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Her father was Ingrid's world. He was gaiety and warmth and shelter and understanding. His eyes would smile down at her from what seemed an enormous height. Sometimes there'd be a special look in them. "You have your mother's face, Ingrid." Then the look would he chased by laughter. "But I think you'll grow into a giant like your father." Her mother had died when Ingrid was two. She had no brothers nor sisters. But only after she lost her father did she learn loneliness.
He was one of a family of 14, most of whom had gone to America. In Stockholm, Ingrid had five cousins. She played with them sometimes but more often, if father wasn't around, she played alone. The friends she invented never made her feel awkward or tongue-tied, as real people did. They didn't tease, they weren't
rough, with them she could talk happily for hours, and they always said exactly the right thing back.
When Mother died, Aunt Ellen had come to live with them, to look after Ingrid and the apartment. Aunt Ellen was Father's sister, much older than he and much more serious. She loved Ingrid and adored her brother. Ingrid called her mama. She wanted to call someone mama, and Aunt Ellen seemed the logical candidate. Being called mama rather discomfited Aunt Ellen, who was Miss Bergman and held the conventions in proper esteem.
Father was a painter by choice, a merchant by necessity. As in all climes and ages, the painter's art brought meager financial returns. So he lived by photography and a shop where he sold cameras and camera equipment. He i Continued on following page)
august, 1943
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