Chapter 18
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 18
Chapter Title: Family
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The rattling of the train wheels created a steady rhythm. The scenery outside the window gradually shifted from the gray cityscape to deep green forests and fields. Vienna's elegant buildings receded into the distance as rugged nature filled the view.
I sank deep into my seat. The first-class compartment was comfortable. The velvet cushions were plush, and a faint cigar scent lingered in the air. Just a few months ago, I had been fretting over sneaking aboard without a ticket, and now here I was, legs crossed, gazing out the window. Life's reversals were so predictable yet thrilling.
Franz, sitting across from me, was devouring the fruit basket on the table. The crisp sound of him biting into an apple was cheerful.
"Eat slower. Who's going to steal it from you?"
"Riding the train makes me hungrier, somehow. Want some, sir?"
He offered me his half-eaten apple. I shook my head. My stomach felt a bit queasy. Was it motion sickness, or reluctance to leave things behind in Vienna? I couldn't tell.
Money. Fame. And women like Alma Mahler.
Could I return? Even if I did, it would have to be different—on a much grander, more dangerous scale.
Suddenly, looking at him brought back an old promise.
"Franz."
"Yes? Gah, cough, cough."
He choked trying to answer too quickly. I handed him some water and patted his back.
"Calm down, kid. They say even dogs don't bother you when you're eating. My bad."
He gulped down the water and caught his breath.
"What did you need?"
"Do you remember what I said when we first met?"
"What? That you'd pay me in bread for modeling?"
"Not that. I said that once I made a fortune, I'd put out ads in the newspapers to find your mom."
Franz's hand froze. He set down his apple and lowered his gaze.
My pockets were flush now. With the money from Alma Mahler and the crown prince, I could run massive personals ads across every newspaper in Austria. Or hire detectives to comb every corner of Vienna.
"I could do it now. I've got the money and the time. Want me to set it up as soon as we get to Munich?"
I watched his reaction. I expected him to leap for joy. Finding his mom and eating his fill—that was his dream, after all.
But Franz stayed silent for a long while. The train wheels clacked through the quiet.
"...No."
His answer came soft.
"What?"
"I don't want to find her."
"Why? Worried about the cost? Don't sweat it. This is manager welfare on my dime."
"It's not about the money."
Franz looked up. His eyes wavered, but held a strange resolve.
"I don't know if Mom abandoned me or lost me... But what if she did abandon me? What if I find her and she pretends not to know me?"
He bit his lip.
"And... even if I find her, what if she's poorer than me? If I have to support her, I can't keep following you around and helping with your paintings."
Practical worries. He was just a kid, but growing up on the streets had taught him the weight of survival too soon. He instinctively knew family could sometimes be a burden.
"So I don't want to. Not now... Later, much later. When I'm a real adult who can make it on my own. Then I'll look."
Franz picked up his apple again. But he couldn't eat it with the same relish as before.
"And I'm sticking with you as your manager all the way. You'd get lost on your own, skip meals, pick fights with people. Without me, you'd starve in a week."
Cheeky brat.
The way he said it was infuriating. But he wasn't wrong, so I couldn't argue.
I placed my hand on his head. The soft hair felt smooth now. Just days ago, it had been matted; these days, it had a healthy sheen.
"Yeah, you've got it rough. Cleaning up after a worthless artist like me."
I ruffled his hair, and he grinned. That smile tugged at my heartstrings. He'd chosen me over blood. Maybe we were alternative family to each other.
Family.
The word stirred other memories within me.
Adolf Hitler's memories.
This body had family too. Father Alois was a tyrant, mother Klara devoted but lost early to illness. And the sole remaining blood relative.
His younger sister, Paula Hitler.
History said Hitler doted on Paula. After losing their parents and becoming orphans, he tried to play the big brother role. Of course, once he became dictator, he kept her hidden, but he never cut off financial support.
Where was Paula now? Still in Vienna?
Digging through memories, she was scraping by as a typist or housemaid in some obscure corner of Vienna.
I pulled out some stationery from my bag.
Uncapped my fountain pen. Ink scented the air.
[To my dear Paula.]
The words flowed automatically. Not my will, but the muscle memory in this right hand shaping the script. Sharp yet orderly handwriting.
[It's your brother. Sorry for the late news. I'm on my way from Vienna to Munich now.]
I hesitated, unsure what to say. As the possessing soul, or as her brother?
In the end, I mixed them.
[I've sold some paintings. Made a good amount of money. It made me think of you. Sorry I haven't been a proper big brother while you've struggled alone.]
I took a thick wad of bills from my wallet. A substantial sum—enough to cover living expenses for a while.
[Buy yourself some good food and warm clothes with the enclosed money. Take a break from work for now. I'll contact you again once I'm settled.]
As I wrote the final line, a strange emotion washed over me. Guilt? Or responsibility?
[I'm too busy to visit now, but someday I'll come fetch you. Stay healthy until then. - Your brother Adolf.]
I slipped the letter and money into an envelope and sealed it.
First thing in Munich: the post office.
She wasn't my soul's family, but this was the bare minimum courtesy to Hitler, whose body I borrowed. And if I altered history to keep him from becoming a devil, maybe Paula's life would be a bit smoother too.
"Sir, who are you writing to? Girlfriend?"
Franz squinted suspiciously.
"My little sister."
"Whoa, you have a sister? Is she pretty?"
"She looks like me."
"Ew, then no."
"Wanna die?"
We burst out laughing. The train crossed the border into German soil.
A few hours later, we arrived at Munich Central Station.
The air felt different the moment we stepped onto the platform. If Vienna was a melancholic city scented with old coffee and mold, Munich pulsed with hops, coal smoke, and sweat—a dynamic beast.
People walked faster, voices louder.
"So this is Germany."
Franz looked around.
"I smell sausages!"
"What a nose. First, let's find lodging."
We sought out a real estate agent near the station. No attics or warehouses like in Vienna this time. With money to spare, I wanted a proper studio apartment.
"Something in Schwabing. Good natural light, high ceilings."
The agent eyed my clothes and luggage, then showed us solid options.
We picked a third-floor place on a Schwabing street. A large north-facing window let in steady light all day, and the rooms were spacious.
"What do you think? Like it?"
"Yeah! My own room too, right?"
"Of course. But cleaning's on you."
We unpacked and opened the windows. Munich's streets stretched below.
In the distance, the Frauenkirche's domes rose; beer hall signs glowed everywhere.
1910s Munich.
A furnace blending political chaos and artistic fervor. Blue Rider painters like Kandinsky and Paul Klee thrived here, while far-right fascists plotted in the shadows.
The very stage where Hitler became a political thug and founded the Nazi Party.
But not this time.
I'd make this place my canvas. Flags swapped for paintings, gunshots for brushstrokes.
"Franz, let's go out."
"Right after arriving? Can't we rest?"
"Gotta do the arrival ritual in Munich."
"Ritual?"
"Beer time. The beer halls here are legendary."
We hit the streets. The sun was setting. Gas lamps flickered on as people headed to beer halls in groups.
I aimed for the Hofbräuhaus.
Munich's biggest, most famous beer hall. The historic spot where Hitler would later declare the Nazi Party's founding.
What would it feel like inside? Would past-life memories resurface? Or spark new inspiration?
The massive building loomed. Revelry spilled from the entrance: hundreds chattering, bands playing, steins clinking.
I took a deep breath.
Forget Vienna's successes. Here, we start from zero.
I pushed open the door.
A wave of heat hit me.
The vast hall brimmed with thousands. Long wooden tables packed with people guzzling liter steins.
Overwhelming. A raw, wild energy Vienna's salons couldn't touch.
"Whoa... so many people."
Franz gripped my hand tight.
I wove through the hall's center. Eyes turned our way—curiosity at the stranger... no, the foreigner.
We found seats. A waitress approached.
"What'll it be?"
"Two beers... no, one beer and an apple juice. And a sausage platter."
I scanned the room.
The walls were plain. Faded decorations, but inadequate for this massive energy.
That wall.
The Dionysian Festival I'd planned leaving Vienna.
On that huge wall: thousands drunk, tangled, shouting, singing. Gods, humans, beasts indistinguishable in mad revelry.
Not mere mural. A painting dominating the space.
Drinkers gazing at it, getting drunker; figures leaping out to toast alongside. Hallucinatory.
Hitler drove people mad here with speeches.
I'd do it with paint.
"Sir, that look again."
Franz prodded a sausage as he spoke.
"What look?"
"Like you're about to charge something. Your eyes are sparkling."
"Sharp eyes."
I lifted my stein. Heavy.
Golden liquid churned under overflowing white foam.
"Franz, cheers."
"To what?"
"New conquests."
Clink.
My stein met his juice glass.
I chugged. Cool, bitter tang slid down my throat, tingling my esophagus.
Yes, this taste.
Germany's taste. Ambition's taste.
Preparations to become Munich's king were complete. Time to sharpen my brush like a blade.