A Glibertarians Exclusive:  The Painter III

Brussels – 1932

The Fokker tri-motor aeroplane touched down at the Brussels aerodrome, gently, as though it was a great bird settling slowly to Earth.  Adolf looked curiously out the window.  For all his travels, he had never been to Brussels before.  He knew, of course, of the great port at Antwerp, and the huge arms manufactories at Liege.  He had received, as a gift from the Lord Mayor of Munich, a beautiful autoloading fowling piece made in Liege but apparently designed by some American named Browning.

Today he was here for a small showing of some of his works resulting from a tour of northern France and southern Belgium.  The timing worked out well, as he had finally tired of Rome.  Just a week earlier, Adolf had signed a lease on a large studio in Berlin.  His art supplies, works in progress and his modest inventory of personal effects were even now in a boxcar, making its way across Europe’s rail system from Rome to Berlin.

Adolf waited for the other passengers to clear off the aeroplane before standing up.  He picked up the one painting he had carried by hand, a depiction of an oak grove that supposedly had been sacred to one of the old pagan tribes of northern France.  He marched off the aeroplane, down the steps to the tarmac.  Jozef-Ernest van Roey, the Archbishop of Mechelen, was there to meet Adolf, clad in his flowing robes.  Behind him was the normal crowd of admirers, including the inevitable crowd of young women calling for Adolf’s signature in their personal diaries.

Adolf walked over to greet the Archbishop.  “Your Eminence,” Adolf smiled, shaking the older man’s hand.  “A pleasure to finally meet you in person.”  The year before, the Archbishop had commissioned Adolf for three studies of Belgian landscapes.

“Indeed,” the Archbishop greeted Adolf gravely.  “Ah – you have the painting of the grove at Gournay-sur-Aronde that we commissioned.”  Adolf nodded, handing the clergyman the painting.  “It was an interesting commission; I spent several days in the grove, finding the correct perspective.”

“It is beautiful,” the Archbishop beamed.  He turned to Adolf.  “Quite excellent.  Herr Hitler, I wonder if you would consider taking supper with me tonight?”

“Of course,” Adolf replied.  He had been raised Catholic, although his faith had suffered badly from his experiences in the Great War; that part of his personality had been replaced by his immersion in art.  But the Archbishop wielded much influence.

The Archbishop walked away, trailed by two parish priests, still beaming at the painting.  Adolf made his way down the row of admirers, signing diaries, shaking hands.  He was now, after all, one of Europe’s greatest figures in the world of art, and he knew it; greeting the public was one of the requirements that went with that status.  Finally, he was able to make his way through the throng to find two large gendarmes holding away a number of scruffy-looking young men wielding notebooks and cameras:  The press.

“Herr Hitler,” one of them called.  “Is your work portraying the industrial sector of the Ruhr meant to glorify Germany’s exit from the Treaty of Versailles?”

Adolf normally ignored reporters, but that statement demanded an answer.  “I have no influence in Berlin, nor does Berlin have any influence on me, I assure you.”  That last was a thumping lie; his depictions of the new factories in the Ruhr were done at Drexler’s request.  “But I will say this:  Germany has the right,” he called to the reporters, “to rebuild her industrial capacity.  The Great War ended fourteen years ago.”

“What about Germany’s imperial ambitions?”

“Please.  I am only an artist.  I depict what happens; I have no say in policy.  I will say this, Herr Drexler and Herr Göring have only peaceful intent.  The annexation of the Sudetenland and the land corridor to East Prussia were done peacefully.”

“Isn’t it true that you are just a propagandist for the German Worker’s Party?” another reporter called out.

The gendarmes moved in.  “All right,” one of them called.  “That’s enough.  Move along, mijne heren, or you will be moved along.”

Adolf looked ahead.  As usual, a car was waiting to whisk him away to his Brussels exhibition.  Following that, he reminded himself, he would return to Germany, this time for good.  Much work already awaited him there.

***

Berlin – 1945

Adolf would have been more impressed at meeting the Reichskanzler had he not already met Hermann Göring on any number of occasions; as Germany’s foremost artist, he had attended any number of events hosted by or in honor of the Greater German Reich’s leader.  The former fighter pilot had ascended to lead the German Worker’s Party after Anton Drexler’s death in 1943, and now, following the passage of the Enabling Act, stood alone as the leader of the Greater German Reich.

“Herr Hitler,” the pompous, overstuffed Great War hero greeted the artist.

“Mein Fuhrer,” Hitler replied.  They shook hands.

“I must thank you again for your work showing the Wehrmacht’s peaceful occupation of Austria,” Germany’s leader said.  “The displays of your work helped swing public opinion in your favor both in Germany and Austria, and indeed, even in France and Britain.  There has been no backlash from any of the old Allies.”

“It was my honor and my duty to the Fatherland, mein Fuhrer,” Adolf said modestly.

Göring placed a hand on Adolf’s shoulder.  “Thanks to you, and of course thanks to the Wehrmacht and the Luftwaffe, the reunification of Germany is complete.  We have back the Ruhr, thanks in part to your efforts in portraying that region.  We have back the Rhineland, we have our corridor to East Prussia, the Sudetenland and now Austria.  All without another war.”

“It has been well done,” Adolf agreed.  He was thinking of twenty years earlier, when he had seen for himself the New World’s growing might.  “Are you thinking, mein Fuhrer, of any further expansion?  I ask only so I can begin to plan my next work, of course.”

“For now, I am content,” Göring replied.  “We have ample breathing space for the German people.  Any further expansion would mean war with Britain and France, and possibly the United States.  You read the papers, Herr Hitler.  You have seen how badly the Americans have trounced the Japanese in the Pacific.  They have built so many ships that one could almost walk from Pearl Harbor to Tokyo without getting one’s feet wet.  No, we will focus instead on making Germany the world’s foremost industrial power.  For now.”  He smiled, enigmatically; he was thinking privately of a physicist named Heisenberg, and some very interesting work he was engaged in…

Adolf nodded.  He had seen the Americans’ potential for industrial might years ago.

“So,” Göring said.  He snagged a champagne flute from a passing waiter, handed it to Adolf, and seized one for himself.  He held up the drink.  “To peace!”

“Jawohl, mein Fuhrer,” Adolf Hitler saluted Germany’s leader with his champagne flute.  “To peace.”

Adolf excused himself and blended into the room.  He was thinking of something the Fuhrer had said.  Breathing space, he thought.  Now that is an interesting turn of phrase.

That night, Adolf awoke suddenly.  He looked at the cheap wind-up clock at his bedside; it was not quite four o’clock in the morning.  He sat up, blinking away the remnants of a dream:  The wide-open steppes of Ukraine and Russia, the golden fields, now overrun with the latest German panzers, with the newest jet-powered fighter-bombers passing overhead…

Breathing space, he remembered.  The Fuhrer is not interested in expansion.  That is regrettable.  But while only he can make policy, I have shown that I can influence matters, as well…

He got out of bed and dragged on an old evening robe.  He walked over to his work area.  His largest easel stood to one side, still holding the big, blank canvas, that had made the move from Rome years earlier and was still empty.

Adolf was holding an image in his head.  Uncovering the blank canvas, he gathered his materials and began to work.

***

I left Rome and landed in Brussels.
With a picture of a tall oak tree by my side.
Clergymen in uniform and young girls pullin’ muscles,
Everyone was there, and nobody tried to hide.
Newspapermen eating candy,
Had to be held down by big police.
Someday, everything is gonna be diff’rent.
When I paint my masterpiece.