The Chaos Loop

by Peter Lerangis

  “Time travel is not for wusses,” Corey said.

  They went into the restaurant. Fritzie was sitting at an upright piano just inside the café. He wore a brimmed hat cocked to one side and a slightly raggedy scarf. His fingers flew over the keyboard. But it wasn’t a classical piece like the one they’d heard on the vinyl record in New York, at Leila’s apartment. It was a jazzy, bouncy tune with a pounding rhythm that was making customers get up from their seats and dance. He was grunting along to the tune, just the way they’d heard him in the old recording, back home.

  Corey and Leila waited until he stopped, which he did with a big, dramatic flourish. As they joined in a loud burst of cheering, he spun around and saw them. “Ah, here are the Americans!” he said.

  That led to another round of applause.

  Leila was blushing. “We didn’t do anything.”

  “You brought us ragtime!” Fritzie said with a big smile. “Your brilliant Mr. Scott Joplin. You know this music?”

  “No,” Corey said.

  “Yes,” Leila piped up. “And you’re amazing!”

  “Thank you! You see, this is how I make money for my studies. Last week I perform at the school. Brahms, Beethoven, Bach. Tonight I play for important people at the opera house.” Fritzie’s face brightened, and he took Leila by the arm. “You come? Please! Is party. I will put you on the list. I play classical, too!”

  “Uh, sure,” Leila said.

  As Fritzie leaped up from the piano, Leila impulsively threw her arms around him. “Oh, Fritzie, thanks for everything you’ve done for us—the hospital, the lodging. . . .”

  He laughed and returned the embrace. “It is my pleasure. And you, Corey, are you feeling better?”

  Corey backed stiffly away. “I am, if you don’t hug me.”

  They wandered out to one of the tables on Herrengasse, where Fritzie ordered from the waiter in German. “All of Vienna passes the Café Central,” Fritzie said. “We sit and eat and see famous people. Maybe Freud, Trotsky, Schiele. I will pay.”

  Corey angled his seat out toward the street. All along Herrengasse, artists had set up easels and were selling paintings and postcards. Some of them were dressed in paint-spattered smocks, some were chanting to attract attention. “That poor man Otto almost killed yesterday?” Corey said. “Does he come here?”

  “Adolf?” Fritzie said. “Manchmal. Sometimes. He does not get here early enough, maybe. This man, he is not very . . . how do you say . . . aggressiv?”

  Corey could see Leila shudder.

  The two of them lapsed into German. Fritzie spoke very fast, which made Leila giggle and ask him to slow down. But they settled into a rhythm, and it made Corey happy to see them bond.

  Normally Corey didn’t drink coffee, and he winced when the waiter plopped a cappuccino down in front of him along with a croissant. But after a couple of sips, he liked the combination of the sweetness of cinnamon, the smoothness of warm milk, and the slight bitterness of coffee.

  On the fourth sip, he nearly choked.

  That was when a short man with comically quick, bouncing steps sped by on Herrengasse. His hair flapped up and down in the breeze. Even though he carried a big sack over his shoulder, he was so slight and shabby that people didn’t move an inch for him, as if he were invisible.

  But there was no mistaking the face of the man they met in the hospital, Adolf Hitler.

  Corey elbowed Leila. “There he goes.”

  He sprang from his seat, making sure to shove the croissant in his pocket. The pain in his back nearly smacked him down, but he forced himself to move. Staying to the walls, Corey threaded through the people toward the center of town, following the odd gait of Hitler. He finally lost Hitler in a crowd of people at an open square in front of a stately columned building. There he stopped, frantically looking around.

  “Corey!” Leila’s voice called out from behind him. She came running up and took Corey’s arm. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” Corey replied.

  Leila glanced around too. “I told Fritzie you ran off because you were freaked out by the sight of a rat.”

  “True, kind of. He believed it?”

  “I think he thinks Americans are strange. So yeah.”

  “There!” Corey said, spotting a familiar blotch of greasy black hair in the crowd. Hitler was standing near the front, facing the steps of the building. From the front door, a bearded man emerged, clasping his hands together in front of his tweed suit and smiling at the crowd.

  As they responded with loud cheers, Corey and Leila made their way toward the front. “Entschuldigung, bitte . . . Entschuldigung . . .” Leila repeated. Excuse me, excuse me.

  The man descended the steps slowly. He waved at individuals he spotted in the throng. His beard was full and fluffy, a light shade of reddish brown, and his smile seemed to warm the crowd.

  “Ahhhh, Corey, Leila, guten Abend!” Hitler said as he saw them approach.

  “Hey!” Corey said, pushing aside elbows. “Listen, we had a few things we wanted to talk to you about—ow!”

  “You are still hurting, Corey!” Hitler said. “You are brave, strong. Like proper good German. Bleib hier! Stay here! You will enjoy der schöne Karl.”

  “‘The handsome Karl’?” Leila said.

  Hitler smiled. “This is what people call him. He is our mayor, Karl Lueger.”

  “Mei-i-i-i-ne Damen und Herren!” The man’s voice boomed out over the square, without the help of a microphone. The crowd fell silent, and Lueger began to speak. He was slow at first, cracking a few German jokes that people laughed at. “Haw!!” Hitler guffawed. “He is very funny. He talks about the rats in our sewers, which are as big as Pferde. Horses. He gives them names. Schlomo. Chaim.”

  Jewish names.

  Corey and Leila both stiffened. “Hilarious,” Corey drawled.

  As the man continued, his face grew somber, his eyes glowering. His words began taking a steady rhythm as his hands moved. He gestured to the crowd, pounding one fist into the other hand. His r’s rolled and his p’s spat.

  Even though he didn’t understand a word, Corey felt sweat trickling down the sides of his head. This guy’s speaking style reminded him of Hitler in 1939. “What’s he saying?” Corey whispered to Leila.

  Her face was drawn and fearful. “Well, he made a transition from talking about rats to talking about Jews.”

  “But he’s the mayor,” Corey said. “There must be Jewish people living here. He has to represent them, right?”

  “He’s saying that they’re sucking money from ordinary citizens,” Leila said. “They’re responsible for the poverty in the streets. They’re dirty and . . . Do I need to go on?”

  Corey shook his head.

  Next to him, Hitler nodded. “Ja,” he whispered. “Explains everything, no? So klar. Clear.”

  “Wiener . . . über . . . Juden!” Lueger bellowed.

  Corey glanced at Leila. “‘Viennese people over Jews,’” Leila translated.

  “But that makes no sense,” Corey said. “The Jewish people who live here are Viennese, right?”

  “Wiener über Juden! Wiener über Juden! Wiener über Juden!”

  Most of the crowd chanted in a bored, singsongy tone. But Hitler was shouting, his voice loud and screechy. His face was red and strained, his eyes almost not human. As if he’d transformed into some other creature.

  Corey’s blood froze in his veins. This was the man he’d seen in the Bürgerbräukeller. Not the hapless, homeless artist that people picked on in the streets.

  Corey wasn’t the only one to notice. Leila had grabbed on to his arm, her jaw hanging open in shock. She was seeing what he was. All around them, people cast startled looks toward Hitler. Some burst out laughing, others turned away. Even Mayor Lueger seemed a little thrown, his eyes darting toward the sound.

  Right now, in 1908, the behavior may have been annoying and weird. But in a couple of decades, Corey knew, it would have a different effect. It would m
ove three thousand people in a doomed restaurant to rise to their feet. And inspire an entire country toward a plan of mass murder.

  23

  “N—no,” Corey said to Hitler. “No, I didn’t think Handsome Karl was a good speaker. Or handsome.”

  It was hard to even look at him, let alone talk. Leila’s face was pasty. She hadn’t yet said a word.

  Hitler was setting down his heavy shoulder bag across the street from the Café Central. Fritzie was long gone. After that display in town, so was Corey’s appetite.

  “All those things the mayor said about Jews . . .” Leila said. “It was wrong. People are people.”

  “Ach, Lueger does not mean this.” Hitler’s voice was raspy and hoarse from all the shouting. “He works with Jews in government. They are his friends. They love him very much. He loves them.”

  “That makes no sense,” Leila said. “If they’re his colleagues and friends, and they love each other, why does he want to kill them?”

  Hitler looked surprised. “Kill? He does not say kill.”

  “But if he says he wants to get rid of them . . .”

  Hitler waved a dismissive hand. “He is . . . how do you say . . . politic . . .”

  “Politician,” Corey said.

  “There are many more who feel this way. Lueger speaks truth, but he is weak. The country is weak. This is because of the Jews, Liebchen. You will see this when you are older. They suck out all the marks—the money. Someday we will take it all back. Someday.” Hitler reached into his sack and brought out two easels and stacks of paintings, drawings, and postcards. “I lost much time today, watching Lueger. So. You stay and help me sell?”

  Corey gulped. His brain was racing. He could grab a rope, put it around this man’s throat, and it would all be over.

  If he were a murderer.

  Think, he told himself. Think this through.

  At this point in his life, even though Hitler was clearly a crackpot, he still thought he was talented enough to be an artist. But the dream was crumbling. He was shy and not very talented. He was poor, yet all around him he faced satisfied, well-fed people. He was a failure next to the geniuses who were already becoming famous. Every day brought more hits to his ego. He wasn’t going to be able to take this forever. The more he failed, the more he’d need someone to blame. Someone besides himself.

  Corey knew what was going to happen. Everyone in the future did. World War I was going to wreck Germany. The country would plunge into poverty. The Nazi party would form. Hitler would fail as an artist, and he would shift. He would give in to his anger. To that ugly, shrieking voice. The voice would gain power. It would convince others. That power would lead to death. Unless, right now, Corey and Leila did something radical.

  Hitler had chickened out when he’d had the opportunity to apprentice with a genius. Somehow, they would have to make that happen.

  Corey grabbed one of Hitler’s paintings and held it lovingly in the sunlight. “Whoa. This is incredible. How much do you want for this one?”

  Hitler shrugged. “Ach. Vielleicht five marks? It is not very good.”

  “Are you joking?” Corey said. “Only five? For this?”

  He looked desperately at Leila. She nodded. “It’s worth . . . seventeen,” she said. “Siebzehn. At least.”

  “Haw!” Hitler’s cheeks reddened as he smiled. “Liebe Kinder! You are young. I show to people. They say, two marks . . . three. Here is Vienna, not Stuttgart! Here is best artists in the world!”

  “You need exposure,” Corey said, but Hitler stared at him blankly. “It’s not just about talent. You need for people to meet you. Important people.”

  “Ja, ja, ja,” Hitler replied, still neatly placing his work on the easels. “I know important people.”

  “Cool!” Corey said. “I mean, very good! Who?”

  Hitler waggled his eyebrows, smiling at a woman dressed in furs who stared at his collection and then at him. She removed a cigarette from her mouth, blew smoke in his face, and left. “Ach. Schreckliche Hündin! She will see. Someday I go to meet these people. I will work for Herr Roller!”

  “Alfred Roller? The Alfred Roller?” Leila said, shooting a quick glance to Corey. “You know him?”

  “Not yet.” Hitler tapped his pants pocket and raised an eyebrow. “I have letter of . . . how do you say . . . ?”

  “Introduction!” Corey blurted out, quickly adding, “I’m guessing.”

  “His stage designs are ganz dramatisch . . . strong. Beautiful!” Hitler sighed. “But he is modern. Abstract. I am more . . . klassisch. Traditional. I am not certain he will like me. Or I will like him.” He turned to pay attention to a hurried-looking man with wire-rim glasses, who was examining one of the paintings. “Guten Abend!” Hitler said. “Dieses Kunstwerk kostet nur fünf Mark.”

  “Fünf Mark? Ha! Schwindler . . .” The man gave a derisive laugh and walked away.

  “He calls me thief.” Hitler’s face darkened. “Schwein. He is thief! Banker. Steals from working people.”

  “I have an idea,” Leila said. “My uncle Fritzie is playing piano tonight for a party at the opera house. Let’s go—you, Corey, and me. Maybe Roller will be there.”

  Corey smiled. Leave it to Leila.

  “Thank you,” Hitler said. “But I will go to the house of Roller by myself . . . someday.”

  “Alone?” Leila said. “Just you and this world-famous guy? In his house? I wouldn’t be brave enough to do that. I’d just freeze up! Think how much easier it is to meet people around a piano. Singing. Telling jokes. Maybe Fritzie can play your favorite song. You can sing! Herr Roller will be relaxed. He’ll love you.”

  “Ach, I have bad voice . . . very bad.” Hitler nodded toward a young guy who was dressed in an expensive-looking black suit with a cape. “Guten Abend! Möchten Sie ein Kunstwerk kaufen?”

  The man eyed Hitler’s postcards carefully, looked at Hitler, and burst out hysterically laughing. “Das ist keine Kunst!”

  “He asked the guy if he wanted to buy art,” Leila whispered to Corey. “And the guy said, ‘That is not art.’”

  “Ouch,” Corey said. “That’s harsh. I don’t know, sir. It’s so tough to sell art on the street. You need to be in a place where people appreciate your talents.”

  As the man walked away, Hitler’s shoulders sagged.

  “Six o’clock?” Leila said. “In front of the opera house?”

  “I will think about it,” Hitler said with a sigh.

  24

  “What am I going to do with this?” Fritzie said, eyeing Hitler’s landscape painting.

  “It’s nice, right?” Leila said. They were standing outside the Vienna Court Opera House. The sun was setting and the air had a chill. Fritzie was wearing a moth-eaten cloth coat and worn-out shoes.

  “If you were Alfred Roller and you saw this,” Corey said, “wouldn’t you want to hire the artist?”

  Fritzie glanced at it closely. “That man . . . he painted this? It is beautiful. In the old Viennese style but . . . lovely.”

  “His postcards suck,” Corey said.

  “Entschuldig?” Fritzie said.

  “So, uh, here’s the plan,” Leila quickly interjected. “When Hitler gets here, we’re going to make sure he meets Roller. I’m thinking you musicians will be the star attraction. At some point you’ll see Hitler. Treat him like he’s a VIP. That will mean something. That will make everyone think he’s something special.”

  “And we are doing this because—?” Fritzie said.

  “Because your friend almost killed him,” Corey said. “We owe him.”

  “This is his dream, to apprentice for Roller,” Leila added. “So we’ll make sure he and Roller meet. Then we’ll show him this painting. Is there someplace backstage we can keep it?”

  “We are not using the opera stage,” Fritzie said. “But we have a room. A place where the performers gather before and after.”

  “Like a green room,” Leila said.

  “Can w
e bring Hitler and Roller there?” Corey asked.

  Fritzie nodded. “It is tradition after the performance for honored guests to come to this room and greet performers. So yes. We will display this painting, if you like.” He tucked the painting under his arm and began climbing the stairs. “Now we must go. I must not be late for Lotte. If I am late, she will tell me to perform in these clothes!”

  “Um, you didn’t bring any other clothes,” Leila said.

  Fritzie turned. “Ja. Lotte runs costume shop. They have formal clothing. All sizes. For the singers. Lotte knows musicians are poor. So she lends us very beautiful suits.”

  “All for one and one for all,” Corey said.

  “Come. They will let you in as my guests,” Fritzie said. “If I am late for Lotte, I will blame you.”

  With a giggle, he flew up the stairs, painting in hand.

  Hitler looked as out of place as a toad in an eagle’s nest.

  Leila cringed. Never in her life would she have dreamed she’d want to be Adolf Hitler’s personal shopper. But his shirt collar was yellowing and lopsided, the designs on his tie looked suspiciously like food stains, and his shapeless pants were two inches short, exposing ripped white socks.

  At the posh party in the rotunda of the Vienna Court Opera House, this would not do.

  Leila eyed Roller. Fritzie had pointed him out when they’d walked in, a powerfully built man with a thick black beard and close-cropped hair. Fortunately, his back was turned. He was standing next to a gleaming, seven-foot grand piano. A crowd of adoring fans had gathered around him, looking up with eager smiles. But Roller’s eyes were dark and impatient, darting restlessly toward a buffet table.

  Hitler shuffled across the room, looking stooped and scared.

  “Did you tell him it was a Halloween party?” Corey whispered to Leila. “Roller’s going to roll with laughter.”

  Leila thought for a moment. “Remember what Fritzie looked like when he walked in?”

  “He didn’t look like that,” Corey said.

  “Yeah, but he was in casual clothes,” Leila replied. “The woman who runs the costume shop, Lotte, was going to lend the musicians nice clothes. I say we bring Hitler back to the green room. Ask Fritzie to talk to Lotte. Maybe she’ll take care of a poor artist.”