The Camera

Words by Scott Pedersen

Art by Kaci Ellison

July 1941

What am I doing on a boat tour on the Chicago River? Acting out of desperation, that’s what.

I host a weekly radio show in Philadelphia, and once a month I write a human-interest piece for a local newspaper, just because I need the money. The formula my editor gave me is simple: pick a lively city, nose around and write something interesting. Also, no politics; with the bombing of London and other horrors of war in Europe dominating the news, he believes readers need an antidote.

Truth be told, I’d rather write something with more heft, but I don’t mind this. I have to pay for my meals, but he pops for train fare and lodging for three days tops. He can afford to; he’s syndicated my column, and each year more papers around the country pick it up. Sure, sometimes I miss a deadline, but who doesn’t when things are outside your control?

Yesterday was my second day in Chicago, and at the end of it I had bupkis. As much as I’d like to get back to Philly, this morning I called my editor to ask for an extra day. No dice. He dismissed me with a pretty uninspired idea: “Why don’t you take one of those boat tours, make a scene, and see what falls into your lap? And don’t forget, this is your last chance.” Click.

Today looks to be a scorcher. I’m glad this is the morning tour—the air is already thick with river smells. I’m standing near the seats in back, looking for something or someone out of the ordinary. Here comes a diminutive man, around sixty, wearing an unusual jacket, double-breasted, with embroidery on the sleeves and large buttons. Up close it looks frayed, but that’s a nice camera hanging by its strap around his neck. Looks like a Contax, the one with the built-in light meter. I try to make eye contact with him, but his solemn gaze is fixed on the deck as he walks by.

The captain is giving a canned spiel about the sights along the river over the public address system. “Also known as the Jeweler’s BUILDING, it was ONCE taller than any building outside of New YORK City.” I’m enjoying his unusual cadence, but I’ve seen and heard it all before. Finally he says something that gets my interest. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you look down river on the left bank, you’ll see what resembles a large fire hose. They’re about to do a trial run of what could become a regular feature of the river experience. And there it goes!” A thick shaft of water forms a high arc above the river.

The captain must be in an impish mood. “What do you say, ladies and gentlemen? Should we pass under it and stay dry, or have a little fun and see how wet we can get?” Nobody responds, but this captain is determined. “You asked for it!” He heads the boat straight for the descending torrent of water near the right bank.

I’d like to see this better, so I take a seat in the front row, but still under the canopy. There’s the man with the Contax standing near the bow of the boat. He’s got that camera glued to his face. I better warn him. “Hey, get under the canopy! Step back!”

Why doesn’t he hear me? There isn’t time to dash out there and drag him back. I’m already feeling spritzes of water.

I’ve never seen such so much water slam into a human being in less than a second. His camera has been knocked out of his hands, and he’s staggering, trying to catch his balance. Now he’s stumbling toward me. And down he goes. I hold my palms out to catch his head before it cracks into my right knee. The rumble of water striking canvas over my head gets softer as it moves toward the back of the canopy.

A woman—I assume his wife—rushes up and speaks to him in a language I’ve never heard before. She helps him sit up. Now he’s looking down at his camera. A trickle of water falls from his forehead onto it.

Crestfallen and confused. Those are the best words to describe the look on this man’s face. He probably has no idea what’s happened to him or why. It pains me. I get up and look around for some towels. Maybe his camera can be saved. The captain’s cabin door is open, and there are a couple of towels on a chair. I’ll just borrow them.

I hand a towel to the drenched man, who uses it to swaddle his camera while the woman uses the other to blot water from his face. Her brown eyes look up at me appreciatively from under the tattered brim of her cloche hat. I haven’t seen a smile that warm in a while.

There’s a young man heading our way. He looks to be a real bruiser, with unconcealable muscles and a baldy sour. He snakes his way through the rows of chairs and canopy posts. I wonder if he’s going to offer some help. Ah, he knows them. They’re all speaking the same language, which I’m pretty sure is eastern European.

I introduce myself and am surprised at the young man’s reluctance to tell me his name. “It’s not important,” he says. I give him the most expectant look I can muster until he says, “It’s Vilmos.”

The woman pipes up, “Vilmos Fodor.” He gives her a dirty look and then tells me the couple are Lazlo and Margit. He says they’re very thankful and want me to join them for lunch after the tour. I accept immediately.

Lunch is at a café with outdoor seating. Not bothering with menus, the martinetish Vilmos quickly orders three ham-and-Swiss sandwiches, with sides of potato salad. He points at me. “You?” I say I’ll have the same, plus coffee.

Vilmos says Lazlo and Margit were friends of his father’s in the old country and are visiting for a while. They’re staying at his house because they can’t afford a hotel.

When the food comes, everyone digs in. Vilmos suddenly looks at me again, as if for the first time. “Skip Lusky. This name sounds familiar.”

“You probably know me from radio. I used to do a show here in the Loop. Now I have a live drama show in Philadelphia. We use a hidden microphone.” Vilmos looks concerned. Well, at least he’s interested. I’ll go on. “You hear the craziest things with a hidden microphone. Sometimes things that shouldn’t be heard—or at least not broadcast. I don’t know how we get away with it.”

“And you are doing what in Chicago?”

“Working on a feature article for a Philly paper. A human-interest piece—if I can think of an angle.” I pause for a bite of sandwich. “You know, the article could be about Lazlo and Margit. My instincts tell me there’s a story here. Of course, with the language barrier, it might be tough to dig deeper.”

“No, they are very busy. No time for that.” Vilmos looks at me suspiciously and puts down his sandwich. “You have a microphone with you now?”

I laugh. “No, that requires a lot of equipment. We use a soundproof booth and special wiring.”

I notice Margit eyeing Vilmos closely. When he looks down at his sandwich, she knocks over her glass of water. He jumps up from his chair just before the water reaches him.

As Vilmos stomps off to get some napkins, Lazlo pulls a compact book out of Margit’s purse—a translation dictionary. He frantically flips through it while Margit prods him and whispers in his ear. Lazlo shows me a page and points to a word: “steal.” Well, this seems to be taking an unexpected turn. Clearly, they’re trying to tell me something important, one word at a time: Steal. Our. Money. Help. Tell. Police. I’ve gotten the gist of it. Vilmos has been taking money from them, and they’re helpless to stop him.

Tell the police. That’s what I should do. I’m not Dick Tracy. I peer around the plaza and up and down the street. Not a cop in sight.

Here comes Vilmos. Margit looks in his direction and then hands me a note across the table. I put it in my pants pocket.

Vilmos wipes up the spilled water and then sits down. “So,” he says, “what were you looking for? A cop?”

“No, no. Why would you think that?” I quickly think of a story. “I was planning to walk down Michigan Avenue this afternoon, and I was trying to figure out where it is. That’s all.”

“You had a radio show in the Loop, and you don’t know where is Michigan Avenue? What are you trying to pull? What did they tell you?”

“Nothing. They don’t speak English, remember?”

“What is on that paper? Give it to me!”

I stand up and drop a Lincoln on the table. “I gotta get going. Thanks for the offer of lunch, but I’m going to pay for my own.”

I walk away briskly and look back. Vilmos is getting up. He’s following me now. I decide to run for it. I’ve always been fleet of foot, so I’m not panicking—yet.

I look again. Vilmos is starting to run, with Lazlo and Margit struggling to keep up. Vilmos is yelling some pretty threatening things at me. I really don’t want my neck broken in six places. Lazlo and Margit are yelling too. I assume they’re pleading with Vilmos to let me go.

I would have worn different shoes this morning if I’d known I was going to be chased up Wacker Drive by three screaming Europeans. After this, my editor better reimburse me for that sandwich.

I’m almost to the bridge. If I head north, I can pop into the local paper, where I know lots of people. It’s the safest place I can think of.

No! The drawbridge is going up!

I run toward the tender house, climb the steps and grab the door handle. It’s not locked! I am one lucky duck. I step inside, swing the heavy door shut and flip the latch.

There’s the tender, a broad-shouldered man with shaggy white hair, peering through a square side window. His blocky hands are on some controls. I admire the deftness with which he moves them without looking, but didn’t he hear the door slam? I clear my throat, and he turns to face me.

This man looks mad as hell. “Hey, you can’t be in here!”

“Do you have a phone?”

“This ain’t a phone booth. Get out!”

I spot an ancient telephone in the corner. “Why don’t you get the cops on the horn and have me arrested?”

Now his eyes are bulging. He reaches for the phone while Lazlo and Margit pound on the door. He seems to be having trouble getting through, and I’m feeling impatient. “When’s the last time you used that thing? Does it even work?”

“You shut up!”

The pounding has stopped. I peer through the door window. My pursuers have retreated to the intersection at Wacker Drive. They’re having a pretty animated conversation. And now they’re getting on a city bus. I suppose I’ll never see them again.

I leave the tender house and suddenly remember the note Margit handed me. I pull it out of my pocket and unfold what appears to be a letter, written on onionskin. It’s in English and starts, “Dear Aunt Margit.” The writer hopes that Margit can find someone to translate, because “this is important!” There’s some “hope you are well” stuff, and then comes a warning about Vilmos. He apparently has a rap sheet, although there are no details. Then the writer urges Margit to go to New York instead of Chicago and apply for asylum. It’s a shame this never got translated. The closing is almost too much for me: “Wishing you luck and hoping I will see you soon. I pray for you. Love, Tina.”

Maybe I haven’t been paying enough attention to the news. Why would they need asylum? Maybe there’s a consulate in the city. That’s probably the best place to get Lazlo and Margit some help.

In a nearby phone booth I find the consulate address. It will be a short walk.

I enter through a heavy steel door. There’s a well-dressed, mustachioed man standing behind a tall counter, rummaging through some loose papers. I ask him who handles legal matters.

“The consul is out,” he says, “but I may be able to help you.”

“That would be swell. Look, there’s this older couple, here on vacation, and the friend they’re staying with is stealing from them.”

“What are their names?”

“Their first names are Lazlo and Margit, but I’m having trouble remembering their last name. I know it starts with ‘T.’”

“I cannot be sure from their first names, but they may be Romani.” He pulls a sheaf of papers from a drawer and hands it to me. “We have just received this list. See if you can find the name.”

I flip to the page with last names starting with “T.” There are hundreds. “This may take a while,” I tell him.

“Take all the time you need. If you can tell me the surname, then it is possible we can locate and interrogate them.”

“Interrogate them? You mean, about the stealing?”

“No. If they have become victims of a crime here, it will be up to the local authorities to investigate. The consulate has a different interest.”

Boy, this guy has written the book on bureaucracy. If I can just get him to see the humanity of the situation. “Look, I just want this nice, innocent couple to not be taken advantage of. They’re tourists wanting to see the sights and have a good time. They haven’t done anything wrong.”

He’s just made a sound. I would call it a scoff. He just scoffed at me! Now he’s shuffling some papers. Does he want me to leave? Finally, he looks up. “We have laws to enforce as well. Some Romani have ignored lawful orders to report for relocation and have fled to America. I assume you are aware that there is a war in Europe.”

“Well, whose side are you on, anyway?”

Why is he smirking? Now he’s shaking his head. “You Americans are so ignorant. Our president signed the Tripartite Pact last year, but most likely you have never heard of it. To answer your simple-minded question, we are with the Axis.”

I’m abashed that I write for a newspaper and didn’t know this. I drop the papers on the counter. “You know what? I just remembered. It starts with ‘G’.”

I leave the consulate and start walking back to my hotel. No, I can’t help Lazlo and Margit, but at least they seem to have escaped the worst of it, namely being shipped to a labor camp. Besides, as concerned as Tina sounded about their welfare, I’m sure she’ll check on them. Maybe she’ll send them some money for train fare to New York.

Tomorrow I’ll call my editor and tell him what fell into my lap. It may take some doing to get him to make an exception for the political stuff. I’ll start my pitch by buttering him up. With the right amount of flattery, I at least have a sporting chance.

But would it even be right to take it? On my radio show, jokes are my bread and butter. Same with my column, but jokes against a backdrop of forced labor, or worse? I wish I were back in downtown Tampa with the escaped alligators. A columnist’s dream! You could just walk into a good story.

Well, I don’t have the time to start from scratch and find another story, so this will have to be it. I’ll write the whole thing this evening in my room. As the man said, it’s my last chance.

Who am I kidding? I can’t leave Chicago with Lazlo and Margit in the lurch. I know Vilmos’s last name. The least I can do is look up his address and give it to the police.

I return to the phone booth and open the book. I’m feeling my oats now, flipping the pages with a sense of purpose. Good! Lots of Fodors—but no Vilmos.

What to do? This could be the end of it.

Suddenly I remember that when Lazlo got on the bus, he didn’t have his camera. Of course—we all left the café in a hurry. The odds are long, but maybe it’s still on our table. If I get the film developed, I may see a clue as to their whereabouts. It’s worth the walk to find out.

The café looks pretty deserted. There’s our table—cleared and wiped clean. I guess this isn’t going to happen. Strike two.

Here comes our waiter, looking like something’s on his mind. “You were here earlier, right?” he asks me.

“Yes, indeed.”

“You forgot your camera. I’ll go get it.”

This is like Christmas morning. I know just what to do—take the camera to the paper, where my friend Gracie develops their photographers’ film. I’m sure she’ll make prints for me.

At the paper, I find Gracie, who seems happy to see me, but not as happy as I am to see her. Right now this petite person with bountiful curls and cat-eye glasses looks heroic.

I explain that I need to return the camera to my friends but don’t have their address or phone number. “Maybe there’s a photo in it that will give me a lead. So, I thought, if you have time later today—”

“Since it’s for you, Skip, I’m not that busy.” She takes the camera and disappears into a back room. I’m happy to sit down for a while after all that walking.

Before long she emerges smiling. “I think your friends live on the Near North Side.”

“How can you tell?”

“I recognize some of the businesses in these photos. And look at this.” She holds out a print showing Vilmos and Margit standing in front of a house. “Are these your friends?”

“Yes. And there’s a number on the house. Four, three—shoot, Vilmos’s head is in the way. So, they live on the 400 block or 4000 block of some street on the Near North Side. That’s not much to go on.”

“You give up too easy. There’s a lot more to see in this photo.” I’m intrigued now and let her go on. “Look at how short their shadows are. That means the photo was taken around midday. And their shadows go back instead of to the side. That means they’re facing south.”

She gives me an expectant stare. I shrug. Now she looks impatient. “That means, Skip, that the house is on the north side of an east-west street.”

“Of course!”

“There aren’t many east-west streets in that neighborhood. Just go to the 400 block of each one until you find the house.” She hands me the prints, film and camera. “I think your friend’s going to need a new camera. Was he shooting in the rain?”

“Something like that.”

I thank her profusely and leave. It’s nice not striking out. Now, if I can find the house and see the address, I can go to the police and let them take over. Within minutes I’m on a bus to the Near North Side.

The first couple of 400 blocks I traipse along yield nothing, just modest house after modest house that look nothing like the one in the photo. But near the middle of the next block my luck changes. At least I think that’s the house. I look again at the photo. Same window awnings, same shrubbery, and there’s the clincher—two off-kilter posts supporting the roof above the front stoop. I make a mental note of the address.

Whoa! Is that who I think it is? There they are, the troublesome trio, half a block away, walking toward me. Does Vilmos see me? Yes, he’s running this way. Not this again!

I’m tempted to run but decide to face him and get this over with. With any luck I can talk him out of committing a felony today. I take in a deep breath and brace for it.

Seconds later I smell Vilmos panting as he grabs the front of my shirt. “How did you find my house!” Good question. That’s what I’d want to know.

“It wasn’t hard. I used to be a detective with the Chicago PD.” A detective! What am I saying? “They’ll be here any minute.” Any minute? I better stall. “I mean, they’ll be here as soon as they finish up with a bank robbery on Dearborn.”

He’s still glaring at me, but his grip has loosened a bit. “Dearborn? Couple blocks from here, right? I did hear a siren.” Now he’s nodding. “Okay, okay, I think you are honest guy and not just scared.”

He bought it! He lets go of my shirt and starts talking to Lazlo and Margit. It’s another animated conversation, this one ending with the couple embracing.

He turns back to me. “They say if I return their money, bygones will be bygones.”

“Great! Go ahead.”

He looks nonplussed. “I must do this now?”

“Of course! I need to see it so I can vouch for you with the cops.”

Vilmos pulls a large wad of cash out of his pants pocket and starts peeling off bills. “Stupid boat tour! You can see the same things from the street. The captain should not drive the boat through falling water. Everybody knows this is stupid!”

He hands Lazlo and Margit a few hundred dollars. Boy, these folks are better off than I thought. That explains the fancy camera, but what’s with Lazlo’s scruffy jacket? Vilmos should take him to Marshall Field’s tomorrow.

The couple are all smiles now. I expect a hug or something, but they start walking toward the house.

“Why are they leaving?” I ask Vilmos.

“To get their things. That is the other part of the deal. They are going with you.”

“With me! What am I supposed to do with them?”

“That is your problem now, mister,” he says, poking me in the chest.

Vilmos heads for the house, and soon Lazlo and Margit march out with their dilapidated suitcases.

I trade the camera, prints and film for their suitcases, and off we go marching down the sidewalk, with me in front.

I need a plan. They have the dough for a room at my hotel. And for train fare to New York, which is where I think Tina lives. I’ll see if I can get a positive reaction out of them. I stop and turn around. “Tina? New York? Yes?” They smile but look perplexed.

Well, at the hotel we can crack open that little dictionary and have a productive heart-to-heart. I’m not sure where they’re going tomorrow, but I’m heading for Philly!

I get them settled into a scantly furnished room on the same floor as mine. As the three of us sit around a small, round table, Margit pulls the dictionary out of her purse and hands it to me. We have a lot to say to each other—and would freely if it weren’t for the language barrier.

The value of the book I’m holding becomes clear as it starts to lessen the distance between us. I learn that Lazlo was a retired army officer who was called back to duty when the war started. He and Margit are not Romani, though the subject has brought a grim look to his face. As an officer, did he have a role in enforcing those “lawful orders”? I’ll try to think of a single word that can get to the heart of it.

I have it. I find and point to the word for “regret.” No response. Lazlo sits quietly, his eyes seeming fixed on this solitary word. Until now, each word I showed them triggered a chirpy confab between them, followed by a search through the book for a word in English. I’ll give him all the time he needs.

Finally he takes the book from my hands, slowly closes it and hands it to Margit, who puts it back in her purse. Her hand reemerges with a tissue. She blots a tear under Lazlo’s eye. He places his hand on hers.

Margit gets up and walks to the bed, on which the photos Gracie printed are scattered. She picks one up and brings it to me. I never did look at all the prints and haven’t seen this one yet. I hold it up to the light to get a good look. It shows a train at a station filled with bedraggled people and a few menacing officers around the perimeter. I nod and hold it out to her, but she doesn’t take it. I guess she wants me to keep it.

The next morning, I don’t bother calling my editor. I know what I’m going to write, and that’s not going to change, even if this winds up being my last column.

I have breakfast with Lazlo and Margit, and then we take a cab to Union Station. It’s difficult parting, but I think I’ll see them again. This time I get a hug. After they board a train for New York, I climb onto the Pennsy.

I like writing on the train. It helps pass the time, even if my handwriting suffers. Not enough, though, to keep me from sailing through it when I type up my piece at home that evening.

The next morning, I drop it off with my editor’s assistant. I don’t even care to talk to him about it. I’m just a bit late, so we’ll see what he does with it. I ask the assistant to fish it out of his wastebasket for me if it comes to that.

I feel restless during the intervening hours, and when the time arrives for the evening edition, I hit the pavement leading to the corner stand. There’s Wally, holding a copy out to me. “Evening edition, Mr. Lusky. I saved you a copy.”

“Thanks, Wally.” I hand him a nickel.

“Enjoy your paper, Mr. Lusky.” What’s he smiling about?

I’m about to flip to the features section when I notice something familiar: my name. Just below the fold on the front page is my column, titled as usual, “Skip Lusky.” My editor moved me to the front page! He even used the photo Margit gave me.

Imagine, all of this without me having to flatter him. I could be wrong, but something tells me I’ve written my last column about alligators.

About the author

Scott Pedersen is a writer based in Wisconsin. His work has appeared in Falling Star Magazine, Louisiana Literature, The MacGuffin, In Parentheses, The Sea Letter and anthologies from Propertius Press. When not writing fiction, he enjoys performing in a traditional Celtic band.

About the illustrator

Kaci Ellison, a mother of two children from rural Western Kentucky, lives in a log home on 10 acres of forest. The homestead is also home to bunnies, chickens, a cat, and a dog. An art major from Murray State University, she works as a home designer for Champion Homes. Her hobbies include gardening, illustrating, hunting, fishing, running, and watching her children play sports.

Kaci Ellison is enchanted by nature. She loves bird watching. Sunrises and sunsets remind her everyday is a new beginning. Kaci is passionate believer in God. She believes everyday kindness is the lifeblood of our own happiness.