Strange Attractors

Vienna, Austria- 1908

“Please, Herr Feuerbach. Take just one more look at my portfolio. I can assure you- “

“No. Young man, The Academy of Fine Arts is for artists capable of creating fine art. This is the second and final time I will tell you this so listen carefully. Your application has again been rejected and you will not attend our institution- not now, not ever. Please do as I told you previously and apply to the School of Architecture, or join the military, or learn a useful trade better suited to someone of your caliber. Leave fine art to those with real talent, eh? Now get out of my office and close the door behind you.”

Dejectedly, the young man did as he was told and, with his leather-bound portfolio tucked under one arm, he hurriedly walked the length of the long pillar-lined hall toward the front entrance of the Academy. He counted the echoing thuds of his footfalls on the shiny marble floor in an effort to suppress the hot angry tears threatening to spill onto the lapel of his ill-fitting suit jacket. Opening the door to the bright sunshine, he was relieved to have a reason to keep his head low. He ran down the steps of the massive building and turned right toward the men’s dormitory where he lived, pausing briefly to look back at the Academy and, feeling the heat of impending tears returning, he turned away. He angrily tossed his leather portfolio and its useless contents into a trash barrel in front of a cobbler’s shop.

Later that evening, after stewing over his plight and choking down whatever gruel the dormitory’s cooks had concocted for supper, he went for a walk to look for his friend and business partner, Reinhold. He found him having a smoke and reading a newspaper at a small table outside a café they frequented when business was good. Without looking up from his paper, Reinhold said, “I put your portfolio in a safe place. Seems some idiot discarded it a trash barrel outside Herr Weiss’ shop.”

“Oh, I’m no idiot, Reinhold. I can tell you who is though. That bastard Feuerbach is an idiot of such epic proportions, I have no idea how he’s ascended to the role of administrator in an academy of any kind. He isn’t qualified to shine my shoes. Actually, if you want the truth? Nobody in all of Austria would know a piece of fine art from a piss pot if they each fell from a window and hit them on the head. I’m obviously severely overqualified for a shack as squalid as that shitty academy.”

Still looking at his newspaper, Reinhold said, “You’re probably right. Speaking of idiots with visions of grandeur, have you seen this?” He held the paper up so his friend could see the drawing of a massive ship. “They’re constructing this thing in Belfast, and it will carry some 2,000 aristocratic assholes across the pond to New York in four years or so. They claim it will be ‘unsinkable.’” Reinhold rolled his eyes and put the paper down. He threw the stub of his smoke on the ground and looked his friend in the eye. “When you’re ready to unburden yourself of that enormous chip on your shoulder, I’ve lined up some work for us. It seems the widow, Frau Hess needs a garden fence built.”

“Great. Can’t wait. I’ll get started on some reinforced pantlegs. Her wretched pack of terriers must have spilled a full pint of blood from my ankles when we were painting her gazebo. When do we start?”

“Tomorrow, first thing. Probably best we get some sleep. You want this paper?”

“Sure. See you in the morning.” And they parted ways for the night, both dreading the next day’s task.

In his bunk back at the dormitory, the young man perused the paper and paused at the sketch of the massive ocean liner. “New York might not be so bad. Perhaps, between my savings and the remainder of my father’s estate, I could convincingly pose as an ‘aristocratic asshole’ and sell some of my art in America. An intriguing thought- perhaps they’ll know fine art when they see it.” And before falling asleep, he carefully tore out the sketch, placing it gently between the pages of a weathered copy of “On the Origin of Species,” by Charles Darwin.

Southampton, England- April 10, 1912

In a perfectly tailored suit this time, the young man stood with his steamer trunk and worn leather art portfolio amid throngs of well-dressed and perfectly coiffed men and women in line to gain access to the gangway of the RMS Titanic. The excitement was palpable as people alternated between staring in wonder at the enormous vessel and bubbling exuberantly about the lavish amenities they would enjoy on their voyage. Coming from Vienna and speaking heavily accented English, he was something of a curiosity to those he met. He had endured several days of tediously slow travel on cramped trains before boarding a ferry that would carry him across the English Channel. These days were spent furiously studying the English language and when a stranger asked about his occupation, he genuinely beamed as he flawlessly enunciated, “I am an artist.”

The line inched slowly, but steadily toward the top of the gangway and at last it was his turn to show his boarding pass. Having severely depleted his savings by splurging on first-class accommodations, the young man was met at the top by the captain of the ship, Edward John Smith. Squaring his shoulders, he reached into his breast pocket to retrieve his pass and, handing it over with his left hand, he used his right to shake hands with Captain Smith. Smiling, he recited the other phrase he had so diligently rehearsed on his journey to England. “I am Adolf Hitler, Captain. It is a pleasure to meet you.” A porter took his steamer trunk while a steward ushered him to his cabin. For the first time in nearly four years, the tall, slender, mustachioed man with heavy-lidded dark brown eyes felt an urge to weep, though this time it was with joy.

He settled into his quarters, reveling in the attention to detail appointed to the small space. Luxurious bedding covered a down-filled mattress and there were not two, but FOUR pillows piled at the head of the oversized bed. There was a chest of drawers in a polished armoire with a spotless mirror above it and for the first time in days, he caught sight of his reflection. “Dapper enough, yes. Could do with some meat on my cheeks.” He practiced the unnaturally affable smile he was sure would woo prospective art buyers and recited, “I am an artist. It is a pleasure to meet you.” He had just begun emptying his clothes into the chest of drawers when he was startled by the huge bellow of the great ship’s foghorn announcing their departure. He ran out of his room and, regaining his composure upon encountering his “fellow aristocrats,” began to saunter more casually to the upper deck to watch the dingy shores of Southampton get smaller as they left the channel. Entranced by the motion of the ship and overwhelmed by the overall enormity of the leap he was taking, it took a moment for him to notice the other man at the railing whose eyes were fixed not on the receding shoreline, but on him. Hoping he hadn’t appeared foolish previously, young Adolf gave the dark-haired gentleman a polite nod of acknowledgement. The stranger, a young man of medium height and build with sparkling dark brown eyes smiled broadly in return and began to close the distance between them. Surprised to feel his cheeks flush at the young man’s advancement, Adolf froze briefly before awkwardly turning away and rushing to the door that would take him to the labyrinthine hallways and, eventually, to the safety and solitude of his cabin.

“What on earth just happened?” He pondered as he closed the door to his room. He sprawled on his bed and replayed the encounter again and again, clearly recalling the dazzling smile and sparkling eyes of the other young man, his own flustered panic, and the look of confusion he glimpsed on the man’s face as he retreated. Knowing he had made a fool of himself, he hoped he could avoid running into the man again for the duration of the journey, yet there was also a twinge of… what? Excitement? Anticipation? There was something that also made him hope maybe he would see him again. Eventually, exhaustion and the gentle rocking of the vessel took hold and he drifted deep into a much-needed slumber.

He awoke with a start and, disoriented at first, looked around himself to get his bearings. “Ah yes. The ship. I’m on the ship. Okay.” Having slept in his clothes, he reached into his pocket for his watch and saw that it was just after six o’clock in the morning. His stomach grumbled when he stood up and he realized he’d missed supper last night. He was famished. He poured some water into the basin and set about making himself presentable before heading to the dining room for breakfast.

He arrived to find the dining room bustling with activity as passengers mingled and ate while waitstaff rushed to and fro, taking orders and delivering steaming platters of food. It smelled delicious and his mouth watered as he looked around for an empty table to sit at. He spotted one in a corner and began walking confidently toward it as if it were his table and he was completely unsurprised to find it vacant as a result. He sat in one of the two seats and began perusing the menu. He felt a presence approach and, assuming it was a waiter coming to take his order, he didn’t bother looking up from the menu when he said, “Tea and toast with jam to start, please.”

“Well, I’ve not been granted access to the kitchen just yet, but I’m sure someone would be happy to oblige eventually.”

Startled, he shot a look a look up from the menu to see that he had just given his order to none other than the gentleman from the upper deck the day before. He felt his indignation rising but suppressed it and gritted his teeth for a moment before he curtly said, “My apologies.”

“None necessary,” then, motioning toward the empty seat across the table, “Is this seat spoken for?”

“No. You may have it.” He expected the other young man to take the chair with him to another table and was surprised when he pulled it out and sat down in it instead.

“My name is Eli Friedman. I had intended to introduce myself yesterday before you departed so abruptly.”

“I am Adolf Hitler, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Is that a German accent I’m detecting?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. I grew up in Germany, though I’m here by way of Poland. Are you travelling alone?”

“I am.”

In German, Eli said, “Would you be more comfortable speaking German?”

Hearing his native language did serve to relax him slightly and Adolf responded, “That would probably be best. My English needs some work,” and he smiled sheepishly, making eye contact with his new acquaintance for the first time. When Eli held his gaze a second longer than he expected, he felt his face flush again. Just then, a waiter approached to take their orders and Adolf was rescued from the awkwardness of the moment.

When the waiter departed, Eli said, “I am also traveling alone. I’m an investor by force, but a tailor by choice. I’m going to let New York decide which one I’m better at. What is your profession, Adolf?”

Having practiced declaring it so boldly in English, Adolf was disappointed to hear himself almost mumble, “I am an artist,” in his native German.

“An artist, you say?” Eli clarified, leaning in ever so slightly.

“Yes. A painter,” Adolf responded.

“Do you have a portfolio? I’d love to see some of your work.”

Loosening up a little more, Adolf said, “I do. It’s in my cabin, of course, but you could come have a look after breakfast if you want.”

“I’d really like that,” Eli said, smiling.

Their meals were served, and the conversation continued, becoming easier and less stilted as they talked about their childhoods. Eli confided that he was the son of a Jewish banker and was forced to take over the family’s business when his father became ill. His mother was a dressmaker, and he became wistful when he described the time he spent with her watching her meticulously measure and cut fabric before artfully sewing it together to create a garment fit for royalty. “I’m sorry- I’m rambling,” he said when he realized he had been bubbling a bit too long about the way certain fabrics draped better than others.

“No, not at all,” Adolf said. “It’s actually very interesting. I’ve never given these things much thought, really. I suppose it does require a certain eye. Not unlike painting, really. It’s an art, for sure.”

“Yes! You understand it, then,” Eli said with a smile that lit up his entire face, making his dark eyes sparkle even more.

Forgetting his previous trepidation, Adolf instinctively returned the broad smile with one of his own. “Ah! He does smile,” Eli said with a grin. “Shall we go have a look at your portfolio?"

"Oh. Yes, of course. Follow me.” And he led Eli to his cabin.

Once inside, Adolf put the portfolio on his bed and opened it, then stepped back inviting Eli to flip through it. Eli said, “No! I want you to show me. Tell me about each piece as if you were presenting it at a gallery.”

Considering this a moment and, realizing he probably should get better accustomed to the process of “show and tell,” Adolf chose a piece he knew to be a favorite among his friends back in Vienna. It was an oil painting of Frau Hess’ garden, complete with the white fence he and Reinhold had built for her so long ago. He had painstakingly captured every intricate detail of every individual rose petal, every puffy bloom of hollyhock, every stalk of horn-shaped gladiolus, and every tiny bell of lily of the valley. It was an extraordinary work of art and his pride in its beauty swelled as he described the process of first building the fence, then waiting for Frau Hess to turn the space into one of the lavish flower gardens she had become so well-known for before, finally, setting up his easel to paint it.

Adolf was so preoccupied with his telling of the painting’s origins, gazing almost into it as he spoke, that he hadn’t noticed Eli closing the short distance between them and he was startled to feel Eli’s hand land gently on his shoulder. Emerging suddenly from his reverie, he stood up and looked at Eli whose gaze upon him wasn’t unlike his own upon the painting. Without a word, Eli leaned in and kissed Adolf gently on the lips. Startled once again, he briefly recoiled then offered less resistance when Eli followed with another kiss- this one more urgent and more forceful than the first. He returned this kiss with equal fervor, and the two men remained embraced for a moment, a current of unabated passion flowing between them. Adolf pulled away suddenly, saying, “Eli. I’ve never… I’m not… We can’t…” to which Eli responded with yet another even more urgent and forceful kiss.

“Yes. We can,” Eli said.

Adolf had courted women before, though none of those relationships had resulted in anything more intimate than a small kiss on the lips in parting following an awkward stroll along the river or picnic at a park. He had never really given any thought to a long-term romantic partnership with anyone, remaining very much married to his pursuit of fame and fortune as an artist. The idea that he might be homosexual had certainly never been one he’d entertained for more than a fleeting moment and he definitely never divulged such a thing to another person. It was with amazement then, that he realized he was willingly and even eagerly surrendering to everything that was happening between them.

As the next few days flew by, the two young men became inseparable, spending each night together in the cabin of one or the other, dining together, exploring the ship’s nooks and crannies, talking about the past, the present, and what might lay ahead of them in the future. They became the topic of whispers and sidelong glances from some of the other passengers but laughed off brazen accusations of being a couple by declaring that they were business partners. They had concocted a plausible story about their partnership and became adept at playing dumb, claiming they both spoke English very poorly, then offering an innocent bewildered shrug before excusing themselves from the conversation. This became something of a hilarious game between them and a cause for uproarious laughter at the end of the day when they could finally be alone.

On the night of April 14th, as they left the dining room after a delicious meal of filet mignon, a decadent chocolate mousse dessert, and perhaps one too many glasses of a smooth French Merlot, Eli noted how cold the weather was this far north and said he was looking forward to crawling into a nice fluffy bed to get warm. Once nestled together under the warm duvet, he said, “Do you suppose there’s a real future for us in New York, Adolf? I’ve grown so… fond of you over the past several days. I wonder if we could pull it off somehow. Maybe New York is more… liberal or progressive or something?”

“We’ll have to see what New York is when we get there, I guess. But I hope so, Eli. I’m fond of you too. I might even go so far as to say… well, yes, we’ll see what’s ahead of us. For now, let’s sleep off the wine and perhaps tomorrow will be warmer, yes?”

“Yes,” Eli said, and they were both asleep almost instantly.

370 miles southeast of Newfoundland- 11:40pm April, 14th, 1912

“What the hell was that?!” Eli said, after being startled awake by a grinding crashing sound.

“We must have hit something,” Adolf replied, getting up to get dressed.

“Where are you going?” Eli asked, alarmed at the thought of being alone if indeed, they had collided with something.

“I’m going to find out what happened,” Adolf replied simply. “I’ll be right back.” And he opened the door to the cabin to find a number of other bewildered passengers doing the same.

It wasn’t long before word reached the masses that the ship had struck an iceberg and that she was taking on water. Within half an hour, the crew was readying lifeboats for evacuation. Seeing this, Adolf ran as quickly as he could back to his cabin to let Eli know that the ship was likely sinking, and they needed to dress and pack quickly, but he found himself alone when he opened the door. Assuming Eli had gone back to his own cabin to do just that, he quickly packed what he could fit into his small carry-on bag. He went to the armoire to retrieve his portfolio, but it wasn’t there, and he assumed that Eli had thought to grab it before leaving since he knew how important it was to Adolf. Knowing he had wasted too much time already, he ran out the door and into the now frenzied masses in the congested hallway. Their panic was tangible. He tried to squeeze between passengers, frantic to navigate the narrow halls to get to Eli’s cabin, but they were clogged with terrified parents searching for their children, elderly people slowly hobbling toward the exits, even a man in a wheelchair being pushed by his caregiver. He simply couldn’t move any faster. It was taking an eternity to get there, and he still had to climb to the next level. He could only hope to meet Eli on his return trip to find him. He would return, wouldn’t he?

He had no idea how much time had passed by when he reached Eli’s cabin, but it was of little surprise when he arrived to find that it too was empty. There was no sign of Eli, no sign of any of his belongings (including an entire steamer trunk full of clothes), and no sign of his precious portfolio. The ship had already listed significantly, and it was common knowledge by now that she was doomed to sink. He had no choice but to make his way to the lifeboats which were already being loaded and lowered into the sea. He returned to the choked hallways and his passage was once again thwarted by the mass exodus.

At last, he reached the deck and found himself at the end of a very long line of fellow evacuees hoping to be given a seat on one of the few lifeboats. “There’s no way we’ll all fit,” he thought to himself. Women and children were being given priority, but he did see some men being permitted to board and he hoped he would be granted the same courtesy. He craned his neck in every direction hoping to locate and reunite with Eli and he grew increasingly concerned for his lover’s safety when he failed to find his face in the crowds.

Much too soon, it was announced that the lifeboats had been filled and all had been launched. The remaining passengers were going to die. Adolf made his way to the railing where so many had gathered in hopes of catching one last glimpse of a loved one as they parted ways forever. He just needed to see if Eli had made it. He had to know.

He bent over the railing and scanned the few lifeboats that hadn’t yet traveled out of sight. There he is! Eli! He made it! “Eli! Eli! Up here! Eli!” Whether he heard him yelling or it was mere chance that led him to glance in the right direction, Eli looked up at Adolf and waved sadly. He held up a weathered leather portfolio and mouthed, “I’m sorry.” Before Adolf could respond in any way, the lifeboat Eli was on drifted into the fog and out of sight. He permitted a single tear to fall before turning from the railing to decide where he’d like to spend what minutes remained of his short life. Hearing an orchestra playing in the distance, he walked toward the music as the ship tilted further and further into the icy sea.

Munich, Germany- June, 1921

Reinhold sat at his desk sipping a glass of scotch. It was the end of the day and, as the leader of the Nazi Party, he had endured many hours of rallying his countrymen to join his cause. He opened a newspaper and lit a cigar, absently scanning the headlines hoping to find that his party had gained favor among his fellow anti-Semites. Locally, it had, and this pleased him. When he turned the page however, he froze and felt his face blanch. His blood turned ice cold when he recognized the painting in the photo. “That fence. I built that fence. Those flowers. How…?” And then his blood boiled when he saw the photo of the “artist” and read the accompanying headline:

“New York’s own artist, Eli Friedman presents his collection, ‘At Home in Vienna’ this Saturday at the National Museum of Art.”