by A G Mogan
“Intuition is not much help now, is it?” Gustl says.
My anger surges to insurmountable heights and I strain not to take it out on him. Now, of all times, he should have kept his mouth shut; embracing solidary silence being the far wiser choice than a mocking remark.
Ignoring him, I continue to flex my fingers into painful, joint-popping fists while staring at Stefanie’s response to the officer’s cloying attention. She seems genuinely entertained. Her mother casually moves a step away, suddenly intrigued by an item in a shop window.
I easily detect her true motive and once again disgust fills me. In the background, Gustl’s voice elbows through my anger.
“How about using the ordinary communication of …ordinary beings? Wouldn’t that work better?”
I turn to face him, giving a piercing glare.
“Can’t you see? Are you really that blind?”
“See what?”
“Can’t you see this is nothing but a diversion?”
“A diversion?”
“Indeed!”
“How did you come up with that?”
“She is pretending. Stefanie is faking it all!” How can he not see this? How on earth does he live with such stupidity? And this is my friend?
“No! Nooo!”
“Yes! Yes! She deliberately pretends to like the officer to hide from the world her burning love for me!”
My friend’s expression is beyond description. “Adolf … you don’t really believe that, do you?”
“And why not? It’s possible.”
“No, it’s not!” he shouts, and grabs me by the shoulders. “Look at her face!” he orders, forcing me to turn and look at Stefanie. “What do you see?”
“Well! I see her … smiling.”
He shakes my shoulders.
“The color on her face, Adolf! What do you see?”
Tears stream from my eyes.
“I see her … blushing.”
“Precisely! No one can fake that! No one can blush on command!”
My friend’s logic is so painful that it forces me to squat down, gasping for air. Deep despair overtakes me.
“What can I do, Gustl? What can I do?” My body shakes from the evil feeling possessing it. I could end my life, if assured that would release my soul from this unbearable pain.
“It’s quite simple. I’ve told you before. You do what the officer did! You approach the two women, introduce yourself to the mother, then ask for permission to speak to Stefanie and accompany them on their walk.”
“And what am I to say when the woman asks for my profession? I would have to present my profession immediately, to attach it to my name somehow. Something like: Adolf Hitler, academic painter, at your disposal!”
“There you go! Marvelous!”
“But, I am not an academic painter! I cannot introduce myself until I become one! For mommy, the profession seems much more important than the name!”
I remember the woman’s cold, judging eyes, clearly seeing me as some wandering vagabond.
But there’s another reason I dare not approach Stefanie, a reason I could never share with Gustl, one he would never understand. Introducing yourself leads to closeness; closeness leads to intimacy; and intimacy eventually leads to the strange games where you touch the other.
How could I ever be worthy of touching Stefanie? How would I ever know what to do; what is expected of me? How could I ever play that revolting game of Father’s? The mere thought paralyzes me like the bite of a venomous spider.
My eyes dart back to the officer and I watch the flippant, confident way he flirts with my beloved. I hate him. I hate his uniform and his muscles. Conceited blockheads, these cursed officers. I am convinced she also sees them for what they are. Yet for now, she must accept this sad situation. Accept it until the fated day when I, like mighty Lohengrin, will rescue her. And like Wagner’s heroic knight, after I rescue her, I will marry her.
A brief diversion on her side and an elaborate future plan on mine. Soon, we will be united in eternity.
These self-encouraging thoughts bring me around.
I try to smile, but Wagner’s ill-omened words hurtle toward me like poisonous arrows out of a doomed void: The god is in love with a human woman and approaches her in human form. The lover finds that she cannot recognize the god in this form, and demands that he should make the real sensual form of his being known. Zeus knows that she would be destroyed by the sight of his real self. He suffers in this awareness, suffers knowing that he must fulfill this demand and in doing so ruin their love. He will seal his own doom when the gleam of his godly form destroys his lover. Is the man who craves for God not destroyed?
I look at my Stefanie. She slowly turns, fixing me with her bright blue stare. This time she does not even smile, certainly for fear that she might betray her feelings for me.
Sweet Lord, how very clever.
The Malady Of The Soul
A loud, insistent knock on the front door wakes me from an anguished, fretful sleep. It’s been more than a week since I left the house. I rub my sleepy eyes, throw off the covers, and rush to unlock the entrance door. On the other side stands a tall, large-framed man wearing a blue uniform and a fuzzy mustache that sits atop a broad smile. My postman. A mild feeling of disappointment crosses my heart.
“Mornin’, boy!” he says in a high-pitched tone, waving two envelopes under my nose. “Shouldn’t you be in school already? How old are you? And what grade, I pray?”
Brows furrowing, I look at this font of interrogation, unable to decide which irritates me more: his deafening voice or his rapid-fire questions. At seven o’clock in the morning, I barely remember who I am. Being accosted with questions about my age and schooling status is physically painful.
“I’m not in school anymore.”
“How’s that, boy?”
“Not for me.”
“And what will come of you?”
I shrug and yawn noisily.
He ignores my hint and continues animatedly.
“Look, boy, get this! A new position at the post opened to the public recently, and if you want, I could recommend you. I’ve known your mother for a while now. What a remarkable woman she is! Surely, you come close, don’t you boy?”
“Thank you, but I have no interest in such a job.”
“It’s a great, public service job.”
I pierce him with a glare.
“Not interested.”
“Then?”
“Then what?”
“What are your plans? Surely, you have a backup plan?”
“I intend to become a great painter.”
“Ha!”
The laugh bursts out, immediately dismissing such ridiculous idea.
“That would take a great deal of money and very highly-placed connections. Do you have either?”
“I don’t.”
He shakes his head pensively. “Then, you are dreaming! You are awake, but still dreaming.”
“Not necessarily. Makart and Rubens rose to fame out of squalid circumstances.”
Saying this, I puff my chest out and raise my chin, seeing myself equaling or maybe even outshining them.
The man is still shaking his head like a broken piece of machinery.
“You’re dreaming, boy, dreaming. You might miss the real boat by chasing a ghost.”
I feel my irritation rising. Why do people always feel the need to pry? To ask such mundane questions? What is your trade? What do you want out of life? How are you going to get this or that? And why at such an hour?
Ah-ha! His impudent jabber has rubbed off on me.
I snatch the envelopes from his hand, bid him good day, and slam the door in his face. One of the envelopes looks particularly sleek, with gold and red velvet edges, and waxed paper that emanates a pleasant scent. The other is plainer and smaller, and for no particular reason, I fling it onto the lobby table.
I stare at the golden envelope, curiously scrutinizing both sides, and t
hen read the sender’s name aloud: Johann and Johanna Prinz — my godparents. I rip it open, reading the entire letter, until my eyes rest on the last line, which I re-read to ensure my understanding is correct: And we hope you will respond to our invitation, dear Adolf, as this time of the year, Vienna is simply breathtaking.
I couldn’t have hoped for better news, as I’ve wanted to discover the wonders beyond painful Linz. Maybe even escape its reality for a while. The letter is both incentive and reinforcement of my decision to gain admission at the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts to study painting.
The time has finally come to build a stable and secure future for Stefanie, to become an academic painter.
My dreams take shape. I am convinced that I did the right thing withstanding Father, my relatives — and lately, the postman — regarding my career as a civil servant. Fancy that! I, a public servant! Me giving in after all this struggle! Vienna is all I need, and painting the only tool necessary to build the life I want.
Once again, I realize that all you need to do in this life is listen to your inner voice, act on what it tells you, and remove any obstacles that might oppose it. Obstacles are placed across our path in life, not to be boggled at, but to be surmounted. And I am fully determined to do so, having the vision of Father foremost in my mind.
I fling the closet door open and pull out whatever falls into my hands. Shirts, trousers and, of course, the shoes Aunt Johanna gave me. I stuff them in my old school backpack. The shoes will be my talisman; although, this isn’t necessarily why I am taking them with me. Luck is the last thing I need among the academics. My success is as assured as tomorrow’s sunrise. I do not doubt it for a moment. I’ve always been the most talented pupil in my class when it came to art, drawing and painting in particular ─ far above the others. My efforts always fed my classmates’ envy, which came from their admiration, confirming my talent and artistic skill.
I shove some books into the backpack, along with my finest sketches, for presentation to the evaluating commission.
Will my godparents recognize me? Will I recognize them? Almost nine years have passed since I last saw them, right before we moved to Leonding. I was only 6-years-old and barely have a memory of them.
I remember my godmother being tall, almost one head taller than her husband, and extremely beautiful. The mismatched couple had seemed a bit ridiculous at the time.
I mused at the odd memories, thinking it funny how some are etched in child’s mind, how some impressions remain and others, a crude mind resolves to forget.
I search the family photo album and all I find is an old, funny-smelling picture of my godmother and godfather. She sits in an armchair, legs crossed, resting her thin, gloved hands on her knees, while he stands proudly behind her, holding an elegant, varnished wood walking stick with an ivory handle. At least this pose does not betray his height deficiency. I slip the picture in my backpack and scan the room for any other things to take with me.
“Can I play with this, Adi?” asks Paula from the doorway.
In her tiny hand, she holds the envelope I cast aside on the lobby table. She rubs her eyes and yawns noisily as I ignore her question and take the envelope. It has my name on it, but no sender. I open it, curiously scrutinizing its content. Out of almost impossible to read handwriting, I decipher the following:
My son,
I have extremely important news to communicate to you. I will be in my office on Tuesday morning, nine o’clock sharp. This suffers no delay.
Eduard Bloch, Family Doctor
P.S. Please, come accompanied by your sister, Angela.
This strange letter is frightening, since this is the first time our family doctor has written to me. He always wrote to Mother, even when I had that gruesome lung infection. Is it possible he discovered something in my blood tests, something inadvertently overlooked?
A wave of heat crosses my entire body and I sit down. I realize it is already Tuesday and only two short hours until the mysterious appointment.
My heart begins to race and blood throbs in my ears.
“Get dressed and go fetch Angela!” I order my little sister.
“Tell her to be here before eight o’clock, it’s urgent. I am seriously ill. Do you understand?”
She just stares at me, tears filling her big blue eyes. “But, Adi, I don’t want them to put you next to daddy!”
“No one dies today, little one. Go now!”
As she leaves, I swing open the window, throw the backpack in the closet, and lie down on the floor. Hundreds of ugly thoughts rush into my mind, torturing me. Hundreds of regrets, hundreds of questions. How bad can it be that he called me to his office? And why should Angela accompany me? Would the news shake me so terribly as to need her? What will happen to my sweet, beautiful Stefanie? Distorted images of her face, like those in a puzzle game, appear, then disappear from my mind.
“I’ll never make it! I’ll never make it!”
A couple of minutes before nine o’clock, we step into the doctor’s office. A nurse asks us to wait, pointing at the chairs in the waiting room.
I shake a little, alternating between chills and flushes. I stare at the wall clock. The ticking of its second hand seems ready to break my eardrum. Angela fidgets on the chair next to me, pausing only to glare at me. She has recently given birth to a boy she named Leo, after his father. Does motherhood make all women fidgety? I wish I could have left her at home.
Angry because I dragged her to the doctor’s office, she mutters hateful things. “I hope this will prove worthwhile … leaving my newborn in the care of the neighbors! It’s always an ill omen when you call on me! What one does out of boredom!”
The world is still full of restrictions, so I still cannot slap her stupid face.
Still staring at the clock’s second hand, I cover my nose with my hand. The smell of medical offices and hospitals makes me nauseous.
“My children!” booms a deep, guttural voice. The doctor now stands before us, his arms spread wide. “You arrived!” He embraces us and kisses our cheeks. He looks slightly older to me, his hair having turned grey before its time. Yet his facial expression still exudes youthfulness, warmth, and gentleness, which instantly relaxes me.
“Come, come!” he says, making effusive gestures with his hands. As he closes the door behind us, my sister and I sit down again, yet neither of us dare ask why we’re here. It is as if we want to prolong the inevitable for as long as possible.
The doctor breaks the silence, talking in a low, candid voice. “I called on you as soon as I found out myself. Thank you for coming, my dear children.”
“Thank you for having us!” we respond in unison.
“I am afraid I’ve got some pretty bad news for you,” he continues, looking right into my eyes. Chills capture my spine. Surely, he will now herald my end. I huddle in my seat, waiting for my doom.
“It’s about your mother … ”
“Klara?” asks Angela, as startled as I.
The doctor nods. “She came to my office two weeks ago. Bad news, I’m afraid. She is ill, seriously ill.”
His last words sound in my head like the church bells ringing on Sunday mornings. Mother … seriously ill. I just stare at the doctor, unable to open my mouth, unable to blink.
“You say she is seriously ill,” my sister says, always able to keep her cool. “With what?”
“When she came to see me, she complained of terrible chest pain,” he says. “I ran some tests to uncover the cause, and I’m afraid it is cancer. Breast cancer.”
My earlier dizziness returns and I grip the chair with both hands in a pathetic attempt to create a sense of equilibrium. My shirt suddenly strangles me and I undo another button. How can this be? I scream in my head … Mother … so badly sick and I am completely unaware of it? I’ve never heard her complaining, well, maybe just once or twice. Yes, I remember now … I sometimes heard her wailing at night, but each time I assumed it was her usual headache. After little Paula was born,
terrible headaches kept Mother in bed for days. But why hasn’t she told me? Why?
“She doesn’t know yet,” the doctor says, as if hearing my thoughts. “I thought it better to get the news from someone close to her, and make a decision together.”
“What is there to decide?” Angela demands.
“You say there’s still a chance?” I suddenly hear my voice covering my sister’s question.
“The only one would be surgery. Without it, her chances of survival are next to zero.”
“So the operation could save her? Is that what you are saying?” my sister inquires. I loosen my grip on the chair.
“I say she has a chance. But you must understand — it is a very small one.”
These last words bring us both to silence. We linger in our chairs a few more minutes before we thank the doctor and leave his office. We walk home in silence. It takes mighty dreadful news to keep Angela quiet. For the first time in my life, I wish she would speak … about anything … boring, stupid, uninteresting chatter … anything that would take my mind off my darkest thoughts.
“What did I tell you? It’s always an ill omen when you call on me.”
Silence was better, after all.
So, I was not sick. But now I wanted to be, to switch places with that dear creature who’s done nothing to deserve this. Nothing!
How could I have been so blind, so caught up in my own little drama, so selfish as to heed only to my own worries? All my concerns for these past months seem nothing but ridiculous dilemmas. I feel ashamed. I had failed her. As the only man left in our home, I was supposed to protect her, to see her through all that came after Father’s passing; yet I failed, just like in everything else. The difference was that this failure wasn’t a stupid Math or French exam, which I could eventually pass. No … this is the most dreadful exam life throws at you. And you have but one shot. And sometimes, not even that.
Later in the morning, we take the terrible news to our mother. She receives it with a dignified expression, reconciling with it faster than all of us.
“It is God’s will, dear children.” These are her only words.
