Chapter thirteen: In the house of my brother III--- 1907
Chapter thirteen:
In the house of my brother III--- 1907
Life was normal.
Life carried a sense of normalcy I hadn't felt since the years before Father's death. In the weeks leading up to the party, Mother and I found ourselves with ample free time, as Gustav busied himself with work and the intricate details of planning his grand event.
Mother and I made the most of our newfound leisure. On the following Tuesday, we decided to take Gustav's boat out on the river. Neither of us had the faintest idea how to manage such a vessel, so we enlisted one of Gustav's staff to assist us on our little excursion.
The ride was peaceful, marked by an almost sacred silence. Mother and I sat near the bow, observing the trees and the gentle flow of water as we passed. Fishermen cast their lines from the banks, bridges arched gracefully over the river, and even a peculiar house perched atop the water caught our eye. The tranquility of the journey was a balm, but all too soon, we had to make our return.
On the return journey, I came to understand why Gustav rarely ventured out on the boat. The wind turned against us, stretching the trip to nearly four times its original length. Having already absorbed the scenery, the crawl back to the dock became an exercise in patience.
Yet, as we neared the dock, we were gifted with a sight that made the tedious return worthwhile. The setting sun cast its golden hues over the water, shifting gracefully to orange and then deepening into the approaching twilight. It was a vision of fleeting beauty, one that etched itself into my memory.
That Thursday, I convinced Mother to join me on a modest hike—a four-mile round trip along the river's opposite shore. It was meant to be a simple outing, a way to pass the time and take in the natural beauty of our surroundings.
We were just past the halfway point when Mother began to cry, the sound breaking the quiet rhythm of our steps.
Alarmed, I stopped in my tracks, turning to face her. "What's wrong?" I asked, the words tumbling out in a rush.
I assumed the worst—a twisted ankle, a cut from a stray branch—but her tears told a different story altogether.
She was simply crying.
After a moment of struggling to steady herself, she looked at me, tears streaming down her face. "Do you remember the nickname I used to call you and your brother when you were little?"
I managed a small smile. "Yeah, I remember. You called us your sunshine's, after that song you used to sing."
After a pause, Mother spoke again, her voice trembling. "I'm sorry for crying, Adolf. It's just… it's hard to see you so grown now.
"It feels like it's all happened in the blink of an eye."
I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around her, speaking softly. "I'll always be here for you, Mom. I love you—no matter what."
After some time spent consoling her, we began the quiet walk back home, the earlier heaviness lingering in the air.
These may not seem like the most exciting of recollections, but they were among the most meaningful to me. I chose to share them over other outings—like our trip downtown or the circus—because these moments of quiet connection stayed with me long after they had passed.
In those simple activities, we found ways to pass the time in our home away from home. Yet we always made it a point to gather for lunch and dinner with Gustav whenever his schedule allowed. Those meals, shared as a family, carried a warmth and sense of belonging that was rare but cherished.
Despite the time we spent together, I couldn't find the right opportunity to approach Gustav for the help I so desperately needed. My plan to visit the Congo weighed heavily on my mind.
As a boy, I had read harrowing accounts in old newspapers of King Leopold's atrocities against the native tribes of the Congo. Starvation, burning villages, kidnappings, mutilations—it was a catalog of horrors etched deeply into my memory.
These atrocities would form the centerpiece of my application to the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts. My intent was to capture the inhumanity of the Belgian regime on canvas, a visceral portrayal of suffering and despair.
To me, it was a perfect concept. The artwork would be raw, emotional, and haunting in its inhumanity. It would speak to the viewer on a deeper level, a story told in strokes of paint that transcended mere technical skill.
The only obstacle was Mother, who would undoubtedly oppose the idea. The mere thought of me traveling to Africa—let alone to the Congo, even in its more developed regions—would be anathema to her.
But her disapproval would mean little if I could win Gustav over. He had the resources, the connections, and the influence to arrange a safe passage for me.
I knew I needed to approach Gustav carefully. It had to be the right moment, ideally during a quiet sit-down. Unfortunately, such an opportunity never presented itself in the days following my arrival. This wasn't a matter I could raise casually—it required precision.
The day before the party, I posed an irritable question to Gustav. "Do I really need a suit? Why can't I just wear my dress shirt and trousers? Other people are bound to do the same."
I knew Gustav's penchant for the finer details, particularly when it came to clothing. But for me, such things held no appeal—so long as I didn't look foolish, I couldn't be bothered.
"You need to look presentable, Adolf. You know as well as I do—first impressions are the most important," Gustav said evenly. "You're my brother, for God's sake."
"Yes, yes, let's get this over with," I muttered, exasperated. "We're next in line anyway. What am I getting—a simple two-piece?"
Gustav tossed a small packet from the tailor's desk into my hands. "I'm not deciding for you. Look through it and make your choice."
I flipped through the packet, skimming past the more eccentric options until I reached the formal section: two-piece suits, three-piece suits, and even a plain button-down. Knowing Gustav's preference for elaborate ensembles, I felt a twinge of spite and decided on the simplest option—a button-down.
I deliberately pointed to the button-down, half-expecting Gustav to object. Instead, he nodded and remarked, "The Mandarin? Nice choice."
Perplexed, I couldn't help but ask, "What in gods name is a Mandarin? This is a button-down, not some Chinese outfit."
Normally, I wouldn't have been bothered by Gustav's use of an odd term. But in recent weeks, he'd developed a habit of peppering his speech with obscure words—likely picked up from his reading or work. By this point, however, my patience had worn thin.
"My mistake; I must have confused it with something else," Gustav said, his voice tinged with sarcasm.
Ignoring his quip, I stood aside and waited for the man ahead of us to finish his measurements. At last, it was my turn.
"I'll take a button-down in black, custom-made. He's paying," I said, gesturing toward Gustav with a smirk.
"Right away, sir. This way, please," the tailor replied courteously.
As I stepped into the back room, my eyes fell on the array of tools and fabrics neatly arranged within. A sigh escaped me—I knew this was going to be a long, long day.
The things I do for family.