The Haunted Photo

 

Photos have the power to be more compelling than video.  They can be perfect reflections of moments.  A brief fleeting instant with little to no context immortalized.  Who knows what value ignorant eyes in the future will assign to these images? 

This is an image I’m particularly partial to of my Opa.  He’s in dress shoes and slacks with suspenders hauling off a large piece of lumber.  It’s just simply badass.

A photo of my Oma and sausages.  This is down in the laundry room of her house.  I’m sure the cleaning chemicals stored above them is perfectly safe.  I just always found this picture funny.

Then there’s this photo.  Another of my Opa.  I don’t know why I was always drawn to this picture.  I even created a sort of narrative behind it. 

“The man on the ladder is a sentry. He focuses his gaze on the outside. The man on the ladder never wavers. He exhibits supreme fidelity to his purpose. His commitment is unbounded. He is alone. There are regrets, but he knows his calling and serves. He is selfless, he is a concrete truth.”

And, truth be told, I have no idea what is going on in this photo.  At first it seemed innocuous, but upon second glance something just felt unsettling.  Downright spooky.  It didn’t require much examination for the specter to come into focus.  This is unnerving.  It was taken during construction of my Oma and Opa’s house around 1963, 64.  My mother was a little girl. And it. Is. Scary.

Taking a slight detour…

I can only recall being afraid at this house one time.

See, for the most part, my vacations in Germany were amazing. They were filled with fun, family, nice weather, culture, and delicious food. There was one night though, where I couldn't sleep. Absolute horror overtook me. I was afraid of one of history's real-life monsters. I was afraid of Hitler.

 

My Oma and Opa took my sister, my brother, and me to eat at a restaurant out in the country. Following the meal, my sister and I went outside. There was a nice spacious field behind the building. Fifty yards or so away was a wooded area and what, looking back now, was probably just a culvert. I think I was probably 8 or 9 at the time. My sister would have been 12 or 13. She told me that that large concrete structure was actually Hitler's bunker. And I believed her. She also told me that his body was never found, and he may still be alive roaming the German countryside. And I believed her. This gave me the chills. I returned inside to sit in the safety of my Opa's presence. It was getting dark outside, and I didn't want to get caught by der Führer.

 

On our car ride home, I recalled what Opa once said about the guy two houses down. That guy was always a grouch. He had a wonderful wife though. She'd make us pizza a couple times in the summer. She was very friendly, but her husband didn't share her demeanor. My Opa said of him, “He's no good. He is Hitler's man.” I didn't know if that meant he knew Hitler personally, or was an actual Nazi during the war, or was just a Nazi sympathizer who lived in the past. I was sure he hated me, the son of a daughter of Germany who betrayed her fatherland by marrying an American soldier. Surely, he'd rat me out.

 

My grandmother lived her whole life with a shame she could not get rid of. Her given name was Adolfine. I never knew this until I was a teenager. She was just “Oma” to me. Everybody else simply referred to her as Finny. I heard that families often showed their allegiance to the Nazi party by naming their kids after Hitler. Whether they truly supported them or just wanted protection, I do not know. Maybe it's all nonsense somebody told me. But to have that badge your whole life must have been terrible. A man responsible for the deaths of millions honored in such a way. I can't imagine having to carry that burden.

 

So, I lay in bed that evening. My sister by my side, we shared a queen bed. I stared at the shutters on the window to my right. My senses heightened by my paranoia. I'd hear Hitler come for me. I knew it. I didn't know that had he been alive still, he'd be 100 years old. I didn't realize that, had he been alive, he'd have more things on his plate than just a nine-year-old kid. I just knew that a real-life monster was out there. I was in his backyard, and he wanted revenge. The Third Reich fell, and I would be his retribution.

 

Morning came and I woke up. Sleep crept up and quietly defeated an unsuspecting defenseless child. Hitler didn't get me. I never worried about it again. A true evil did exist, and I knew it in my heart. But I dropped it. It was a genuine threat and I moved on. A kid's got too much stuff going on in the summer to allow a little thing like the worst mass murderer being on the loose to bother him.

 

Now, there’s about ten photos I came across of their house under construction.  Their home for their family of three.  It is interesting to see fifty-year-old photos from before the structure was complete.  I just flipped through the pics of the house, my mom as a little girl and her proud dad, my Opa.  Initially this figure went unnoticed, but when my eyes transfixed upon the eerie ghoul, my spine shivered, and I got goose bumps.  What the hell?  Was it visiting, just trespassing in that instant?  Or was this wraith a squatter?  Did it co-inhabit rent free?  Did it haunt the dreams of my mom?  I shuffle to another, but I turn back and study it more. 

I don’t believe in ghosts.  But what on Earth is this thing?  I’ll never know.  What do you think?