk is a water heater. At last, I may have a hot shower. But there is so much I have to do to make the place comfortable.”

The waiter served mussels and refilled their glasses of wine and soon served the fish. Conversation became light as the sun moved to the horizon. Jake told of his home in the U.S., his studying abroad, and his hitchhiking route through Europe.

“Why are you going to Avignon? There are so many other places like Nimes and Arles that you could explore.”

“I want to see the Palais des Papes. Then I'll hitchhike to Rome to see the Vatican.”

“Both religious centers. Are you on a pilgrimage?”

“Yes, sort of. I’m Catholic and am thinking about entering the seminary when I finish college next year. This summer I’m free to explore Europe and visit all the places I’ve read about.”

As the bill of fare was presented, the sun had set. “Jake, it’s too late to go to Avignon tonight. Do you want to stay with me? My house is a few kilometers from here, and I will put you on the road to Avignon tomorrow morning.”

“OK, if it’s no trouble?” Their conversation over dinner made him realize that Madame De Viers’ offer was genuine, without some expectation on her part. Though, he still didn’t know why she was being so kind.

“Don’t worry, I have a handyman who looks after the house, and he will make you comfortable.”

Her wooden house, hidden in the farmland off the main road, was two stories tall with a barn on the bottom, and an outside staircase leading to the living area on the second floor. It was a solitary structure that looked abandoned.

As they approached the house, Madame De Viers made a request. “Jake, the handyman is really a good friend. He is Spanish. When you get out of the car, could you call out to him in Spanish? If you could say, ‘Hola Jorge, finalmente llegamos a casa,’ he would be pleased.”

Madame De Viers stopped the car by the outside staircase and blew the car horn. Jorge stepped out on the top landing and turned on the light. Madame De Viers opened the car door and called up to him: “Vois qui je t’ai amene.” Then Jake got out of the back seat and yelled his greeting to Jorge.

Jorge strained his eyes to see the person at the bottom of the stairs. The mispronounced greeting and the familiar appearance jolted Jorge’s memory. He rushed down the staircase. Madame De Viers introduced Jorge to Jake, telling of picking up Jake on his way to Avignon. Jorge’s smile relaxed as he thrust out his hand to Jake. “Hablas Espanol?”

“No,” confirmed Jake. “I’m American and, unfortunately, only speak English.”

“Don’t worry. English is our lingua franca as I don’t speak Dutch, and my French is ‘horrible’.” Jorge said.

“It’s not so bad,” rejoined Madama De Vries. “About as good as my Spanish.”

Jorge proceeded to empty the Peugeot of Madame’s luggage and packages. With Jake's help, they carried the water heater to the barn and placed it in the only empty corner. The barn was fully occupied with hay bales on one side, a worktable on the other with tools scattered about, a dilapidated-looking truck in the center, and a half dozen or so caskets of wine lined up like soldiers in another corner.

“I just returned from Navarre with a truck load of your favorite wine, Emma. Let me bring some up to the kitchen.”

“Let me help you.” Jake offered.

Jorge pulled the cork of one of the large green glass wine containers and leaned it over for Jake to capture the wine in a pitcher. The aroma of the red Rioja filled the air as some spilled on the hay-strewn floor.

Jorge and Jake joined Madame De Viers at the large table in the middle of the kitchen on the second floor. They drank wine and devoured the loaf of fresh rye bread and cheese Madame De Viers had bought in Lille on her way through France. They queried Jake about himself and started to tell stories themselves. As the night moved on, Jorge retrieved more wine from the barn, and the stories continued.

“How did you two meet?” Jake finally asked, hearing snippets of their mutual history.

“It was twenty years ago or so. What was it? The Spring of ’36? Emma came to Barcelona to photograph the war for a magazine. She bivouacked with our unit. We all became friends…”

“I don’t want to talk about war. Too many losers, too many dead. This continent has convulsed for a century in war. The French continue in Algiers and Indochina, and you Americans in Korea. There’s no glory in it. No more photos of war are needed.”

Jorge and Jake were silent. Madame De Viers begged off another glass of wine. “I’m tired. I’ve driven all day.” Before retreating into the bedroom off the kitchen, she went over to Jorge and kissed him. She turned, looked at Jake, and did the same. “Bonne nuit.”

Jorge and Jake climbed down the stairs and retreated to the barn. A kerosene lamp was lit. They sat around a makeshift table and continued to drink and tell stories. Jake wanted to know more about the war in Spain, but realized Jorge was hesitant to talk about it after Madame’s exit.

In a quiet moment, Jorge noticed Jake’s guitar. “Can you play something on your guitar?”

Jake picked it up and adjusted the strings. His voice was soft as he strummed:

“Blue moon, you saw me standing alone

Without a dream in my heart

Without a love of my own.

Blue moon, you knew just what I was there for.

You heard me saying a prayer for

Someone I really could care for.”

“I know a song; yours reminds me of it. Let me try. I haven’t played a guitar in many years.” Jorge took the guitar, sat back in his chair and strummed it as he searched for the words:

“There’s an ocean of stars

Hovering over me

I lay under the moon

Your face all I see

I’m caught up in fever

And shivering too

All that’s keeping me alive

Is the thought of losing you.

Juanita, when I found you, I was at my end

So, hold on Juanita, I’ll find you again.”

A knock came from the bare ceiling. The reverie of the moment was broken. “We must be making too much noise; time to go to sleep,” Jorge said.

“Where can I take a piss?” Jake inquired.

“Nature is your bathroom. Any place outside; the only bathroom is next to Madame’s bedroom.”

While Jake was outside, Jorge fixed up a bed for the visitor on some hay from an open bale on the far side of the barn. After Jake returned and found his bed, the kerosene light was blown out. The moon they lamented crested above the barn.

A rooster woke them too early. The smell of coffee brewing soon followed. Madame De Viers lured them to the kitchen table with bacon sizzling on the stove and an omelet being divided onto plates. As Jorge and Jake ascended the stairs, they knew each other differently than when they met just twelve hours before. The intimacy of sharing elusive memories with a stranger freed each of them. However, in the morning light, their male camaraderie of the previous evening evaporated. Each retrieved his secrets. They ate their breakfast in silence, except for Madame De Viers’s nattering about directions to Avignon. When they finished their meal, Jorge said he would drive Jake to the main road. He went down to the barn to get his truck ready for the journey.

Before saying goodbye to Madama De Viers, Jake asked if he could use her bathroom. He went through her bedroom and passed by her bureau. There stood a framed photograph of Jorge, as a young man in uniform, probably a bit older than Jake was now. Jorge was sitting at a table surrounded by other soldiers all celebrating. Next to Jorge with a bottle of beer in his hand toasting the soldiers, and smiling at the camera, was a man, or was he a boy? As Jake looked closer at the photograph, he saw a beret on the table and a face looking straight at him that looked familiar.

“Why did you pick me up, Madame De Viers?” Jake stood in the open doorway of the bedroom into the kitchen. “You said you were going to explain why, but we never got around to it. Is it this photograph?” Jake held the photo of soldiers toasting each other.

Madame De Viers, who was at the window watching Jorge back his truck out of the barn, froze for a second.

"Yes.” Turning around to face Jake, “I should have told you. I am very sorry. Sit down at the table. I’ve made you a sandwich to take on your trip,” as she pushed it aside, “I’ll explain. Give me the photograph.”

Jake sat down at the kitchen table and gave her the photograph. “It’s the last photo of him before he died,” as she gently put it on the table. “I should have told you at dinner, but it was easier to listen to you. I would have to explain too much, to tell you too much and...”

“Tell me now.”

“I have to show you something first.” Madame De Viers went into the bedroom and opened the top draw of her bureau. She took out a small leather box, set it on the bureau and opened it. Picking through the few items, she took out a snapshot. Returning to the kitchen, she handed it to Jake.

“Who is he?” Jake lifted his eyes and stared directly at Madame De Viers.

“It could be you. You see now why I picked you up.”

“But who is he?”

“Henrik Löwenstein. You look so much like him; it seems almost impossible. When I saw you on the side of the road wearing a beret, something Henrik always wore, I had to stop. Then your facial features, hair, and coloring were so similar, it was almost like he had returned to me.”

“But you soon realized, I was not him.”

“Of course. Riding with you asleep in the back seat, I knew you were an American, but my mind played tricks, and Henrik was with me. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. But I lived the fantasy for a while, even our telling stories last evening was so much like we would have done in Barcelona.”

“Tell me, who was Henrik Löwenstein? Your husband?”

“Oh no, not my husband. He was my lover, much more than a husband. Henrik and I were inseparable.”

“Your ring. I thought you were married.”

The truck horn signaled Jorge’s impatience.

“Jake, you must get on the road. Jorge’s waiting. My story is too long to tell you now. Maybe, if you ever get to Amsterdam, you could stay with me for a while, and we could finish our conversation.” At that, Madame De Viers and Jake stood up, as she gave him his sandwich for the road.

“Thank you, Madame De Viers, I plan to see you again in Amsterdam and take up your offer of hospitality. I leave for America from there in October.”

“Jake, please call me Emma. Here’s my card with my address and phone number. If I am at home, you will be welcomed.”

Jake looked into Emma’s eyes and saw something, a yearning. Their parting kiss confirmed his understanding.

Jake ran down the staircase. He checked the back of the truck for his rucksack and guitar and piled in the passenger seat next to Jorge. “Sorry, I took so long saying goodbye to Emma.”

“Oh, so you know her now as Emma,” quipped Jorge.

“You must have known Henrik Löwenstein, too.”

“Of course I knew him. I was in Barcelona with Emma and him. We were very close friends. When I heard you speak and saw you, it was a double take, but then your American accent and horrible Spanish made it clear you weren’t his reincarnation. It was some twenty years ago, and we were all young like you. Your getting out of the car and calling up, transported me for a second to a time when Henrik and I were together.”

As Jorge put the truck into gear and pulled away from the building, Jake looked up to wave goodbye to Emma. She wasn’t watching at the window. The house looked as deserted as when he arrived the night before. However, now he knew the house was inhabited with ghosts of past lives afflicting pain on the living.

They drove in silence, each collecting their own thoughts.

“Why didn’t you mention Henrik last night when we were telling stories and of my resemblance to him?”

Jorge hardened his grip on the steering wheel. “I was waiting for Emma to say something. But as soon as we started to talk about Barcelona days, she left. The memories are still raw.”

“OK, I understand something happened, but can’t you tell me about my double, Henrik Löwenstein,” Jake pleaded.

“Jake, there’s so much history you need to know if you want to know your Doppelganger. Henrik had a larger-than-life personality. Isn’t that how you Americans explain very special people? He was your double, over six feet, talkative, like you, and confident that he could take on anything and survive. The more you got to know him, the more you liked him.” Showing exasperation, “look, if you really want me to tell you about him, I can’t do it driving the truck. We can stop ahead at a village café, where we can get coffee and sit for a while. Your visit to Avignon will be delayed.”

“Let’s stop. You can complete the story you didn’t tell last night.” The truck continued for a few kilometers where it entered a village consisting of a fruit and vegetable store, a patisserie and a small café with tables bordering the street. They stopped and ordered coffee as Jorge tried to figure out where to start the history of Henrik Löwenstein.

“There is a lot of Henrik’s past I don’t know. Only Emma has that in her memory. But let me start from what I know,” Jorge proposed.

“He was born in Baden Baden in Germany, maybe around 1912. Jewish. I don’t know what happened to his parents, but he was taken in by a Jewish family called Berelowitz. The man of the house was a photographer and Henrik worked for him. Since Baden Baden was a spa, Berelowitz was successful in taking photographs of prominent families and individuals wanting to commemorate their holiday. Berelowitz had one daughter. Emma. Yes, Madame De Viers. She and Henrik were about the same age, though she may have been slightly younger. While Henrik worked with her father, like an apprentice, Emma went to gymnasium and, as I learned, was one of the brightest students.

In her last year in gymnasium, Emma became involved in a strike of railway workers and passed out pamphlets. Her sentiments were clearly socialist which clashed with the growing Nazi movement. Jews were being threatened. Her father tried to control her, but she continued her work with underground socialist groups.

As Emma told me, her father was informed that the SS was looking for her. She had to escape, leave Germany. He gave her money and one more thing that was critical, his instructions to Henrik, his apprentice. He was to accompany her and watch over her. She was Berelowitz’s only child, and he couldn’t bear to think that anything would befall her. For Henrik, he gave him their lifeline, a Leica camera, the newest camera in 1935. Of course, Henrik knew how to use it, and it would earn them enough money to live on.

Emma and Henrik escaped to Paris. Henrik earned a little money taking pictures of tourists and sites in Paris. He had a lot of competition from other photographers who were competing for a new market, selling photographs to newspapers and magazines. American and British magazines were interested in fashion, and Paris was the fashion center of the world then. As I said, the competition was fierce to get contracts with the magazines. Usually, they just paid for individual photographs.

Then came the Spanish Civil War when I met Henrik and Emma. Many photographers flocked to Spain. There was a lot of interest from all over Europe and America. The government was eager for foreign journalists and photographers to cover the war as a way to gain support worldwide against the fascists who staged the coup. One American magazine, I don’t know which one, though I think it may have been Life, commissioned Henrik to photograph the war. Henrik and Emma were embedded in my military company.”

Jorge ordered another coffee for him and Jake, diverting the conversation from the war for the moment. He took out a cigarette, lit it, and continued. “Henrik and I were always together. I was the person in our company tasked with accompanying Henrik when he was at the front-line taking snaps. I was like his bodyguard. I would scope out the situation and depending on whether it was safe or not, signal Henrik to advance. Henrik had his own mind on what he wanted to take photos of. He would see something of interest and head in that direction, even if he were put in harm’s way. He was brave without knowing it. For two months, he took loads of photos, and Emma selected the best ones and sent the negatives to the American magazine.”

Jorge looked away trying to get his composure as he snuffed out his cigarette. "Jake, let me stop here.” Jorge was visibly upset. "Henrik Löwenstein was shot by the fascists on one of our excursions. I was responsible for his death, by not protecting him. He wasn’t watching when I signaled to him, and a sniper shot him in the back.” Jorge’s face turned rigid. "Please, I don’t want to say more” as his eyes closed. Then softly, “I was with him when he died. Please, talking about that day brings it back.”

“Oh, Jorge, I am sorry.”

“Your surprise presence at the farmhouse brought back memories of his life force that I desperately miss. You look so like him.”

Jake looked down in embarrassment.

Their awkward silence was broken when Jorge stood up. “Let’s get going or you won’t make Avignon this morning.” He headed for the truck and Jake followed. They said nothing for a few kilometers.

“Thank you, Jorge, for telling me about Henrik Löwenstein. I’m sorry it brought you so much pain. He must have been a remarkable person. Being his double, somehow makes me proud, that there’s a spark of him in me.”

“Yeah, you gave Emma and me a shock. I’m glad I told you about him. I haven’t talked about him for a long time.”

Jorge drove on to the junction of the road to Avignon. Jake climbed out of the truck and retrieved his belongings in the back. He put on his beret, waved farewell to Jorge, and stuck out his thumb to continue his journey.

October 1956

“Hello. Is that you, Emma?” Jake spoke into the telephone receiver at a corner call box in Amsterdam. “It’s Jake. I’ve finally made it through Europe and am heading back to the U.S., on the evening KLM flight. Is your invitation to visit you still open? I would like to come over to see you. Is that all right?”

“You’re welcome to come over. You have my address, right? I’m home all day, so come when you can.”

Jake, looking like a Hans Christian Andersen character, wandered the streets along the canals trying to find Madame De Viers’ address. Finally, he saw a small sign in the bottom flat window: De Viers Photography, by appointment only. He looked up the stairs to a three-story house, not more than ten feet wide. Madame De Viers stood by the upstairs window and waved.

After taking off his all his gear and placing it next to the entrance door, Madame De Viers welcomed him and led him to the coal fire in the corner of her living room. Two chairs faced the fire with a table in between. Her anxiety over their reunion was partially abated by her rushing out to buy a Boterloek cake when she learned of his visit. “Come have a cup of coffee and cake and get warm.” She ushered him toward the fire. “This cake is famous in Holland; I hope you’ll like it.” While rarely nervous, Madame De Viers was not her usual self. Her eyes avoided Jake as he settled in the chair, and she poured him a cup of coffee.

After the banal conversation necessary when both parties are uneasy, Jake went right to the point: “Emma, when I left you in Arles, you said you would tell me about Henrik Löwenstein if I visited you here in Amsterdam. Our meeting was more than chance, and I need to know this man who is my double.”

Emma looked away to collect her thoughts. “Didn’t Jorge tell you about Henrik? I’m sure you know Henrik well enough from him.”

“No. The story of Henrik Löwenstein is not complete. Please tell me about him?”

“You are asking a lot. When I look at you, I see him. I feel my loss. It is hard to remember those days, some very happy, and then he is dead. I’ll tell you his story, but you must promise not to tell anyone else. Henrik’s life must remain our secret. What did Jorge tell you about Henrik? I don’t want to repeat what he told you.”

Jake recounted what Jorge had told him about Henrik.

“Did he talk about his relationship with Henrik? Or did the name Peter Downing come up?”

“No, he didn’t mention any relationship with Henrik. He said they were friends, close friends. Who is Peter Downing?”

“I see. Let me begin.” Emma rose from her chair and turned her back to the fire to face Jake. “Henrik’s and my relationship really began in Paris. He told me that he had always loved me, even when we were children. Somehow, he felt a special bond with me. It first started as brotherly love. I never felt this bond. Now that we were in Paris, my affection for him grew. We depended on each other to live, and this eventually turned into love.”

Emma then went into her bedroom to retrieve the same photograph that Jake had seen in Arles. “I took this photo of Henrik. See how handsome he is. How young. Like you. This was the man I fell in love with in Paris.”

Jake took the photograph from Emma and looked at it again. The man toasting his beer with the soldiers was Henrik. His resemblance to Jake was eerie. He realized that Emma was talking about Henrik but looking at him. “Please, Emma, go on. Tell me how you were able to exist in Paris.”

“Eking out a life there wasn’t easy. Many photographers had Leica cameras and had the same idea as we did to take snaps of couples and the beauty of Paris and sell them. Next, Henrik started to take photos of models, and I negotiated small contracts with magazines. I was soon to learn that most of the people I was doing business with were antisemitic. His surname Löwenstein stood out.”

Jake interrupted, “You mean, you escaped from Germany and now found yourself discriminated in Paris! How did you handle it? Did you stay on in Paris?”

"Yes, we stayed. We became friends with an American photographer. He had no difficulty selling his photos to American magazines. This gave us an idea. If Henrik changed his name from Löwenstein to an American sounding one, we could market his photographs easier, even in America. We chose the name Peter Downing. Henrik would now be known throughout the photographic world as Peter Downing. This alias was the gateway to Henrik’s career. I negotiated contracts for Henrik with numerous magazines and newspapers under the name Peter Downing. His Paris photographs and those of Parsian models were sought after by numerous magazines.”

Jake noticed a stack of magazines on a table across the room. Without Emma’s consent he went over and opened them. “These are some of them?” he queried. The old magazines all contained photographs with Peter Downing’s byline. “They’re very good. I can see why he was so successful.”

Emma smiled. “Few people have ever looked at these old magazine photographs.”

Emma walked to the empty chair and sat down. “Let me pour you another cup of coffee before it gets cold.” When she finished pouring, she looked at Jake. “Now comes the painful part of my life. In 1936, the Spanish Civil War started, and photographers and journalists flocked to Spain to satiate the need of the public to know about the war. Magazines and newspapers around the world wanted photos of the frontlines. Peter Downing received contracts from Life, the New York Times, and the British Times.

We went to Barcelona and became part of a company fighting for the Republic against the Nationalists. Henrik went out almost daily to take photos and Jorge was assigned to assist him. After a month or so, Henrik went out on a mission and was shot. He died in Jorge’s arms.” Emma held back her emotion. She lived his death every day, alone. Emma then got up and went to bedroom and brought back the small leather box. She put it on the table next to Jake and opened it.

“Jake, this is all I have left of Henrik. Not much: his watch, a snap of me and him that he carried in his pocket, this crushed pack of Gauloises, and this ring on my finger. Also retrieved was his Leica camera. That photograph of Henrik toasting the soldiers was the only other photo of Henrik. I took it. He always was behind the camera, never in front.”

“Emma, I’m so sorry. It must have been very difficult. Having the person you love killed liked that. You were alone now, in Spain, in the middle of the war. How did you cope?” Jake looked at Emma realizing that now she was telling her story, not Henrik’s. He couldn’t imagine being in such a situation: losing the most important person in your life in the middle of a war and being given his few possessions.

Madame De Viers exhaled as she sat back in her chair. She took a moment. “I continued Peter Downing’s work. I knew how to take photographs; my teachers were my father and Henrik. So, I went out on the frontline and fulfilled the contracts with the American customers. The corporal of the unit objected, but I didn’t let him stop me. Jorge was assigned to me, and he kept me safe.

I took photographs of the Spanish conflict for one year. The American publishers liked what I did and when the Japanese invaded China in ’38, they contracted Peter Downing to head to Manchuria to photograph that conflict. I went. Then, with war in Europe, I returned to Paris and photographed the Nazi capture of Paris and the fight of the Allies against the German machine. It was important to me to show how the fascist aggressors were defeated; how the Ally soldiers and ordinary people suffered, but still prevailed. Spain was so disappointing with Franco’s victory.”

Jake looked at Emma anew. This slight woman had experienced so much horror in her life and yet had been so courageous.

“I got lost in these wars, Jake. Like Henrik, I took chances. I had many close calls. I maybe even wanted to die in the same way as he did. But I survived.

In 1947, I had to escape Paris. Too many memories. That’s why I am living in Amsterdam. Here, I have tried to start again. But it has been difficult. The things I saw through this lens,” holding up the Leica, “cannot be wiped out. Images of war are harsh and once seen are almost impossible to forget. At times they appear suddenly, when I am doing something mundane, like cooking or taking photos of newlyweds. I am taken back to the frontline and soldiers dying.”

Jake didn’t know what to say. He had heard of shell shock of soldiers coming back from war, and now saw Emma as a combatant. “Have you received any help?”

“I go to a therapist. He tells me that I am getting better, and I am. I try to live in the present. He says I had a compulsive need to be on the frontline in danger. He equated it with being a drug addict and that it takes time to be centered again.”

“Does your therapist know about Henrik and Peter Downing?”

“Of course, he knows about Henrik and my love for him. Also, how he died. But I haven’t told him about Peter Downing.”

“That’s incredible. You took the place of Henrik and became Peter Downing. Emma, it is hard to believe that you went to all these fronts and that your photographs are the ones that have documented these wars. Who else knows this?”

“Only Jorge, and now you.”

“Why have you not taken personal credit for these photos? They’re yours.”

“The photos are Henrik’s. It is my way of keeping him alive. Peter Downing is Henrik. Anyway, what’s a name? During the war in Europe, people changed names to protect themselves. How long would I have lasted with the name Berelowitz or Frau Löwenstein? Madame De Viers is a simple Dutch name that allows me to live here without any questions. Peter Downing receives a few letters and requests for re-prints of his photographs, and I can decide whether to honor the requests or not. The photos are a part of Henrik’s legacy, whether he took them in Spain, or I took them on other battlefields. They are really all I have left of him. I look at the photos in my studio when I want to feel close to him.”

“What does Jorge say about these photographs? He was the guardian to both you and Henrik and a close friend. Doesn’t he think the photos should have the recognition they deserve, rather than gathering dust in your studio?"

Jake realized he had crossed a line. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. They’re your property.”

“Jorge? He did have an opinion. Around five years ago, he came to visit me here in Amsterdam. I hadn’t had any contact with him after I left Spain in ‘37. He had seen a war photograph of the liberation of Paris with Peter Downing’s credit at the bottom. He wrote to the magazine publisher and got the post office address in Amsterdam of Peter Downing. He came here and waited at the post office until I came one afternoon to pick up Peter Downing’s correspondence.

I was so surprised to see him. He hadn’t changed in appearance so much, but he wasn’t the same man I knew. Jorge was still very troubled by his role in Henrik’s death. He came back here to my home, and we talked for hours. He wanted absolution.

He knew how much Henrik and I were in love and that his mistake in not protecting him caused so much pain for me. He suffered. I tried to comfort him, but he was inconsolable. As I tried to ease his pain, however, I realized that Jorge was not suffering guilt so much as the actual loss of Henrik. In his own way, Jorge was in love with him.

What Jorge told me that day changed our relationship completely. That’s why he stays in my house in Arles. He found a place where he felt at home with himself after admitting that day that he had loved Henrik. He was with him all those days trying to keep him safe. They were very close --a bond of friendship that happens in war. It was hard for Jorge to tell me.”

Jake now understood why Jorge was so broken up when he talked about Henrik. He was not just losing the person whom he was there to protect, but the one he loved. He kept this love secret, and by doing so, suffered.

"Sitting right here, Jorge looked at my ring and confessed that he had given it to Henrik. He told me that it was his grandmother’s wedding ring, and she had given it to him when he left to fight as a symbol of love and to come home safely. Jorge gave it to Henrik for the same reason. When Henrik died, it was in his effects. I had assumed the ring was for me and he hadn’t had time to ask me to marry him.”

“You are still wearing the ring. What did you say to Jorge?”

“I took it off and tried to give it to him. We had words. I felt ashamed; he felt guilty. Finally, he said that the ring belonged to me, that it was a ring symbolizing love, and I should always have it. It was a cathartic moment. Jorge came over to me and I held him as I would a son who had reached the depths of despair. He had told his secret to the only person who cared. He finally found some peace. And I accepted that the love among the three of us, brought Jorge and me together.”

Jake sat back in his chair. He was dumbfounded. The love for a man who had died twenty years before, was still almost as fresh as it was in the barracks of Barcelona. Jorge and Emma’s lives were forever connected through their mutual love of Henrik. “Emma, I asked for the story of my double, and you have involved me in a love triangle. It’s hard to comprehend the depth of feelings of you and Jorge. How could I have known that by taking a lift in your car on the road to Avignon, I would become a part of your lives.”

Jake got up and hugged Emma. He was overwhelmed by learning of the life of his double. He realized that Henrik’s life lived on in the body of work of Peter Downing, and the emotional lives of Emma and Jorge. And now, possibly him.

“Jake, I have one favor to ask you. Would you mind if I took a photograph of you? I only have that one snap of Henrik and me, and the photograph you saw on my dresser. I miss him. He is the love of my life. Do you mind?”

“Of course not.”

Emma went to the table and retrieved Henrik’s Leica camera. “Jake, would you put on your beret, with the flap down on the right, that’s how he was worn in Spain.”

“Maybe,” asked Jake as he adjusted the beret, “you are able to take a snap of both of us standing together; you can photograph us in the wall mirror,” looking across the room.

“No, Jake. You don’t really understand. I want to remember Henrik as he was; not you or me.” Emma walked toward Jake and proceeded to snap his young face with only the wallpaper as evidence he was not in Catalan.

Saying goodbye to Jake was hard for Emma. Meeting Jake on the road in France and now in Amsterdam may have been for a reason; she had had a reunion with Henrik. She knew how foolish she was. Henrik was dead, and Jake had his own journey to complete.

Jake felt a pang of guilt, as he went to get his belongings to leave. Emma looked drained; he had forced her to expose herself in her telling of Henrik’s story. He had ventured into the life of his double, and now realized that he carried some of the burden of that life on his shoulders, whether he liked it or not.

As Jake put on his rucksack and hung his guitar over his shoulder to depart for the airport, he said goodbye to Emma for the last time. They held each other knowing that they would never meet again. As she saw him down the stairs of her home, she slipped the ring off her finger and, unobserved, dropped the wedding band in the pocket of his rucksack.

Footnote: 1975,New York Times Obituary: Peter Downing, born 1912 ca, died January 12,1975 in Amsterdam, the Netherlands. Mr. Downing was the pre-eminent war photographer of the United States. He gained attention with his masterful photographs of the siege of Barcelona in the Spanish Civil War. Later, he was one of only a few photographers who captured the fighting in Manchuria between the Japanese and Chinese. His most memorable photographs, however, were those he took with his Leica camera of the Second World War in Europe. The photos made the pages of the most popular magazines at the time and were often on the front page of this paper. Unfortunately, his vast album of photographs has not been saved except for those in publications. He made Amsterdam his home for the past twenty-five years where he died, leaving no relatives.