Truth is stranger than Fiction — Mark Twain
Dr. Sigurd Siegel, Vienna’s prominent psychologist, was turning the pages in his next patient’s file. It was a puzzling case—the patient was as sound as anyone, yet something had to be done, and soon. Elly, his young nurse, stood in the door trying to get his attention, her face flushed with agitation. “Your patient won’t be coming,” she said. “He was ... ,” she pushed back an innocuous curl. “I called his boarding house,” she started again. “Mr. Renholt was murdered last night.” Dr. Siegel’s hand froze in mid-air. The late afternoon sun caught it and flitted merrily over his neatly penned notes. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked more audibly, more audaciously. Like an irksome intruder, it spoke of the passage of time, of the brevity of life. “Why?” she whispered. Renholt, a harmless, good-natured chap murdered? It made no sense. His greatest joy was to come early to the doctor’s office and talk another patient out of a coin or two. It was a strange case. A friend had sent Renholt because of their mutual aversion toward the National Socialists. Vienna was swarming with them, more every day. Many wore the uniform with the swastika and promoted the annexation of Austria to the German Reich. Renholt was terrified of them. “They are after me, Doc,” he kept telling the doctor. He even changed his name. His real name was Reinhold Hanisch. In Dr. Siegel’s opinion, Hanisch was not paranoid. But why would the National Socialists be after a penniless, happy-go-lucky tramp? Hanisch had told him why: During the cold winter back in 1910, he had befriended Adolf Hitler. Night after night, the two men had stood in line at Vienna’s Meidlinger Asylum for the Homeless waiting for a bed. In the mornings they had to vacate the place. When they did not get in again at night, they slept on a park bench or under the bridge. Twenty-eight years later, Hitler, Vienna’s street rat, had become the big boss in neighboring Germany, getting ready to march into Austria. Yet no one seemed to know about Hitler’s shady past. In Germany, Hitler paraded as the unknown savior, cloaked in mystery, sent by God. Hanisch was certain that the big boss wanted to keep it that way; that is why Hitler was after him; he wanted to silence him. Back in 1910, Hanisch had shared his bread with young Hitler, a pale and friendless homeless person with blistered feet, sitting for hours staring into space, building castles in the air. Hanisch, a long-time tramp and well versed in the tricks of a hobo’s life, was fishing for more reliable quarters than the Asylum and probed young Hitler about his trade. “I’m a painter,” Hitler told him. “There must be plenty of jobs for painters,” Hanisch replied in hopeful anticipation. “Not one of those,” Hitler bristled with contempt. “I’m an Academician and an Artist.” “Then make use of your art!” Encouragingly, Hanisch patted the young man’s arm. But the arm swiftly withdrew. Nonetheless, Hanisch got postcards of Viennese landmarks and paper and paints, and Hitler painstakingly copied them. Enterprising Hanisch sold them to tourist stores, and with the proceeds they were able to move to a cheap dorm on Meldemann Street. Dr. Siegel knew the Meldemann dormitory. The Hanisch/Hitler partnership lasted seven months; then greed got the better of the young artist. He had copied the Vienna House of Parliament, “a Hellenistic marvel on Austrian soil,” Hitler called it and proudly declared, “It’s worth fifty kronen, not a penny less.” When Hanisch delivered the customary ten, Hitler flew into a rage and persuaded a fellow roommate, a young policeman, to throw Hanisch into jail. Hanisch never saw Hitler again. “Why?” Elly repeated. “Why would anyone want to murder Mr. Renholt?” Dr. Siegel’s hand slid over his forehead. “Who knows, Elly,” he replied with a slight tremor in his voice and gathered the victim’s file. “Get your coat, Elly. I’ll drive you home.” Elly shook her head. “I’ll go to the concert in the park,” she said. “I need music to clear my head.” “The Friday afternoon concert!” the Doctor became aware again of the lively strains of a waltz. He smiled kindly at his young nurse. “Of course, Elly. Go and enjoy yourself! Just remember, it is better not to talk about murder victims. Less harm comes to the ignorant.” Troubled, the doctor drove to the Vienna Woods, his eyes nervously scanning the rear mirror—he, too, was privy to the knowledge for which Hanisch had been murdered. He settled on a secluded bench to rewrite the victim’s file. His temples throbbed. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves—never before had he altered a patient’s records or changed a dead man’s past. Yet he was certain that those National Socialists would be looking for this file to see what Hanisch had told him. No, he was not willing to be murdered, too. The task completed, he tore his prior notes into a thousand shreds and drowned them in a public latrine. Then he went home, pondering Hanisch’s story and his own recollections of the Meldemann dorm:
The year was 1914. Sigurd Siegel was a young student at the University of Vienna then. For the last three weeks, though, he had roamed the countryside blinded by jealousy, with a bottle of wine as his only companion. It was cold that evening when he found himself in the Vienna Woods where it had happened. Sigurd did not want to be in the Vienna Woods! Every tree reminded him of his Sylvia. His hopes and dreams were buried there. He hastened downtown and turned into the first public dorm on Meldemann Street. He needed a bed for the night. Sigurd was a newcomer to the dorm, a stuffy place, but he did not notice. A gaunt man in a caftan disrupted his thought—a humorless male, holding forth on politics, shouting, and gesturing with his fists. He seemed to be at home there. Sigurd chose a bunk farthest away from the man. Even then he could not tune out the man’s ranting. There was something irritating about him—his anger, his intensity. Leaning against his bunk, Sigurd tugged on his youthful chin. “A fanatic,” he postulated. “A merciless fanatic.” Sigurd, being a student of psychology, could tell the signs. He glanced at the others in the dorm. They, too, seemed to be mesmerized by the speaker’s harangues. He turned away, disturbed by the speaker’s cold, hypnotic eyes.
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