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Authors: Francoise Enguehard

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“Come on, I'll show you. Jacques is there now. He's waiting for us to tell him how to arrange the photos.”

They walked side by side down the road that led directly from the wharf to the church—the very road where Doctor Thomas had set up his camera to take pictures of the people working on the beach—replying to greetings along the way. She could still feel the rocking of the waves in her legs, a strange floating sensation, and she thought it might have more to do with this exceptional life that she had led for the past few weeks than with the movement of the ocean. All of a sudden, she remembered the crushed feeling she had experienced, ten months earlier, as she left the photography studio and realized that she and François could not see each other that afternoon to discover Doctor Thomas. Today, on the other hand, she felt as though she had only to open her arms to fly away.

They found the photographer in the church, deep in conversation with a tiny woman: “Sister Hilarion,” whispered François. “You'll love her; she's adorable.”

He made polite introductions. The sister, who was called “Mother” by the people of Miquelon as a sign of respect, was indeed very charming. She had a soft voice, but Émilie had the feeling it hid a strong personality. She looked at everyone she met with tenderness, and her behaviour reflected true human compassion. She was discreet enough to bid her farewells shortly after Émilie arrived, to let them get back to their work.

“Here, take the keys, Jacques, and lock the door behind me,” she said. “That way no one will disturb you. I know everyone here is eager to see the photos, and you'll see there are plenty who remember the doctor. I don't, unfortunately.”

“She was the one who convinced the priest to let us use the church,” explained Jacques when she had left. “She told him it was important for the people of Miquelon to remember their past, and for the children to learn about it.”

They talked for a while about how to group the photos so that they would make the greatest possible impact on the viewers. They finally agreed to hang them on the elegant light-coloured wooden pillars that supported the building. It was the only place available. Along the walls, under the stained glass windows, an impressive display of the Stations of the Cross took up nearly all the room, and numerous statues occupied what space was left. As the photographer commented, the photos would be displayed in the full light. Once these details were looked after, they got to work. At noon, they walked across the square to eat in the pension where they were staying.

As they ate, they heard the announcement on the radio: “The population of Miquelon is invited to view the photography exhibition
The Islands of Doctor Thomas
from three to five o'clock this afternoon and from nine to ten-thirty this evening at the Notre-Dame-des-Ardilliers Church. The exhibition will also be open to the public tomorrow after Mass until noon. Admission is free.”

A few hours after they had eaten, everything was ready. A pure and bright autumn sunlight flowed through the stained glass windows that afternoon, taking on the soft hues of the Biblical scenes and giving the photographs a sepia tone that added to their magical quality.

At three o'clock on the dot, the people of Miquelon, delighted to have been included in the adventure and curious to see these photos they felt belonged to them as well, were lined up at the door.

The exhibition was a great success. A few people found it a little irreverent to use the House of the Lord as an art gallery, but the majority did not mind at all. People crowded around the photos, and the newcomers had trouble getting close enough to admire the details.

Little by little, people relaxed and their voices became a bit louder than the whispers usually heard in the church.

“Surely the priest has put away the Blessed Sacrament,” declared a woman who knew the rites and wanted to reassure the faithful.

Just as it was in Saint-Pierre, everyone in Miquelon commented on the photographs. The three of them were silent and attentive, listening for any piece of information they could discover about the doctor who, clearly, had dearly loved Miquelon and its inhabitants.

“I never saw him without a camera in his hand,” said an old man who was leaning on his cane and whose knees seemed to give him a lot of pain when he moved. He added, pensively, “That was before the war, of course...”

He pointed to the photograph of the doctor sitting on the capstan with the baby seal in his arms. “I was there,” he declared proudly. “It was my father who caught that seal in the Grand Barachois. The doctor had just come back from the war. He didn't stay long on the front; he was injured and sent back to Miquelon. He did his work and everything, but he wasn't the same man. He didn't carry his camera around anymore and he was sad...Like that day. My father wanted to cheer him up a bit.” He leaned in again to look at the photo more closely, and then said, “I guess he didn't succeed.”

The old man sat down on the bench close by, admiring the photo, entranced by the memory of that fleeting moment of carefree pleasure in a childhood marked by labour and hardship.

Unlike their experience in Saint-Pierre, where they were besieged by friends, relatives, and acquaintances, here in Miquelon no one had much to say to the three people who had organized the exhibition, except to Jacques who had a few old friends dating back to when they were children playing in the fields during the haying or hide-and-seek in the stable or barn at the farm in Pointe au Cheval.

On the other hand, people didn't leave the church. They still congregated around the photos with a quasi- religious admiration. They tried to situate each scene, recognize the people in it, identify the date when it was taken if it was not listed on the labels.

Towards the end of the afternoon, Sister Hilarion arrived with a very stooped old woman on her arm. Judging by her reluctant gait, she had not come here entirely of her own accord but rather because Mother had asked her to. “Nobody in Miquelon ever says no to her,” Jacques had explained to them earlier that day.

“Please tell them about it,” the nun said gently to the old woman.

“I remember Doctor Thomas,” she began. “And his wife and daughter too. They were always together, and he always walked around with his camera in hand. They really loved Miquelon, all three of them. Their daughter was born here. The doctor left for the war, but he came back pretty quickly because he had been wounded. We were all glad he started working here again; he was a fine doctor, a very nice man, not conceited at all. He and his wife did whatever they could to help out poor people. That's why he had problems too.”

“Problems!” the three of them exclaimed in unison. “What kind of problems?”

“I'm not too sure, but it had something to do with the beachboys working on the shore. You know, those poor men worked from morning until night drying the fish on the beach. It was really something. They had to lay the cod out on the pebbles, not just any old way but so it would be best exposed to the sun and the wind, and then they had to turn it over after one or two days and make especially sure it wasn't left out in the rain, or even the pissy mist. It had to be picked up quickly and piled up under a tarp when it was wet out, and that was very often, of course. Thankfully people don't have to do that anymore. It was like forced labour, done by boys who were twelve, fourteen years old at the most. The older boys, they were fishing in the dories. And every year, new boys were brought in from France to do that terrible job, and it didn't pay them much either. They must have been really unhappy at home to want to do that job,” she concluded.

“But what did the doctor do to get himself into trouble?” Jacques asked.

“I didn't really understand what it was,” the lady muttered, “but I think it had something to do with
La Morue française
merchants. I think that's why the doctor went back to France in 1916. For sure, the Thomases wouldn't have gone back on their own without a good reason; they were happy here.”

“Yes, fine, but what could he have done, Doctor Thomas, to draw the wrath of
Mémé
and be forced to go back?”

In the Miquelon office of
La Morue française
, the cod company from France, the manager angrily pushes his chair back from his desk, stands up, and paces around his office.

“He wrote what?”

“He wrote that
La Morue française
was practising slavery, that in our day it was unacceptable to treat people—children, he said—the way the beachboys are treated. But that's just the beginning of his letter. According to what I heard, he sent a whole medical report to France, with photos and everything.”

The man telling the story is an employee from Saint-Pierre, sent by his bosses to inspect the facilities in Miquelon. What he knows of this business is what he heard a few days before from raised voices coming from the office of the district manager, Mr. Légasse. The reason he is talking about it today is because he knows that Doctor Thomas is good friends with the manager of the Miquelon office.
Better let him know
, the man from Saint-Pierre thinks.
Chances are, things are going to get bad!

Once the man has left his office, the manager collapses into his chair and puts his head in his hands. Louis had warned him about what he was going to do, but he thought he had persuaded him not to.

“It won't do any good,” he had told the doctor. “The beachboys need the money. And they need a doctor!”

“That's just it! It's my job to denounce this situation,” Doctor Thomas retorted. “If not, I'm useless here!”

“But doing so won't get you anywhere either, except to be recalled back to France!” The district manager of
La Morue française
knew that the long arm of the Légasse family was capable of anything.

“I'm sure that's true,” the doctor concluded, weary from their long and frustrating discussion. “Let's talk about something else, shall we?”

The manager believed the incident was over, and that his friend, the companion who had taught him everything he knew about photography and who had walked the hills of Miquelon from one end to the other with him, had seen the light.
I should have known he wouldn't listen to me
, he thinks. That day, the doctor had shown up at his house in an agitated state. A young beachboy had just died, carried off by a raging fever the doctor had been unable to do anything about. The death had provoked such an angry reaction from the doctor that he had launched into a tirade about forcing such young boys to work, and especially to live, in these horrific conditions.

The manager of the
Mémé
, as the company was nicknamed, knows all about it. He too is concerned about the attitude of the head of the beachboys, a brute hired by Mr. Légasse who seems to take a malicious pleasure in torturing the beachboys under his charge. But that is a special case; they are not all bad and, besides, it is the same everywhere. Every spring, hundreds of young boys rush to be hired as beachboys, ready to agree to anything in order to make a living. The proof is that no sooner had the poor boy been buried than six more were lining up to take his place.

“Louis may as well pack his bags,” his friend sighs.

Five

It was time to pack up the exhibition once again, return to Saint-Pierre, and prepare the photographs for their long trip to France. François made the rounds to say his farewells, and Émilie began mentally preparing herself for their separation. He could tell she was apprehensive about the return to her ordinary life. He realized as well that the wave of creative energy he usually had after a long and restful visit to the islands would take a while to set in this time. It had been weeks since he had thought about his work, his drawings, his projects. But he knew he had to go back.
How long until I can stop complying with these demands?
he began to think for the first time ever.
And why am I doing it anyway?

To close this particular chapter, Émilie's parents were kind enough to prepare a farewell dinner for the three adventurers. Jacques and his wife and François and his mother sat together at the dinner table. It was as if the Thomas family had joined them as well, that was all they could talk about.

“If the doctor sent a report to his superiors about the conditions of the beachboys and their state of health, the report must be in the Navy's files somewhere,” Émilie's father explained.

“But he was a doctor...”

“Yes, of course, but a physician working for the Navy, as they all were in Saint-Pierre et Miquelon at that time. If someone did some research, I'm sure some papers would turn up.”

A knowing look exchanged across the table was enough for her to understand that François intended to start looking as soon as he got back to Paris. Retracing the doctor's footsteps, uncovering the traces of his life and work, bringing his secrets into the light of day— François knew it was a link between him and Émilie and a way to extend their exceptional parallel life.

The moment of his departure was upon them. François could not afford the luxury of taking the long road through Newfoundland; he had to get back to France as soon as he could. The Air Saint-Pierre flight would take him to Sydney, Nova Scotia, then on to Montreal in the evening, and early the following morning he would land in Paris. The precious photos would be checked into the baggage compartment. His mother considered the extra expense extravagant, but he was determined.

“The important thing is that they're on this flight with me. I can't stand the idea of being separated from them,” he explained to Émilie, “any more than I can stand leaving you.”

They were side by side in the small airport. It seemed as if the entire population of the island surrounded them; in addition to the travellers and their loved ones, there were also curious onlookers who never missed the departures and arrivals, in order to know “what was going on.” Just as they used to go down to the wharf to greet the weekly arrival of the mail boat, now they drove to the airport.

Their farewells were restrained. In any case, what could they say that they had not said already? He made no promises to her, nor she to him. Amidst all the activity, they were content to just touch hands briefly, brush elbows, and their eyes never left each other. And then, unable to tolerate the interminable farewell any longer, Émilie said that she had to go. She could not be late for class. She gave him a quick kiss on each cheek and then fled as quickly as she could. He smiled sadly, watching her as she flew off, never looking back.

Twenty minutes later, from her classroom, she could hear the sound of the airplane banking slowly above the town. At that time, she felt doubly abandoned—by François and by Doctor Thomas. Soon the sound faded and once again she felt the unbearable absence, just as before. She felt such a wave of despair that she thought she was going to smother. Her ordinary life had returned.

Daily life resumed, with its routine of classes, homework, walks with friends, hockey games, and hours on the skating rink punctuating the days that seemed to go by in slow motion. Except for a few brief visits to Jacques' studio to fill her heart with their complicity, she found peace only in her writing. She would read over and over again the highlights of the last couple of months and then write down that day's feelings. As she sat in front of the white sheet of paper, watching her pen rush from one line to the next at a dizzying pace, she sometimes found it hard to believe that she had experienced all these intense emotions. She did not feel the same as she did before. It was as if she was preparing to enter the adult world. Amidst the long periods of uncertainty about her future, she also had experienced some calm and serene moments when she was comfortable with her life and seemed to have a more solid footing. On the other hand, she would feel moody, with conflicting emotions, which left her even more troubled than the last time. “What do I want to do with my life?” she wondered.

Nonetheless, she had a pleasant impression that her exceptional parallel life had not vanished completely; instead of his usual silence, of the forced separation which made her so sad between his visits, this time François had kept in contact with her. He wrote her and phoned her regularly.

As soon as he returned to France, he had set off quickly on his search. Between two trips, to Berlin and Tokyo, he had taken off in search of the doctor. A friend who had worked in the Navy museum before retiring suggested he visit the Navy archives in Vincennes. François made many discoveries. Although the doctor may not have left many traces of his life in Saint-Pierre et Miquelon, the public service he worked for had followed his every step.

The first updates took no time to reach Émilie.

“Doctor Thomas couldn't stay still, it seems,” she explained to Jacques, reading the first installment of the biographical sketch François was putting together.

After studying at the Navy School of Medicine in Bordeaux and then Toulon, Doctor Thomas was very young when he came to Saint-Pierre et Miquelon in 1912. He left for the war in 1914, returned to the islands in 1916, then went back to France in 1917. He was promoted to the rank of Physician, First-Class. Then there are documents of him getting a vaccine ready for the Navy in 1922. He was back on the islands from July 14, 1923, to May 17, 1926.

“Nearly three years! That's good.”

“Like the majority of postings for civil servants,” Jacques reminded her.

“You can't say that he was idle during that time.”

Appointed Chief of Health for the islands, he sat on the Fisheries advisory committee and various other commissions. He was responsible for a number of health and social assistance initiatives, in particular the elimination of the old institution of beachboys and local campaigns against venereal disease and alcohol abuse during the Prohibition.

“My goodness! First he took on the cause of the beachboys, then smuggling...He was a real trouble-maker, wasn't he?”

Émilie spoke to her grandmother about it.

“During the Prohibition in the United States and Canada, alcohol flowed like water here. Alcohol was imported legally and then taken in speedboats to the coasts of Canada and the United States at night. Whatever happened under the cover of the night and on the open sea were of no concern to the merchants who made millions smuggling it in. Think about it: a merchant made ten cents on every bottle that went through his warehouse, and cases were coming in by the hundreds of thousands. This fraud lasted for over a decade. Imagine all that money!” added Émilie's grandmother emphatically.

Math was not Émilie's strong suit, but a quick estimate was enough to make her gasp.

The idea that the doctor raised his voice in the middle of this commercial euphoria, to try and control alcoholism and prostitution, must have upset many people.

“Certainly,” her grandmother continued, “because before Prohibition, well before Doctor Thomas arrived, the islands went through a very difficult period. Cod was rare, and many people weren't getting enough to eat. That was one more reason for everyone, rich or poor, to be happy when the Americans came in with their fat wallets to buy liquor. They needed men to haul, load, and unload the Cutty Sark, rum, cognac, rye, and scotch; they needed construction workers and carpenters to build the new warehouses to store all the alcohol. There was lots of work for everyone.”

“I'm sure the doctor wasn't the only one who complained,” suggested Émilie.

“Oh, definitely! The smuggling and bootlegging caused a lot of grief to a lot of people, because liquor cost next to nothing, money was flowing as fast as the alcohol, and hundreds of rather shifty Americans would show up on the shore in the middle of the night, fill up the bars, and then leave again after taking advantage...But in the circumstances, yes, he would have had trouble being heard, I'm sure!”

Émilie went back to the studio to re-examine the photos taken during the Prohibition. She had only reviewed this series quickly when she was getting the exhibition ready, because she found nothing in these photos relevant to François or Doctor Thomas.

As she looked more closely at the photos, she could understand why the series had not inspired her. The photos showing cases of alcohol stacked up and a beehive of activity on the wharfs had a heavy atmosphere. The men and their teams of horses—dark silhouettes cut out of a grey autumn or white winter bleakness—seemed to be crushed by the weight of their labour. No smiles, no horses snorting with impatience, nothing light about the movement or colour in these photos. Men and beasts laboured at their tasks, enslaved by this new economic activity, exploited.

She thought again about the photos of fishermen. Fishing was also exhausting labour, but these photos were different. They showed the dignity of men, smiling despite the cold or the pain, standing tall with their heads high. Not like the men in the photos of smuggled liquor, who were hunched over as if held by a yoke that restrained men and animals. The message was clear: There was no honour in that work.

“I'm guessing he didn't drink,” concluded Jacques.

A woman trying her best to hide her face leaves the hospital quickly and walks awkwardly by the snow banks along the side of the road before disappearing completely from view. With a heavy sigh, the doctor closes the door behind her and presses his forehead to the glass for a moment.

A broken rib, a dislocated ankle—she must be in such pain!
he thinks, overcome with a bone-numbing exhaustion.

The woman had been brought to him that morning by a nun who had found her on her way to Mass. She was curled up near a snow bank, her face swollen.

“A few more hours and she would have frozen to death, Doctor!” the nun had cried, horrified. Despite her injuries, the patient refused to be admitted to the hospital. They had just barely managed to bandage her up before she ran off to get home.

“It's nothing, doctor. My husband isn't bad, you know. But when he drinks...”

Prohibition! Yet again!
The sister, who knows everyone on the island, told him that the woman's husband was one of the numerous fishermen who had found a new career unloading cases of alcohol from the ships that arrive every week from France and transporting them to the warehouses owned by merchants in Saint-Pierre. Then they wait for the Americans to sneak in and load the bottles into their speedboats.

The doctor is well aware of the situation. He often goes out to the wharves to watch them at work, and even takes photographs. The whole thing seems tremendously sad.

People worked day and night, “especially night,” he repeats rather sarcastically, thinking not only of the smuggling but also the restaurants, dance halls, and speakeasys that offer to relieve Americans of their wealth in return for a “French experience.”

“In the past, it was the sea that killed these men, or a phlegmon or a case of bronchitis. Now it's money and liquor that poisons them!” he thundered in front of his wife one day.

“Now, now, Louis,” said his wife in a soothing tone. “It's not all so bad. Prohibition has given money to people in need. You remember how hard life has been for fishermen the last few years; they lived in misery...”

She was probably right. Still, Doctor Thomas can not help thinking that the islands had, to a certain extent, lost their innocence. They had slid into alcohol and vice, and there is no longer a place for him here.

Émilie studied the Prohibition photos for weeks, examining them with a critical eye. The photos were teaching her, better than any class could, how to use the everyday to express the deepest feelings. And doing so without altering the gestures of the workers or their environment, simply through the composition of the scene and the position of the photographer.

One of the photos stood out from the others. Next to a big boat and the wharf, on which hundreds of cases of alcohol were piled up, were two dories, “coupled up,” and across from them a young man leaning on the mooring post. He had a dreamy-eyed expression, was well-dressed, and looked relaxed. Despite this, Émilie imagined that he was looking at the two fishing boats with nostalgia.

“It's as though he is remembering a forgotten era, the dignity of fishermen and their triumph over adversity,” she said.

“I hadn't noticed that,” Jacques commented, surprised at her interpretation. “There is certainly something interesting to be said on the subject. A course on art appreciation, based on Doctor Thomas' photographs, perhaps?”

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