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My dad, the photographer
I recently started going through a cache of old photographs taken by and of my dad during his teens and early twenties. They range from some pictures where he's in, I kid you not, a white dinner jacket, hair slicked back, looking like a young lordling, to one from his student teaching days at Ohio University.
The most interesting, though, are the ones he took during World War II. Dad was in the 66th Infantry Division, the so-called "Black Panthers," and didn't actually get to France until late in 1944. He didn't see much combat but he seems to have had a great time, based on the number of pictures of the tourist sites in Avignon, Arles, Nimes, and Paris (including some beautifully framed shots of the undergirdings of the Eiffel Tower). There's also a hilarious series of pictures of his buddies sacked out on their cots, either asleep or reading (and in one case, yelling at Dad), which leads me to believe that Dad didn't necessarily ask permission before whipping out the camera.
The best, though, are some small black and white shots Dad took in - wait for it -
Adolf Hitler's home in Bavaria
I can't tell from the pictures whether Dad actually visited the Berghof, Hitler's main residence, or the Eagle's Nest, his tea house, but whichever it is, the RAF sure bombed the hell out of it based on the one exterior shot. The real interest is the shots of the interior, which included Hitler's private movie theater (damaged), his bathtub (relatively intact except for a few missing tiles), and (I swear I am not making this up) his toilet (missing the lid, and captioned "Also Hitler's" in my father's spiky handwriting).
Best of all, some wag wrote "BILL KOLACEK TITUSVILLE PA" in the 1945 equivalent of a Sharpie on the surround for the bathtub. This was probably as close as PFC Kolacek could get to bathing (or worse) in the tub, but it's pretty hilarious.
To the best of my knowledge, I am the only person in Easthampton, Massachusetts, who owns a photo of Hitler's toilet. Words fail to describe how special this makes me feel.
The most interesting, though, are the ones he took during World War II. Dad was in the 66th Infantry Division, the so-called "Black Panthers," and didn't actually get to France until late in 1944. He didn't see much combat but he seems to have had a great time, based on the number of pictures of the tourist sites in Avignon, Arles, Nimes, and Paris (including some beautifully framed shots of the undergirdings of the Eiffel Tower). There's also a hilarious series of pictures of his buddies sacked out on their cots, either asleep or reading (and in one case, yelling at Dad), which leads me to believe that Dad didn't necessarily ask permission before whipping out the camera.
The best, though, are some small black and white shots Dad took in - wait for it -
Adolf Hitler's home in Bavaria
I can't tell from the pictures whether Dad actually visited the Berghof, Hitler's main residence, or the Eagle's Nest, his tea house, but whichever it is, the RAF sure bombed the hell out of it based on the one exterior shot. The real interest is the shots of the interior, which included Hitler's private movie theater (damaged), his bathtub (relatively intact except for a few missing tiles), and (I swear I am not making this up) his toilet (missing the lid, and captioned "Also Hitler's" in my father's spiky handwriting).
Best of all, some wag wrote "BILL KOLACEK TITUSVILLE PA" in the 1945 equivalent of a Sharpie on the surround for the bathtub. This was probably as close as PFC Kolacek could get to bathing (or worse) in the tub, but it's pretty hilarious.
To the best of my knowledge, I am the only person in Easthampton, Massachusetts, who owns a photo of Hitler's toilet. Words fail to describe how special this makes me feel.
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most likely in fanfiction god help us all please make me STOP, but seriously, Hitler's toilet? What could be better?And no, I had no idea that my father had seen the very place where one of the most evil men in human history performed his ablutions. He never spoke about it, at least to me, and I am now vaguely disappointed.
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Another story I wish I'd heard: how and why my uncle Lou acquired Luger as a war souvenir.
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That and the three paintings he did when he got back (the only paintings he ever did):
1) a portrait (head and shoulders) of a woman with long stringy brown hair who is weeping
2) ruins (bombed out town?)
3) a man (possibly in uniform) lying on the ground beneath several trees, autumn time based on foliage colors
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I am in love with this paragraph.
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love, lore
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