by A G Mogan
Inspired by my friend’s adoration, I shove a hand into my coat’s breast pocket and pull out the tiny notebook full of poems I have written. Yes, I sometimes write poems, but I’ve never dared to show them to anyone.
As I open the notebook, my hands begin to tremble.
“I shall recite you a poem, dear friend. You have the honor to hear it ahead of anyone else. I wrote it two weeks ago.”
“Oh! I would be happy to! What is it about?”
Strangled by emotion, I am unable to answer his question. I guide him to a nearby bench and order him to sit. Flipping through the scribbled pages, I draw a deep breath, filling my lungs with the night’s chilly air.
When your mother has grown older
When her dear, faithful eyes
no longer see life as they once did
When her feet, grown tired
No longer want to carry her as she walks
Then lend her your arm in support
Escort her with happy pleasure
The hour will come when, weeping, you
Must accompany her on her final walk
And if she asks you something
Then give her an answer
And if she asks again, then speak!
And if she asks yet again, respond to her
Not impatiently, but with gentle calm
And if she cannot understand you,
Explain all to her happily
For the hour will come, the bitter hour
When her mouth shall ask…
For nothing more
No sooner do I finish reciting the last verse, than someone taps me on my shoulder. I turn around, startled by the intrusion, and recognize one of my former classmates, a chubby, red-faced boy, displaying a stupid grin.
“Good evening, Hiedler!” the moron exclaims, mispronouncing my name. Blood comes rushing to my head. The speed of it makes my temples throb.
The fatty grabs me by the arm and continues with that same stupid grin.
“Dropped out of school, haven’t you?”
I push him forcefully to the ground.
“What I do is none of your bloody business!”
The genuinely stunned expression on his face is the only thing that keeps me from breaking his nose. I shove away from him, grab Gustl by the coat, and drag him after me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that he has the same stunned expression as the fatty’s. I release my grip on him and we walk side-by-side in silence, as my anger still lingers.
“The moron mispronounced my name! Surely, he did it on purpose!”
“And what would his purpose be?” Gustl asks softly.
“To humiliate me!”
“I don’t think ─” he begins, disapproving, but I cannot have it.
My words erupt unshackled, and I strike the palm of my hand with my fist.
“The bloody city scum! I hated their mocking eyes! I always felt their glares burning on my neck! They thought me lower than them, just because I come from the village! That’s why he mocked my name, to show that he thinks I am a peasant!”
“I think it was just an honest mistake! Didn’t you see his face?”
“Blasted future civil servants! All of them! And I had to share the same classroom with this herd! Ah!”
“What’s wrong with being a public servant?”
“I despise them! Father was one of ─” I stop, as flashbacks of his insults, thrashings, and mockery hit me like a boomerang across the head.
“But what do you do? For work, I mean. I earn my own living by working in my father’s upholstery shop.” His voice was soft and gentle, obviously trying to distract me from my fury.
“Nothing. Working for a slice of buttered bread is beneath me.”
He raises a brow in puzzlement again as a violent cough seizes my body. He offers to see me home.
Once arrived, we bid each other goodnight and promise to meet again.
“Oh, and one more thing!” Gustl shouts from across the street. “What is, actually, your name?” Surprised by his question, I realize I had forgotten to introduce myself.
“Adolf Hitler!” I shout back. “H-i-t-l-e-r! The fat ass had it wrong!”
It’s almost dawn when I finally fall asleep, after replaying in my mind, time and again, the events that had completed my day. One thing was certain and definitely pleasant, I wasn’t searching for a friend, yet here I am, the richer with one, an admiring one with whom I can finally share my arduous, flamboyant plans.
Painful Perfection
Early June, 1905. One of the most pleasant months of the year, when Dame Spring hasn’t completely given up her rights over the weather and Dame Summer does not yet dominate enough to burn everything around with her heat. There is a certain magic in the succession of the seasons that brings me joy and serenity. I find it in the uniquely infinite flakes of snow, in the millions of flowers that intoxicate the senses with their scent and color, in Autumn’s rusty shades no artist could ever capture in their entire splendor.
It is the perfect time for new beginnings.
Mother decides to relocate. Since this is her decision and not Father’s I have nothing against it, though it does make me wonder about her motives. It’s as if she wants to leave the gloomy past behind her … behind us. I’ve always marveled at the confused mixture of extremes in her, as if whatever brings her anguish, also brings her joy. It was strange that she never quit loving Father during all those year she was subjected to his humiliations and still loves him after his passing. To me, his departure was the best thing that ever happened. To her? Well, I’m not so sure.
She hangs his portrait in the new living room and points to it whenever he crops up in a discussion, as if an inaudible dialogue still exists between them.
I realize now that it was not fear that kept her at his side for so many years, but a deep tenderness that went far beyond his insufferable shortcomings. A profound compassion, which only the church can teach you.
He looks smugly at us from his place on the wall. That insufferable vanity! All too proud of the social position attained through calculated compromise. Yet with us, his family, he never compromised.
Here I am, talking about Father again, even though I vowed never to rehash old memories.
I am thrilled at the apparently necessary relocation, as this time, it is one to my liking: Linz, the city already very deeply rooted into my soul. I am proud that my new address, 31 Humboldt Street, is in the heart of the great city.
Aunt Johanna moves in with us, and I find her quite changed. Her glare has mellowed, her words are warmer and less castigating. Perhaps Father’s passing has bettered us all.
Ah, Father again! He seems to be omnipresent, just like that damnable portrait hanging on the wall. But, he is gone ─ he is long gone.
Following our move, I spend weeks with my new friend. Each day adds another ingredient to our attachment and strengthens it further. I am a great talker and he loves to listen. He speaks of music and his plans to become a famous musician, and I show him my paintings or the sketches of the monuments I want to build. Occasionally, I recite my poems to him. Though I recently turned sixteen, in theory at least, a teenager, Gustl says my aspirations, dreams, and ideas are far beyond my age. He declares his happiness in having such a brainy friend.
Gustl also goes to church, but for different reasons than my own. For him it is not a welcome escape from reality, but rather a duty to his parents.
I wait for him in front of the Carmelite church, impatiently watching the big wooden door, hoping it will open. I shift my thoughts from Gustl to the patriotic poem I had started at dawn. It lived on in my little black notebook. Scribbles that awaited the new verses that now invade my mind, settling into shape — yet I am too restless to jot them down.
I stare at the wooden door again, rubbing my fingers and cussing. Maybe I should say a prayer instead or sing one of my heartfelt choir songs.
Finally, the door opens.
Beautifully attired people walk out. They pause to soc
ialize, using restrained gestures imposed by etiquette. I give a wry smile and imagine them as puppets, manhandled by invisible hands. I can guess the patterns of their gestures and can even mimic them. My anticipation proves quite accurate. It is as though I am the one pulling their strings. Manhandling … manipulation … puppets … these words resonate in my head as I continue with this game.
Unexpectedly, like lightning crackling across a clear sky — I see her. An angel descending among the churchyard mortals, a mythological Valkyrie, who took pity on the commoners, deciding to mingle with them for a while — a celestial, otherworldly being.
She laughs heartily, probably at a joke, then puts her hand to her mouth, covering it. A restrained gesture, the trademark of noble families. Tall and slender, her body is touched by a painful perfection. Blond hair, gathered at the nape of her neck, is smoothed under a cheerful light blue bonnet that matches her dress. Big, glowing blue eyes persuade you into believing you are in the company of immortals.
Stunned, I follow her every gesture, movement, and dainty laugh. An impulse urges me to approach her, to speak to her, to smell her scent.
But, how could I?
She is a Nordic goddess. And I? A mere mortal.
I continue to stare, hypnotized by her smile, her giggles, her dress fluttering in the gentle wind. An unexpected feeling of anxiety overwhelms me. I squat down and prop my fingers against the ground. A nagging thought rattles against the shutters of my mind: You are in great danger. You are in great danger.
Yet I am unable to remove my stare.
An elegantly dressed, middle-aged woman, fastens her eyes on the goddess as well. I guess by the similarity of their features that the two are related. Same eyes, same hair, same smile. The woman throws an arm around my beauty’s shoulders, they leave the churchyard, and take the road to Landstrasse. Possessed as I am, I follow behind.
Being the busiest shopping street outside of the capital, Landstrasse is famous for its afternoon promenades. Family and friends walk in the fresh air, eat ice cream, stare at the display windows, buy gifts for loved ones, and sometimes meet new people and flirt.
I scurry up behind the two women, straining to hear their conversation.
“Child,” says the woman, “haven’t I told you before how improper it is to smile at the officers? What would the people think of you? Of us?”
“But, isn’t it even more improper to ignore their polite greetings? You saw it. They removed their caps and … ” Her voice is a poem, a soothing balm, spreading rapidly through my veins.
“And what, Stefanie?” I see the woman squeeze the girl’s arm, a coercing move Father had often used to silence Mother. “I had to do unthinkable things to give you a good education that, one day, could offer you unparalleled options. You are neither to disobey my words nor to fill your head with silly ideas!”
The beauty in front of me now has a name. A glorious name. A name befitting an immortal goddess, a mystical wood nymph.
Stefanie … Stefanie … Stefanie … the name circled in my mind like a mantra.
“A smile never hurt anyone, not now, and not ever,” proclaims the goddess.
I smile at the girl’s spunk, admiring her even more.
The irritated woman nudges her in the ribs. “I will not have your nonsense, little woman! You are embarrassing yourself and our entire family!”
“Forgive me, Mother, that was not my─”
“Tarnish your good reputation and no one shall ever have eyes for you. Not ever!”
“No one shall ever have eyes for me if I continue to walk like a dog, always looking at the ground!”
Hearing her last remark, an unexpected giggle escapes my mouth. I struggle to suppress it, but it’s too late. The beauty is now looking straight at me with a startled look. Her big blue eyes pierce mine for a moment, long enough to recognize my soul lurking behind, to distinguish an eternity beyond form and to hear the cry of a captive spirit begging to be set free.
In that instant, I understand all there is to understand: we are two halves longing to reunite as a whole. We do not need words. Our eyes say all that words would fail to convey.
Stefanie’s lips draw back into the most wonderful smile I have ever seen. But, I am too stunned to return it.
Curious as to what captured her daughter’s attention, the woman turns and measures me up with an inquisitive glare. Under her skewering gaze, I become painfully aware of myself, my frail body, my shabby clothes. I’m ashamed for failing to at least be better attired, if not altogether better as a man. I should be sporting the suit I wear to the Opera and the shoes my aunt gave me last April, on my birthday.
Her mother’s eyes are still on me, burning me with their glare.
I feel the surge of an impulsive urge to bow and introduce myself. I must show that I am more than these old ripped clothes, smelling of naphthalene, and my unkempt appearance. However, the woman’s disgusted stare paralyzes me like the sting of a scorpion’s poisoned tail.
She quickens her step, pushing Stefanie forward across the Danube Bridge, until they disappear into the crowd on the other side. I watch, pinned in place, unable to move or speak — for how long, I cannot say.
From this moment on, not a single afternoon goes by without me promenading on the Landstrasse, awaiting my beloved wood nymph. For the next weeks, and then months, regardless of the weather and at exactly five in the afternoon, I am strolling on the Danube Bridge. Waiting. Dreaming. Praying.
On this cursed bridge I experience the deepest feelings of despair when she fails to appear and the most exalted emotions when she does appear. Magical as ever, radiant at her mother’s arm.
One of the most artistically fertile periods of my life now begins. I had scoffed at the thought of an artist needing a muse, an element outside one’s own imagination, to be able to create. I’ve always been skillful and inspired; yet nothing could have prepared me for the avalanche of creative impulses that came with her — my own muse.
“You should introduce yourself to her mother, you know?” says Gustl, for the hundredth time, a few weeks after I tell him about Stefanie. “How else could you reach her?”
“I will. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!” he echoes. “It’s always tomorrow with you!”
His remark annoys me. “Does it matter if it’s tomorrow or two months from now? She knows everything I feel and think. An extra day won’t matter in the face of an entire eternity!”
“She knows everything you feel and think! How? You haven’t exchanged a single word!”
“Words!” I explode. “We don’t need words! Only unevolved people depend on words!”
“How, then?”
“You couldn’t understand. For exceptional beings there is no need for such communication.”
“Oh, really? And how, more exactly, do exceptional beings communicate?”
“Through intuition.”
He smirks. “I see … ”
“No! You do not see, nor understand!” My spittle hits his face and he cleans it off with the sleeve of his coat. “You are incapable of penetrating the extraordinary power of true love!”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “Do you even know what you’re saying? You are actually claiming to be able to transmit information to someone just by looking at that someone!”
“Not to anyone; and yes, I can. What do you think I’ve been doing for so many weeks? How else could have Stefanie learned about my plans?”
He lets out a little laugh and looks dumbfounded into my eyes. “What?”
“These things, Gustl, cannot be explained through simple words. What resides in me, resides in Stefanie, also. Today, I will communicate with her by intuition and you can stand apart and witness. You’ll see that she understands.”
My friend’s mistrust irritates me.
He wears that inquisitive look again, the one he shows whenever he fails to understand my unconventional intellect. At these times, he boldly contradicts me, just to mask his lack
of original arguments.
Our mild dispute is suddenly interrupted by Stefanie’s arrival, who looks delightful in a grass-green dress. The fresh color contrasts beautifully with her disheveled blond hair that caresses her shoulders. She radiates a strange light again and seems to float, rather than walk.
Nervous pain rips through my body until my cheeks begin to burn. I run my palms along my coat-front, smoothing it, and then do the same with my hair. My new haircut suits me perfectly. The handlebar mustache I grew, according to comments, makes me look incredibly masculine, even bohemian. I am certain Stefanie will notice these little changes and love me even more. I force a smile, as insufferable nervousness churns in my gut. I shove my hands in my pockets to mask it.
She is now so close I can smell the sweet vanilla fragrance of her perfume. But her scent is all there is. She passes me by as if I were a ghost, a part of the air she walks through. No glance, not even from the corner of her eye. Her indifference is painfully trailed by her sweet vanilla fragrance.
My face burns hotter and sweat drenches my entire body.
I stare after her as she passes a group of officers lounging on the grass. They whistle admiringly and throw their caps in the air. It’s the same miserable group from a few months ago. She smiles and waves at them. One of the officers, a very tall and muscular specimen, jumps to his feet and bounds toward the two women. He then utters something I cannot hear, while bending slightly forward and kissing the elder woman’s hand. She looks quite pleased by the intrusion. Her hypocrisy makes me sick.
This is the woman who, only a few months ago, was preaching about etiquette and irreproachable conduct, yet now behaves like a bitch in heat. If this world had fewer restrictions, I would clutch her throat and strangle her with my bare hands. My blood boils and I clench my fists so hard that my finger-joints crackle.
Easily freed of the hurdle, the young officer now turns to Stefanie, snatches up a strand of her blond hair, and whispers something in her ear.
I watch, stunned, at the unfolding scene: his nerve, her smile, the woman’s perfidy, the other officers gossiping.
