“You know that, before the camps were discovered, people didn’t believe they existed,” D’Arcy said. “Photographs like this made them a reality. And people saw the pictures and thought they understood what it must have been like, as if the photos were reality. As if looking upon the feelings of the women was some kind of surrogate way of actually feeling their pain. It’s what we do now: look at a picture of a tragedy in a newspaper and say, how awful, before we turn ruthlessly to the next page.”

“What’s the answer?” Josh asked. “To not photograph? Then nobody would know anything.”

“I know. I think that’s why I’ve always admired the photographer’s work. Because it seems to ask the viewer to stop and to feel, not just to stop and to look.”

“Maybe you should be her agent instead of me.” He frowned. “It’s been a long time since I’ve stopped and felt, or even looked, when I’ve come here to visit her. Always too damn busy, like everyone is these days.”

They were both quiet for a moment, reflecting on what they’d discussed, and D’Arcy realized she was glad Josh was with her. When he let his guard drop, he was the most interesting man she’d met in a long time. And it was nice to share this discovery with someone like him, who was as intrigued as she.

D’Arcy dug a little deeper into the box and pulled out two more pictures. It was the same man and the same little girl from the iconic shot. One of the prints in her hand was taken moments before the embrace as the girl flew toward the man, arms outstretched; the other one was taken moments after. The first one was blurred and it was easy to see why it hadn’t been published but D’Arcy liked it regardless. The blurring underscored the animation of the little girl’s body and the way she felt about the man.

In the second shot, the man held the girl up high in the air. D’Arcy could now see that the girl wore an olive drab jacket that obviously had been made for her to look like the nurses’ dress uniforms. On the lapels, instead of the nurses’ insignia, someone had hand-stitched a name. It was the name that made D’Arcy gasp. Victorine.

“What is it?” Josh glanced across at her quizzically.

D’Arcy shook her head. “The little girl has the same name as my mother. I’ve never come across anyone else called Victorine in my life.” She shrugged. “But I guess during the war it could have been a popular name.”

Josh plucked the photograph from her hand and, as he did so, D’Arcy caught a glimpse of writing on the back. She tipped her head to the side to read it.

Dan Hallworth and Victorine Hallworth. 1944.

This time, she was incapable of gasping. She simply stared, then felt her hand reach out to touch the words, running a finger over them as if she had made some mistake and the real words would soon become apparent beneath her gesture of erasure.