16mm of Innocence

by Quentin Smith

  “I don’t know why the hell you want to watch these films,” Ingrid said, hugging herself defensively as she sat on the brown velvet sofa, staring straight ahead, feet up on the coffee table.

  “This first one is marked 1940s,” Dieter said, studying the rusty metal film can. “I can vividly remember Dad wandering around with his black and silver box camera wherever he went.”

  “He loved it, didn’t he? He wouldn’t go anywhere without it,” Otto said.

  “Do you remember when he nearly dropped it in the sea filming a seal on that boat trip to Penguin Island?” Dieter said and began to laugh. “That was the only time I ever heard him swear”.

  Ingrid snorted from the sofa. “He was no saint, you know.”

  Dieter just stared at Otto and raised his eyebrows in silence, leaving it to Otto to challenge her.

  “What do you mean?”

  She looked away and shook her head, closing up, pulling her arms even tighter around herself. Otto and Dieter exchanged a that’s just Ingrid look as Otto began to thread the film around the sprockets and over the rollers. He swung the hinged lens housing out to open the film gate and carefully laid the film between the aperture and pressure plates.

  “You were always the projectionist when we watched films,” Dieter remarked. “Can you still remember how to thread it?”

  “I loved working with this old projector.” Otto chuckled and nodded. “It’s all coming back to me. I just hope it still works.”

  Finally, Otto led the white film leader beneath the lamp housing and threaded it onto the eight–spoke metal take–up reel. He ran his eyes across the film loops, checking that all sprocket guards were shut, that the film was in the channel continuously and that no loops were too big or too small. As he recalled, it could be a fiddly business at times.

  “Right, draw the curtains please, we’re good to go!” Otto announced with more than an ounce of excitement in his voice.

  Dieter pulled the curtains shut and the room was immersed in semi–gloom. Otto twisted the control knob and the projector began to whirr and click rhythmically like a well–oiled toy train as it pulled the film over its rotating guides, rollers and sprockets. The empty take–up reel turned quickly while the front reel loaded with film rotated languidly, in no hurry to reveal its secrets. Otto breathed a sigh of relief when the main lamp burst into life and projected a bright but fuzzy square image onto the white sheet tacked to the curtains.

  “Focus, Otto!” Dieter shouted.

  “I’m looking, I’m looking,” Otto mumbled as he searched for the focus knob beneath the lens.

  “That’s better, but there’s no sound.”

  “They’re silent films, I’m afraid. No soundtrack.”

  They stared at the flickering images on the screen, black and white moving portraits of yesterday, scratches and marks on the emulsion that constantly appeared and disappeared on the screen in the blink of an eye, like sparks in a log fire.

  The little toddler runs across the lawn, bare torso and feet, wearing large frilly bloomers. He holds a small metal bucket in one hand, his face turning constantly to smile at the camera. The journey ends at a small tank of water where a tall girl of perhaps ten holds a hosepipe from which a stream of water flows. The girl is wearing a floral–patterned white dress, her light brown hair tied up in an Alpine ponytail. The toddler holds the bucket out to be filled, and the girl obliges before turning and smiling mischievously at the camera. Suddenly she directs the hose at the toddler.

  The smaller child appears to shriek with laughter, turns and runs off rapidly, spilling all the water from the bucket. The camera pans unevenly to follow the toddler, creating a jerky picture on the screen. The toddler stops beside a woman, hugs her white apron worn over a dark full–length dress, and receives a reassuring embrace from the smiling woman, stocky with brown hair tightly tied in a bun on top of her head.

  “That’s Mum!” Dieter said, pointing to the screen. “Look how young she looks. My God, she must be… what…?”

  Otto shrugged, mesmerised by the sight of his mother looking so youthful and full of life, radiant and happy, her future ahead of her, her family still young and dependent on her. It seemed surreal to accept that she was no longer with them.

  “Thirtyish,” Otto ventured.

  The toddler turns, reinvigorated, and runs across the lawn again, back to the water tank where the bucket is obligingly refilled before the hose is again turned onto the little child’s naked chest. Apparent shrieks of laughter ensue with constant glances at the camera, seeking affirmation, all in period silence with water splashing everywhere. Then the small child runs energetically back to Mother, little legs pumping like pistons on a miniature steam engine.

  The background to this repetitive cycle of action is a modest but well–kept timber–framed house – dark, stout beams separated by white limewashed render, adorned with populated flower boxes beneath the small windows and tiles on the steeply gabled roof. Lace curtains are tied back in each window.

  “I presume that’s you, Ingrid,” Otto said as the tall girl holding the hosepipe appeared on the screen again.

  Ingrid sat with her arms folded and legs crossed, staring at the screen, unresponsive.

  “And the little guy must be you, Dieter,” Otto added.

  “I suppose so.”

  “I like your frilly undershorts, Dieter,” Otto said. “Very becoming.”

  “More than you know,” Otto replied.

  The image jumps once, twice and suddenly changes to a seaside location, a beach with bathers in striped bodysuits, women additionally wearing small skirts and hats. Most of the men are sporting pencil moustaches and very short hair. The wind is blowing, evidenced by umbrellas straining against the force of the prevailing sea breeze. The image jolts up and down as the cameraman walks towards the water’s edge where small waves roll perpetually across the smooth beach sand. Two children in costumes lie side by side on the wet sand that glistens in the sunlight, their feet pointing towards the sea. The girl’s swimming cap is pulled tightly over her head, pushing one ear down awkwardly.

  Otto laughed. “Oh Ingrid, someone should have helped you with your cap.”

  A modest wave approaches and breaks over the children’s legs, prompting the little child to stand and run up the beach towards dry sand, arms held stiffly in protest. Then in a familiar choreographed cycle, the toddler runs back to the water’s edge and resumes his position on the sand next to the older girl. She looks at the toddler with a crooked smile and wipes a wet, sandy hand across his cheek, leaving a smear. The little child prepares to retaliate when suddenly another wave breaks over their legs, sending the toddler into action again, sprinting up the beach.

  “Any idea where this is?” Otto asked.

  Dieter shook his head. “I don’t remember any of this.”

  “Somewhere on the Baltic coast, I think, perhaps near Wismar. We used to go every year,” Ingrid said unexpectedly, without looking away from the screen.

  The seaside frolics end and are abruptly replaced with images of uniformed men marching down a city street lined with cheering crowds. The men, who are unarmed but wearing double–breasted military–style shirts and ties, caps, boots and armbands bearing swastikas, march six abreast and at least fifteen to twenty deep. People lining the street smile broadly and children sitting on their shoulders wave swastikas and cheer. Suddenly the picture jumps, followed by a clear white image on the screen.

  The projector emitted a jarring sound, like a pneumatic drill.

  “Oh shit!” Otto said.

  “What’s happened?” Dieter asked.

  “The film’s snapped.”

  “Can you fix it?”

  “It’ll need to be spliced but I don’t know where the splicer is. I’ll just thread it through and tape the broken ends together for now,” Otto explained as he examined the damage.

  Ingrid sighed. “I’ll make tea.”

  “I fancy a scotch. Want one Otto?” Dieter
said, standing up and walking off purposefully to his bedroom.

  “Mmmmmh. What you got?”

  “Twenty–five–year–old Strathisla.”

  “Would you like one, Ingrid?” Otto asked.

  Ingrid shot a look at Otto. “I don’t think I’m included.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Otto said.

  *

  Having laced the broken film through the projector again Otto taped the jagged edges of film together and wound up the slack on the take–up reel. He ran his eyes over the threaded film carefully.

  “Did you see those swastikas?” Otto asked.

  “There was a war going on, remember,” Ingrid replied from the kitchen. “They were everywhere.”

  Of course, Otto realised. “Right, we’re good to go, take your seats. While you’re pouring, Ingrid will have a scotch too, Dieter.”

  Dieter reclaimed his seat with three tumblers held in a tripod grip, bottle in the other hand. He looked up at Ingrid.

  “Scotch, Ingrid?”

  “No thanks.” She sat back and sipped her cup of tea.

  Dieter looked at Otto and bared his teeth slightly. Otto turned the projector on.

  The men march right past the camera, chins up, chests pushed out proudly, hands stiffly by their sides. The column seems never–ending. As they pass by, Mother can be seen on the pavement opposite, a little toddler sitting awkwardly on her shoulders, waving a swastika flag and clapping. Beside her stands the tall girl in a white dress, hair tied back in two pigtails with a ribbon on each, looking as though she is dressed for Sunday church.

  “Jesus, that must be me, waving a fucking swastika!” Dieter said in horror. “At what looks like a brownshirt parade of all things!”

  “Mum looks a bit… chubby,” Otto remarked.

  A brief silence followed as they studied Mother’s swollen profile.

  “She looks pregnant, actually,” Dieter said.

  “Don’t be daft, Dieter, I wasn’t born until 1948.”

  “I’m just saying, she does look pregnant. Don’t you agree?”

  Otto stared at the screen and savoured a mouthful of Strathisla, letting the smooth malty flavours caress his tongue, front, back and sides. Mother did indeed look pregnant, but that could not be. He did not understand.

  “Can you remember, Ingrid?” Otto asked.

  “No.”

  Following behind the proud young men is a troop of lithesome girls in white shorts, gym shoes and dark sleeved tops. The crowd cheers with evident enthusiasm and waves flags with renewed vigour. The camera pans wildly to the right and reveals a full–length swastika banner hanging from a lamppost. Further down the road more of these are visible, receding into the distance. The cameraman lingers on this view for several seconds.

  Suddenly the film jumps and the image changes to Mother cradling a baby swathed in white. Bobbing about her eagerly is a little girl, smiling and attentive to the infant’s occasional cry.

  “Who the hell is that?” Otto asked, placing a hand over his lower face and leaning towards the screen.

  Dieter stared at the flickering images that reflected cyan hues on his face, casting only a furtive glance towards Ingrid.

  A family is assembled in the garden of the timber–framed house, appearing to line up for a photo opportunity. They are formally dressed, several of them older, and a handful of young children run around rolling hoops. In the centre of the group Mother is holding the baby with a broad smile on her face. Someone with grey hair and an extravagant moustache walks around refilling broad–rimmed champagne glasses, joking with guests, his lined face wrinkling at regular intervals as he laughs.

  “It’s a christening!” Otto blurted.

  The tall girl appears, smiling proudly, wearing flat–soled black pumps with short white socks and a wide knee–length pleated skirt and summery blouse. Mother bends over and hands the baby to her carefully, showing her how to support its head and cradle it in her arms.

  “That’s got to be you, Ingrid,” Otto said excitedly. “So who is the baby you’re holding? You must remember.”

  Ingrid stared at the screen, tight–lipped, her cup of tea hanging at a dangerous angle in her grasp. Dieter took a large mouthful of scotch.

  The tall girl smiles at the camera and traces her fingertip around the baby’s mouth, eliciting a pout and an attempt to suckle it. Then the little girl sidles up to her. She is wearing a summer dress and flat–soled shoes with short socks, just like her sister. She kisses the baby, whose face is almost at the same height as her head, turning frequently to smile at the camera and shade her eyes from the bright sunlight.

  “But… isn’t that you, Dieter?” Otto said, flabbergasted. “Why are you wearing a dress all of a sudden?”

  “Is that me?” Dieter chuckled before turning to face Otto. “You see, even then I knew I looked better in a dress.” Dieter laughed, alone.

  Suddenly a very unsteady and jerky image of Mother, Father, the tall girl holding the baby and the little girl pressing against Father’s legs appears on the screen. They are all smiling effusively as though being encouraged by the cameraman, screwing up their eyes against the harsh sunlight, trying to appear spontaneous. It is an Adermann family portrait in the early 1940s. Two soldiers wearing Wehrmacht helmets with rifles slung over their shoulders are framed in the background by abundant hydrangeas and rose bushes around the quaint timber–framed house, huddled over a cigarette and a match.

  “I don’t understand what’s going on here.” Otto rubbed one temple. “Who is that baby?”

  “Why are there soldiers in our garden?” Dieter said.

  The picture jumps abruptly to Father in a dark three–piece suit posing beside a rounded black Mercedes 170H, tipping his homburg hat to the camera and smiling broadly, revealing his teeth. In one hand he grips a large medical bag. Suddenly the younger girl runs into view, barefoot and wearing a striped dress. She hugs Father’s legs. He pats her head fondly but retains his erect pose, glancing down only briefly at the little girl who continues to squeeze and tug at his leg, looking eagerly up at his face but without eliciting a response.

  “I have to go!” Ingrid announced, standing up abruptly.

  “It’s almost finished anyway,” Otto protested, glancing at the front reel which was now spinning quickly with less than half an inch of film wound onto its core.

  “Then I won’t miss anything.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  Ingrid sighed. “I’ve had enough.”

  “Do you want a taxi?”

  Ingrid was already in the kitchen, gathering her coat and handbag. Her teacup rattled in the sink. “I’ll walk.”

  Dieter half–turned, disinterested, to watch Ingrid, who was evidently flustered and determined to leave the house immediately.

  Grainy images of the tall girl in a white dress playing tennis on a scruffy court with a bunch of similarly attired girls, smiling and laughing, fill the screen. The tennis racket looks far too big in her hands and appears to unbalance her whenever she swings it at the ball, eliciting a big smile on her face that reveals large adult incisors.

  Within a few resolute strides Ingrid had reached the front door.

  “Frans is coming around tomorrow to cut the camelthorn. Will we see you then?” Otto asked.

  Ingrid breathed deeply and pursed her lips. “I don’t know, Otto. Maybe.”

  With that she was gone.

  The girls lob the tennis ball to each other tamely for a while, hitting many balls into the net. Two girls run into each other, bumping heads, causing one to bend over in tears. The picture becomes jerky as the cameraman approaches the crying girl, and then vanishes abruptly as the screen turns incandescent white.

  “What’s up with Ingrid?” Otto asked, turning the projector off.

  “She’s tense, isn’t she?” Dieter agreed.

  Otto frowned and scratched his forehead. “So that was Ingrid, the older girl, and then I thought you were the younger child…”


  “More scotch?” Dieter offered.

  Otto nodded, deep in thought. “But you… er… were definitely dressed as a girl at the christening, so it couldn’t have been you.”

  Dieter pulled a face and held out the bottle of Strathisla.

  Otto pushed his tumbler towards Dieter to be refilled. “That wasn’t you, was it Dieter?”

  “Which one?”

  “The little girl in the dress.”

  Dieter smiled mischievously and angled his head, apparently weighing something up in his mind. “Perhaps it should have been.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Dieter chuckled and fidgeted. He appeared uncomfortable. “Come on, Otto, don’t you know?”

  “Know what?”

  Dieter’s eyes held Otto’s confidently, his mouth slightly open, hesitating just for a moment, while his legs bounced nervously. “I’m gay.”

  “What?” Otto thought he’d heard incorrectly.

  “Always have been, just never could tell anyone while either Mum or Dad was alive.” He paused. “Can you imagine?”

  Otto stared at his brother, mouth agape. He wanted to say ‘I don’t believe it’, but deep down he knew that this was not the case. He could see now that the pieces of the jigsaw had always been there but he had simply not fitted them together.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It’s not that easy, you know.”

  “Why now, then?” Otto asked, wondering if it had simply been the Strathisla loosening his brother’s tongue.

  Dieter gesticulated casually at the screen. “It’s all going to come out, isn’t it?”

  “What’s going to come out?” Otto asked.

  “You know, stuff.”