Rummaging through the dead

I'm sitting next to an etching of St. Marks Square in Venice. It's quite lovely, a view from the water looking into the square through the gondolas. I bought it and another for $30 from an apartment sale who's owners died. they had no children, just a gruff brother and a wacky neighbor who volunteered to give away and sell their things to the random strangers who answered the ad.

One by one people came, entering meekly, stopping to stand in the living room, visually absorbing the scene. At first look, it wasn't promising. Seventies decor in the front room, and the kitchen filled with odd dishes and ancient utensils.

When I came to the door it wasn't by way of the ad the neighbor had placed. I'd met a woman in the elevator who was heading to the apartment. She told me someone was giving everything away. She was furnishing her new apartment.

I rang the bell and the wacky neighbor answered looking as if I was the first person to ring it, ever. I fumbled for words, "Hi I just met a woman who said you were giving things away." Blank stare from the lady so I fumbled some more, "She said you put out an ad? That people were stopping by?" After a series of pointless questions I was finally approved and allowed in to wander through the stuff.

When I first came in I spotted the two etchings I eventually took home. I knew they were worth more than I was going to pay for them. I asked the overseer how much they were, "$20 each." "Will you give them both to me for $30?" Lady lets a flicker of defeat cross her face then, "Ok."

I walked around the front room feeling odd about rummaging though dead peoples things. It was clear they were elderly and had collected these things their whole lives. A prickly feeling crept over me. I felt rude pushing things aside to get to another, picking that up, pulling this out. It seemed wrong and weird.

I slipped to the back bedroom to get away from the overseer, who's voice seemed loud and out of place, increasing the feeling that we all should be ashamed of ourselves. In the back room there was a young man who was in earnest in his quest to find stuff. He was latino and gay, two of my favorite attributes in a man so I pushed into the room and hovered around him to make myself feel better.

The space was strange and dusty. It was at some point a work room, filled with homemade radios and other electrical hoo haas I knew nothing of. My new friend here was finding old photography equipment, light sensors, film rollers and cameras. All of this was a boon for him as he was a photographer. He told me he was here helping the wacky overseer find things of interest to put on Ebay for sale.

I stood watching mostly, still feeling strange about these old dead things left in this room since the 50s. Dirty and forgotten now being pulled out, opened and set aside. I positioned myself in the center and decided to pickup only the things that peeked my interest. I found a small framed picture of the dead couple with family and I had a desire to slip it into my bag unnoticed, to save it from the onslaught of strangers to come.

With a pile of ancient old pillows stowed for whatever reason, came out an old photo album and with it my friend tells me what he knows of the people. "Oh look at thissss, it is the woman's family album from when she is a child with her family. She and her husband were Jewish, Austrian refugees from World War II."

The pictures were so charming and sad considering the families eventual status in that part of the world. They looked like upper middle class gentiles fitting all the stereotypes of the ideal Hitler aryan family. Fat blond haired children, content and happy, fed too much, representing abundance at it's most successful. The father was dapper, not handsome but he carried himself as if he were irresistible.

Most of the photos were summers at the beach through the years. In recline in the sun with the wind lazily pushing at their hair. Somewhere in each frame, beach balls, picnic baskets and the water reflecting the warmth that made their skin brown . My favorite photo was of the mother laying on her stomach looking off with a soft squint in her eyes. Happy and motherly, she was as content and relaxed as I could ever wish to be.

In the middle of the album were two unopened letters dated in the 1950's. They were from a locksmith in Manhattan. From a locksmith? Could these be from a lover? Or are they just forgotten mail she used as a bookmark way back then as she absentmindedly paged through her memories? Then I wondered, has she not looked through the pictures since then? I fought the urge to open them, I fought the urge to slip them in my bag.

I could have stayed longer but I had duties to attend to. So I slipped out with my two etchings wondering how I'll carry them onto a crowded subway. Wondering if my weird feelings and sorrow for the dead people and their long forgotten things were worth considering. Do I really care that the things they loved or at least liked went out of their apartment to new homes? Besides we're giving the stuff a new life in new environments. New drawers to sit in, walls to hang on, floors to stand on.

I guess, considering the people's life experience it would have been nice to have known their story. Maybe the wacky neighbor and the gruff brother could have written a page or two, made copies and handed them to each of us as we came into the apartment. It would start: These things you take from here today were owned and loved by two people who lived and survived an extraordinary story, it went like this...