Robert Capa - Slightly Out of Focus: The Legendary Photojournalist’s Illustrated Memoir of World War II

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Text originally published in 1992 under the same title.

Pickle Partners Publishing 2015, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publishers Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Authors original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern readers benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

SLIGHTLY OUT OF FOCUS

BY

ROBERT CAPA

Contents

There was absolutely no reason to get up in the mornings any more. My studio was on the top floor of a small three-story building on Ninth Street, with a skylight all over the roof, a big bed in the corner, and a telephone on the floor. No other furniturenot even a clock. The light woke me up. I didnt know what time it was, and I wasnt especially interested. My cash was reduced to a nickel. I wasnt going to move until the phone rang and someone suggested something like lunch, a job, or at least a loan. The phone refused to ring, but my stomach was calling. I realized that any further attempt to sleep would be futile.

I rolled over and saw that the landlady had pushed three letters under the door. For the last few weeks my only mail had been from the phone and electric companies, so the mysterious third letter finally got me out of bed.

Sure enough, one of the letters was from Consolidated Edison. The second was from the Department of Justice, informing me that I, Robert Capa, formerly Hungarian, at present nothing definite, was hereby classified as a potential enemy alien, and as such had to give up my cameras, binoculars, and firearms, and that I would have to apply for a special permit for any trip that would take me more than ten miles from New York. The third letter was from the editor of Colliers magazine. He said that Colliers, after pondering over my scrapbook for two months, was suddenly convinced that I was a great war photographer, and would be very pleased to have me do a special assignment; that a reservation had been obtained for me on a boat leaving for England in forty-eight hours; and that enclosed was a check for $1,500 as an advance.

Here was an interesting problem. If Id had a typewriter and sufficient character, I would have written back to Colliers, telling them that I was an enemy alien, that I could not go even to New Jersey, let alone England, and that the only place I could take my cameras was the Enemy Aliens Property Board down at City Hall.

I had no typewriter, but I had a nickel in my pocket. I decided to flip it. If it came up heads, I would try to get away with murder and go to England; if it came up tails, I would return the check and explain the situation to Colliers.

I flipped the nickel, and it wastails!

Then I realized that there was no future in a nickel, that I was going to keepand cashthe check, and that somehow I would get to England.

* * * *

The subway accepted the nickel. The bank accepted the check. I had breakfast at Janssens, next to the banka big breakfast that came to $2.50. That settled it. I couldnt very well go back to Colliers with $1,497.50, and Colliers was definitely in for trouble.

I reread their letter and made sure that my boat was leaving in about forty-eight hours. Then I reread the letter from the Department of Justice, and tried to figure out where to start. All I needed was a release from my draft board, an exit and re-entry permit from the U.S. State and Justice Departments, a British visa, and some sort of passport to put the visa on. I couldnt afford to collect a no at the very beginning, so I needed an understanding ear. I was in trouble. Well, the United States was just starting to realize what trouble meant, but the British had been at war for over two years and must have got used to trouble. I decided to go to the British first.

From Janssens to the airline terminal was a five-minute walk. I learned that there was a plane leaving for Washington in less than an hour. I bought a ticket, and Colliers was out still more money.

Two and a half hours later, a taxi put me down at the British Embassy in Washington, where I asked to see the press attach. I was led into the presence of a tweedy gentleman with a very red face and a bored expression. I told him my name, but I didnt know how to start my story, so I simply gave him the two letters, the one from Colliers, then the one from the Department of Justice. He read the first one without showing any reaction, but when he put down the second there was a trace of a smile on his lips. Somewhat encouraged, I fished out and handed him the still unopened letter from Consolidated Edison, which I well knew was a notice that my electricity was going to be shut off. He motioned me to sit down.

When he finally spoke, he was surprisingly human. Until the war, he had been a professor of geology. The outbreak of hostilities had found him in Mexico, where he was happily studying the composition of the soil on top of tired volcanoes. He did not care much about politics, but this was war and they had drafted him as a press officer. Ever since, he had had to turn down all kinds of propositions for saving the British. He assured me that my case beat them all. I was champ! I was overwhelmed with sympathy for him, and for myself. I suggested lunch.

We went to the Carlton and had to drink many dry martinis before we could get a table. My companion warmed up considerably, and I began to feel thatalong with Colliers the attach and the British Empire were going to be stuck with me, too. When we finally got a table, I picked up the menu and ordered a dozen Blue Points apiece to start. Now, five years before, in France, I had invested heavily in my drinking education, and I remembered that in every English mystery story where Lord Peter Wimsey had anything to say, oysters are washed down with that marvelous white burgundy called Montrachet. The Montrachet 1921 was at the bottom of the list, and very expensive. It was a happy choice. My companion told me that, fifteen years ago, when he had spent his honeymoon in France, he had impressed his bride with that very wine, so by the end of the bottle we were talking about our love for Franceand Montrachet. Over the second bottle we agreed that our feelings about throwing the Germans out of la belle France were equally strong, and after the coffee, along with the Carlos Primero brandy, I told him about my three years with the Republican Army in the Spanish Civil War, and how I had good reason to hate the fascists.