The Chaos Loop

by Peter Lerangis

  20

  Corey didn’t know he could move so fast.

  And after he did, he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to do it again.

  He landed facedown on the homeless guy, his stomach directly over the man’s face. He felt the branch strike him across the back, exactly where the guy’s head would have been.

  For a moment, Corey’s body took the shock of the blow. Then the pain spread like an explosion from head to toe. “Yeeeeoowwww!” Corey screamed, rolling onto the snow.

  Leila and Black Hair were all over Otto now, wrestling him to the ground. He seemed just as shocked at his own actions as Corey was.

  “Dummkopf! Barbar! Unmensch!” Black Hair screamed, pulling on Otto’s curly red hair.

  Otto’s eyes welled up. He looked confused and angry and sorry, all at the same time. As if he’d just awoken from a dream. He pleaded with Black Hair in German.

  “Corey, are you okay?” Leila shouted, running toward him.

  Corey stood. He couldn’t straighten out. He could barely open his eyes. “It’s only a flesh wound.”

  The homeless guy leaped to his feet, linking a supportive arm into Corey’s. “Danke,” he said. “Du hast mein Leben gerettet.”

  “You’re . . . welcome . . . I think . . .” Corey replied through gritted teeth.

  But the homeless man was wasting no time near Otto. Eyeing his attacker fearfully, he scampered away. In a moment he disappeared along the shadows of the bridge. Otto leaped up. “Ich weiß nicht was passiert ist,” he said, then bolted after the man. “Moment mal! Es tut mir leid. Es tut mir leid!”

  “He’s trying to apologize,” Leila explained.

  “Ach . . .” With an exasperated shake of the head, the black-haired guy dismissively waved toward his friend.

  “You saved that homeless man’s life, Corey,” Leila said. “That’s what he said to you.”

  “Maybe . . . he can bring me some ice cream . . .” Corey rasped. “That always helps extreme pain.”

  “Please, I am sorry,” the man with the black hair piped up. “Is that the right word auf Englisch, ‘sorry’?”

  “Yes,” Leila said. “But it wasn’t your fault.”

  “It was,” he replied. “I am sorry for Otto. He is very gentle man, inside. He is watercolor painter at Academy. Is hard to believe. But when drunk? He is . . . what is word? Monster. He has with many people make fight. So I take him home. For sleep. We walk and we talk along die Donau . . . Danube. Then we see you. Otto is thinking ihre Kleidung . . . clothing . . . is . . . what is the word auf Englisch? . . . ungewöhnlich?”

  “Unusual. You think our clothing is unusual?” Leila burst out laughing. “From nineteen thirty-nine? You would love Corey’s sneakers.”

  “Wie bitte? Nineteen thirty-nine?” the man said.

  “Never mind,” Leila replied. “You were saying?”

  “Ah, yes. We are walking, and Otto says he wants to marry you. He pulls me to meet you. You see? If he does not pull me, we do not see sleeping man. So I apologize.”

  “I don’t think it’s good to be friends with someone who attacks random guys for no reason,” Corey said.

  “Or says he wants to marry total strangers,” Leila added. “He’s kind of a pig.”

  “Yes, you are right.” The man shook his head. “Otto knows this man by the bridge. Does not like him. This man . . . he sells art on streets. Art painted by famous artists. For high money. But is not really the artist work.”

  “Wait. The homeless guy sells bootleg art?” Corey said.

  “Boot leg? No, is mostly landscape . . . still life. You? You are artist too? Visiting from America?”

  “Visitors, yes,” Leila said. “I’m Leila.”

  “I’m Corey.” As Corey stuck out his hand, he winced. Every movement hurt.

  The man smiled sympathetically as he shook Corey’s hand. “You are in pain.”

  “Only when I breathe,” Corey said through a grimace.

  “I will take you to Academy hospital,” the man said.

  Leila gave Corey a nervous glance. “We . . . don’t really have a lot of money.”

  “Like, zero,” Corey said. “But I appreciate it. We’re actually here looking for someone? Maybe you can help?”

  “Of course I will help,” he said. “But please to not worry with hospital. Tomorrow your pain will be very, very bad. I—my family—will pay.”

  “What? Really?” Leila said. “Who are you?”

  “Ach, so sorry!” The man blushed, holding out his hand. “I am Fritzie. Fritzie Scharfstein.”

  Leila, who was standing, fell flat down onto her rear end. “Oh . . . dear . . . lord . . . I feel weak.”

  Fritzie smiled curiously. “Perhaps you need to go to the hospital, too.”

  The next morning Corey awoke at 9:00. He was instantly aware that his eyelids were the only part of his body that didn’t feel like it was in a meat grinder.

  “Owwww!” he groaned.

  “Good morning to you, too.” Leila was standing next to his bed, clutching a bouquet of flowers. “These smell nice.”

  “I can’t tell,” Corey replied. “My nose hurts.”

  “He’s such a nice guy,” Leila said. “So charming.”

  “Who?” Corey asked.

  “My great-grandfather Fritzie. He’s just like Opa.” Leila unwrapped the flowers and put them in a glass vase by a window. They were in a long room with a high ceiling and a wood floor. The walls were lined with beds. Next to Corey was a sleeping man with his leg in traction. A moaning young woman with greenish skin lay next to him, and a man with a patched eye was patiently reading a book in the bed near her. Official-looking men and women in bad-fitting clothes bustled about from bed to bed, giving advice and answering questions. There wasn’t an IV drip or a single beeping gauge anywhere to be seen. “Did anybody actually get better in places like this?” Corey groaned.

  “Fritzie let me stay in the apartment of a friend who was traveling,” Leila said. “We walked here together. On the way we passed a flower shop that wasn’t even open. He knocked on the door and got someone to put together this bouquet. When he got here, he convinced the staff that you and I were his visiting younger siblings. Isn’t that sweet?”

  “You and I don’t look anything alike,” Corey said.

  “But he and I do,” Leila said, “even though the hair is different. Security in nineteen oh eight isn’t like it is today. The doctor says you just have a very bad bruise. No broken bones. It’s going to take a while. He’s going to let you out today with some kind of back brace. We’re having lunch with Fritzie at a fancy café. You got lucky.”

  “I don’t feel lucky. I think I need an MRI. But I guess I’ll have to wait a century.”

  From down the hall, a nurse summoned Leila. “Excuse me,” Leila said.

  As she jogged away, Corey piled pillows behind his back and sat up. The view outside the window made the pain go away a little.

  Last night’s fog had cleared, and the hospital overlooked a sun-drenched square. The sound of horse hooves punctuated a constant whoosh of falling water from an exuberant fountain. The buildings shone, whitewashed and sparkling clean. Just about every structure was intricately ornamented. Winged babies peeked out from roofs, and entire walls were made of stones carved with deeply shadowed curlicues. People on foot clogged the roads, not a stoplight in sight. An occasional black car bounced clumsily by, swerving to avoid contact with pedestrians. A steady stream of horse-drawn carriages moved in either direction. No one seemed to be in too much of a hurry, save for an occasional bearded man in a three-piece suit, checking a pocket watch.

  “Corey?” Leila said. “We have a visitor.”

  With a smile, she gestured behind her. A skinny young guy, carrying a shoulder bag and clothed in a shabby suit several sizes too big, shuffled into the room. He was wearing a beret, which he removed as he got close to the bed. “Guten Morgen,” he said.

  Corey smiled. It was the homeless guy from the nig
ht before.

  “I know what that means,” Corey replied. “Good morning to you.”

  His eyes were blue, his face gaunt. His hair looked like it could use a shampoo and maybe some insect repellent. He smiled brightly at Corey and shifted his shoulder bag. “I bring gift,” he said softly. “For saving my life.”

  Corey smiled. Last night, under the bridge, this guy had seemed smaller and meeker. Cleaned up, he looked more confident. There was something weirdly familiar about his voice, but by now most German-accented English sounded alike to Corey.

  “How did you find us?” Leila asked.

  “I am poor,” he said. “I live in the street. I see where everyone goes.” With a proud flourish, he took a framed painting from his bag. It was pretty much the scene outside the hospital window—a bright city square with the Alps rising majestically in the background. The details were accurate, the colors vibrant.

  “That’s really good!” Leila said. “Thank you.”

  “Vienna is great perspiration!” the man said. “Great schools. Many great artists and beautiful mountains! The Ring Road, the Opera House, the Parliament!”

  “Inspiration,” Corey corrected him. He reached for the painting, wondering what in the world he and Leila were going to do with this.

  The man smiled. “I sell paintings. Postcards. But so many artists here! So many talent! Many people see my art, they make joking. They say I am not good.”

  “You are good,” Corey said. “You have to keep trying.”

  “Danke,” the man said, bowing his head modestly. “I try a long time. But now I do not have mark for a home. I lose . . . Hoffnung.”

  “Hope,” Leila translated.

  “Ja,” the man said. “Yesterday I am afraid it is all fertig. Over for me. I did not expect such kindness from a savior like you!”

  “That is so sweet,” Leila said. “Sorry it’s been hard for you. But Corey’s right. You’re talented.”

  “You will see,” the man said. “I will be great artist some day. This painting will be worth many money. Will make you rich. Rich like the Juden. I will move to Alps and paint until I am old man. You like?”

  Corey tried to answer, but no words came. He was staring at the signature at the bottom of the painting. “This is your name?”

  The man’s brow furrowed. “Ja.”

  As Leila came closer, Corey tilted the painting so she could see the writing.

  A. HITLER

  21

  “We saved his life,” Corey said in disbelief, limping down the sidewalk from the hospital.

  “Corey . . .” Leila said.

  “We had a chance to get him in nineteen thirty-nine—when he’d already done damage to the world!” Corey thundered. “And now? Now, when all I have to do is sit back and let someone else club him over the head, way before Der Creepo has even dreamed of politics, what do I do? I save his life and kill my back instead!”

  “You didn’t know,” Leila reminded him.

  “I should have known,” Corey said. “The eyes. That voice. Did you hear what he said about the Juden?”

  “He looks a lot different without the paintbrush mustache.”

  Corey whirled around to her. His back brace took some of the pain away, but his anger took away the rest. “This guy will grow up to order mass murder. Already you can see it. The Juden have all the money, that’s what he said. Now he’s all boo-hoo-I’m-so-depressed. But soon it will be I-am-invincible! And one of those people he’ll murder will be Fritzie. We saved Hitler’s life and killed your great-grandfather!”

  “Look, I know you’re mad at yourself and your back hurts, but calm down.” Leila’s face was growing red. Her eyes teared up, and when she spoke her jaw trembled. “I could get mad at you, too, Corey. You were the one who wanted to save Maria. If we’d just left, the bomb would have gone off. But you’re human. I know that. I’m human, too. And I just met my great-grandfather. Fritzie’s not just a story now. He’s not just some tragic figure the family talks about. He’s flesh and blood. Alive and young and talented. He’s full of optimism and I know he’s going to die in the worst way. Look, we’re still here, and we’re not done. We’ve been given another chance to finish the job. So I will not let you beat yourself up about what happened.”

  “Sorry,” Corey said, starting to walk again. “You’re right. I’m cranky. Everything hurts.”

  He sat at the edge of the fountain. It was past rush hour but not lunchtime yet, and the square was pretty empty. A small crowd had gathered at the entrance to one of the buildings. Their backs were to Corey and Leila as they stared at a sign advertising “Kunstschau Wien 1908,” with a huge abstract image that looked like a man and woman kissing.

  Looking right and left, Corey pulled the phone from his pocket. There was very little charge left. Quickly he navigated to the Hitler biography he had downloaded. “Okay, look, we need to learn about this guy. This bio has a lot about his time here. In nineteen oh eight, Vienna was like the center of the world for culture. Famous artists, musicians, architects, thinkers, they flocked here. Here—there’s even an image of that huge painting those people are looking at. It’s called The Kiss, by a guy named Klimt. He’s part of this movement called Vienna Secession. Their art was abstract and modern, more like design and less like realism. It was controversial and shocking. But I don’t know what they were seceding from.” He gave Leila a look. “Seceding means withdrawing, right?”

  “Seceding from the fancy old style, I guess,” Leila said. “Look around. The architecture is so old-world classical. It’s like one big grandparents’ fantasy village.”

  “All kinds of other new things were being discovered here,” Corey said. “Freud lived in Vienna. He put people on the couch for the first time. Called it the talking cure and made all kinds of breakthroughs in mental health.”

  “Maybe we should send Hitler to him,” Leila suggested.

  “Like you said, he’s not Hitler Hitler yet,” Corey said, scrolling through the bio. “In nineteen oh eight he’s just one of the many starving artists here in Vienna.”

  “A starving artist who hates Jews.”

  “Sometimes he’s living in homeless shelters, sometimes on the streets. Even though there are all these rich people going to galleries and concerts, there’s a lot of poverty here. The suicide rate is really high.”

  Leila looked around. “It just seems so . . . prosperous, and peaceful.”

  “Okay, check this out.” Corey began reading aloud. “‘The young Adolf came to Vienna with a letter of introduction to a graphic artist and stage designer, the famously loud and egotistical Alfred Roller. At the time Roller was the head designer of the Vienna Court Opera, one of the most prestigious positions in the cultural world. The letter was designed to gain Hitler an apprenticeship, in the hopes he would develop his skills and eventually become a successful artist. But the young Hitler could not bring himself to meet Roller. Three times he went to the studio, vowing to knock on the door. In his autobiography, Hitler confesses that on his third and last visit, his knuckles were poised to strike, yet he turned away and later burned the letter, never to return. In nineteen oh nine he applied to the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts. But now he was competing with future world-class artists, relying only on his own modest merits. He was rejected. Later in life Hitler claimed that this was the best thing to happen to him; it pushed him into politics.’”

  Leila stared at the screen. “So . . . if he had apprenticed with that guy, Roller . . .”

  Corey nodded. “The history of the world would have been so different.”

  “Wow . . . because of a few inches between a knuckle and a door,” Leila said. “I wonder if he’s done it yet?”

  “Done what?”

  “Burned the letter! Maybe he hasn’t gone to Roller’s place for the third time. Or even the first or second.”

  Pocketing his phone, Corey jumped off the fountain ledge. As his feet hit the pavement, his entire aching body screamed in revolt. “Owwww
! Remind me never to do that again. I feel like I’m a hundred and three.”

  “Easy, Grandpa,” Leila said. “Where are we going?”

  “To change the world,” he said. “First we meet Fritzie at the café. And then we ask him to take us to Adolf Hitler.”

  22

  Café Central was on a corner where two narrow streets met. One of them was called Herrengasse, which sounded to Corey like the word for an aquatic bird fart. Even before lunch hour, the sidewalk seats were nearly full, despite the chill in the air. People sipped espresso and ate pastries and little cubed sandwiches. They spoke in German, French, English, and languages Corey couldn’t recognize. The café had tall, vaulted windows. Through them Corey could see a cozy space of polished dark wood walls and marble tables. The sound of a tinkling piano spilled onto the sidewalk. As they entered, the smell of coffee and sweets made Corey drool.

  “I’m nervous,” Leila said, clutching Corey’s arm.

  “Hi, nervous. I’m hungry,” Corey replied.

  “We’re standing here, about to meet Fritzie, and all I want to do is cry,” Leila said, “because I know his future. He’s such a nice man. He’s kind and talented and chill and a little goofy. He’s going to be all smiley and confident, and all I want to do is tell him to escape, go to America now, do something. But if I say that, he’ll think I’m a lunatic. And if I don’t . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “If you don’t, what?” Corey said.

  “I’m the one who’s supposed to be positive. Glass half full. But how can I face him? How can I smile and tell jokes, knowing what happened to him?” Leila exhaled. “How do you even think straight when you’re doing this?”

  Corey put his arm around her. “Hey, it didn’t happen yet. It’s nineteen oh eight. I can do this.”

  “We,” Leila reminded him.

  “We,” Corey repeated. “We’re going to get Hitler to the big-shot designer guy at the opera. And then I’m going to change the course of history, with no violence.”

  “First I have to cheer you up, then you do the same for me. This is hard.”