Kunst und Krieg ( Written by Jeffrey Araujo)

As dawn approached and the sun began to shine over the streets of Vienna, I forced myself out of my satin sheets. There was no use in trying to sleep; it was impossible. I hadn’t slept soundly for well over a week, my dreams constantly shifting into guilt-driven nightmares.

I made my way towards the kitchen to pour myself a cup of coffee. I don’t ever recall drinking coffee when I was younger. Even into my fifties I had never needed the extra energy, now it was a necessity. Coffee was responsible for keeping me functioning these days. The discontent over losing the war was bearable, but the news that followed was more than I could take. I had no idea of the atrocities my country was supporting. Millions of people were said to be killed in the Nazi death camps. When I first heard of it, I could not believe my ears. Even through the anti-semetic glasses that many Austrians seem to wear, one could not help but feel terrible for what was done. Adolf Hitler, once a hero and an inspiration to all, instantly became national disgrace and villain. These recent circumstances changed what was once an interesting story into an unbearable burden. Could all of this; the wars, the deaths, the genocide, have been prevented? As much as that thought scared me, I, and I alone, knew that it could very well be true.

The weather outside was very similar to that day in 1908. The skies looked cold and dreary; the wind moaned as it brushed through the trees. With a creative mix of hard work and luck I had managed to fall into an important post at the academy of fine arts in Vienna. There were many different facets to the job, one of which was to determine who was deserving of admission. A new year was mere weeks away and I had read most of the applications and viewed the majority of the artwork; only a few more potential artists were left to meet.

That day I had only one person to meet. Unlike most of the applicants, some of whom were older than me, he was young, only nineteen. He had been living in Vienna for three years and seemed like an interesting character; I was very eager to meet him in person.

Not long after, I heard a knock at the door. As I opened it I was surprised by what stood on the other side. The man looked nothing like I had expected. He was tall and skinny and reeked of fish. He looked as if he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in days. His hair had been slicked back; so as to hide the fact he probably hadn’t had a shower in some time. His clothing was tattered and in some places ripped. I couldn’t fathom that through all of this, he managed to look genuinely happy.
“Good morning sir,” he said, smiling from ear to ear. I invited him to take a seat in the living room.
“Tell me a little bit about yourself.” I was more focused on his stench than his answer. His father was abusive and had beaten him and his mother multiple times. Though he loved his mother, he had decided to leave his small town with a close friend and pursue his dreams in the city. “Two years ago I applied to this same school,” He said, grinning. “looking back now, I realize I wasn’t ready. Since then I have improved by leaps and bounds and now I know I am prepared for this challenge.” He put his hand into his tattered pocket and pulled out several folded pieces of paper and handed them to me. “Just take a look; I know you’ll be impressed.”
His work was truly remarkable. He paid an amazing attention to detail for such a young man. What made it all the more incredible was that it was done without the everyday tools that many of the other applicants were privileged enough to have. He was definitely on par with others who were admitted, if not a notch above. Only one question remained.
“How are you planning on paying for our services?” I asked. At this moment the young man began to tense up, his eyes directed at the mahogany floor.
“All I need is a chance, sir.” He said, trying not to show emotion. “I’m working long hours at the steel factory and eventually I will be able to pay you. That is a promise.” A great wave of sadness rushed over me. He truly was a talented artist but I knew there was nothing I could do for the young man.
“You are a great talent, there is no denying it.” I said “I wish I could help you, but this school, just like everything else, is a business.”
“I understand,” said the young man, his eyes swelling with tears.
“I hope this time next year you will come up with the funds to join us here at the academy.” I said, as the man stood up to shake my hand. “You are truly an amazing artist. I am sure this is not the last we will hear of Adolf Hitler.” With that he left, never to be seen again.
Every second I shut my eyes, it is him I see. If only I had given him a chance, perhaps the world would be different; perhaps I would get some sleep.