Waiting for Robert Capa Read Online Free PDF

After two weeks, he was let go. His mother, Júlia, bought him two shirts, a jacket, a pair of mountain boots with double soles, and two pairs of baggy pants, his refugee uniform. And put him on a train when he was just seventeen. He never had a home again. What did she know about all that had happened? Chim’s eyes appeared to be asking this, as he scrutinized her reactions from behind his rounded glasses.
    It was hard to imagine two teenagers less likely to wind up being friends than Chim and André. But despite the fact, they orbited one another like two celestial bodies floating through the air. They’re so different, thought Gerta. Chim spoke perfect French. He seemed serious. Like a philosopher or a chess player. From the few comments he had made, Gerta was able to deduce that he was a staunch atheist, though he still carried his Jewish karma inside like a strand of sadness, as did she. André, in contrast, did not seem interested in complicating his life with such things. It appeared he complicated his in a different way, just as men always have. It all started because of a tall man with a mustache, who began speaking to Ruth in a tone that wasn’t rude but suave. It had a certain gallantry to it, but with a good dose of alcohol. Nothing that a woman couldn’t handle on her own, without making a scene but with a simple answer that would put the Frenchy in his place. But before Ruth had time to respond, André was already getting up and throwing his chair behind him with such force that everyone in the place stopped to look. His hands slightly separated from his body, his muscles tensed.
    â€œEasy,” said Chim, getting up and removing his glasses just in case they had to break open someone’s face.
    Luckily, it wasn’t necessary. The guy, somewhat elusive and resigned, simply put up his left hand as a form of apology. An educated Frenchman, after all. Or not looking for trouble that night.
    It became apparent to Gerta, however, that this was not the first time something like this had happened to them. Just from having watched him, she was certain that on more than one occasion the situation had been resolved differently. There are men who are born with an innate need to fight. It’s not likely something that they choose, but an instinct that causes them to jump at the first sign. The Hungarian was one of them, righteous, accustomed to displaying the classic weaponry of a knight errant with women. And with a dangerous inclination to engage in duels just before the last drink of the night.
    Despite this, when it came to both his life and work, he was, or tried to appear, versatile and frivolous when he was lucid. He had a peculiar sense of humor. Finding it relatively easy to laugh at himself and his blunders, like when he spent in one afternoon the entire advance that the Agence Centrale had given him and had to pawn a Plaubel camera to pay the hotel. Or when he destroyed a Leica trying to use it beneath the clear waters of the Mediterranean while on assignment in Saint-Tropez for the Steinitz Brothers. The agency went bankrupt a few months later, and André joked that it was because they had hired him with his long list of disasters. His carefree way of making fun of his own stupidities made him easygoing and likable on a first impression. Typical Hungarian humor. His lazy smile expressed all that was needed, and he could even be cynical without trying too hard. Above all, the way he would shrug his shoulders, as if it made no difference whether he was photographing a war hero from the Bolshevik revolution or shooting a spread about chic vacation spots in the Riviera. Curiously, Gerta did not completely dislike such a duality. In some ways, she also enjoyed expensive perfumes and moonlit nights with champagne.
    She couldn’t say then what it was that didn’t convince her about the Hungarian that eyed her so probingly, one hand holding his elbow, with a cigarette between