Created or born?
Preface
This autobiography is written in memory of my older brother and closest confident Gustav. He once told me that the greatest honor was being written about after death.
So, I have decided to write as I am nearing the end of mine. Hopefully, this text will make him, and I live longer.
If not in our deeds such as politician and businessman which we were in life. But as words that will be gazed upon by countless future generations.
I have decided to break this apart into short stories or chapters.
I understand that I am not long for the world, so I have decided to make this as short as possible so I know it will be completed.
This will go from past to present tense, I am sorry dear reader, as I am not long for editing. I have decided to publish this as it is.
The shortest conversations can often be where we find the most profound insights, maybe not immediately but upon reflection. --- GUSTAV, my brother.
Early Childhood
The first memory that really stands out in my life which I remember clearly as day was a mischievous one. It started inside of a small farmhouse in what is now a rural suburb in Lambach.
At the time of this memory, I was only seven, and Gustav was only nine. It all started when my brother convinced me to help him steal some of father's liquor from his locked cabinet.
All it took for Gustav to convince me was a few pieces of change. The plan he created for us was a simple one.
Whenever our father, (Alois) would drink, he would ask Gustav for refills until he was done. The cabinet would already be unlocked. The timespan would be between drinks would be three to six minutes.
This large timespan would normally mean that it would not be an issue to get some, the problem was that he was capable of counting and that he drank from the bottle. It gave my brother a planning challenge.
In the end he only had two real choices. The first one was to hope he simply left some in a bottle, which was unlikely. The final idea, which is the one he chose, is for him to convince father to use a glass.
Gustav never explained to me how he did it, but it worked. During one of his pours, he put some into a glass on the kitchen counter. After he walked away, I went to his room and waited for him to finish.
Eventually he entered the room with me in absolute silence, not wanting to be stopped by mom. But he took the glass from me, and sipped it.
I was somewhat curious to how it tasted, as father kept on drinking it. But from the face Gustav made, I knew it was going to taste bad.
"It's just so much worse than I remember." Was his only actual remark. Meaning he must have had it before, probably some leftovers was my guess.
Eventually I took it from him and tried it, and yes it was horrible to me. It took everything I had to not start a coughing fit, I just gave him the half glass, which he drank all of it in one go.
I just looked at him like he was stupid. Which I thought he honestly was in that moment.
"I don't want it to go to waste, that's all." Gustav explains with a small smirk.
That day I knew that I was never going to drink alcohol like our father, not because I knew it was bad for me, but because it tasted like piss.
The next memory was only a few months later. It was my brother Gustav playing the grand piano in the main room. I was supposed to stay away from everyone due to accidentally breaking glassware during breakfast.
But the music just made me leave the room, ignoring the almost guaranteed retribute from my father.
I had always heard him play the piano when I was younger, and it was always great, but this one just called to me at the time a way the other upbeat or sad songs did not.
Now that I reflect, it is funny to imagine a boy such as him, only 11, playing such a large instrument.
But that was not what I saw. There was no innate comedy then. He was so large in my eyes my brother was.
Just sitting there playing with his eyes closed, bobbing his head slowly up and down to the tune he made perfectly.
It was one of the many moments that made me fascinated with the arts. Besides my mother, the art he produced will always be my favorite. Even if I can only recall it in memory.
Gustav's musical ability with it was astonishing. When he played I felt like it was the only time I was a part of a functioning family.
Father never acted up when he played songs, even when he was not sober. It was like a miracle at the time.
I never knew how he made our father behave during the songs; was it truly because he was proud of Gustav? Was it an agreement they made? Some sense of pride?
I will never really know now that both are gone.
But it was always nice when it happened, sitting there in the room just talking like people.
Sometimes we would get a pitcher of lemonade and just listen to his songs and drink for an hour or two. Just letting the time pass.
For those curious about the actual composition or piece, I do not recall the exact song or tune, but I do remember it for its repetition and its deep intonations.
I can only describe it as a heavy song. The only thing I know for sure is that it is a Marschlied of sorts based on its repetition.
I would listen to tunes very close to it during my time in the service. Eventually, he played it again when I was ten, but I never got a real answer for the song's name when I asked Gustav.
Just a poor joke about him forgetting and not another answer after.
Anyway, I stood there listening to it for what felt like an eternity. The sight was mesmerizing, so deep from which that I could not turn my eyes even when called away by someone.
Later I would learn that someone was Mom who asked me to do some chores in the kitchen.
The deep red color of the wood just contrasted so brightly with the white ivory keys and my brothers' black sleeves and pale hands.
He was wearing one of his suits which he loved again. Every single press is extremely deliberate and precise, yet so fluid, like he was not even awake during his actions.
I don't remember how long I stood there watching, but eventually Gustav was removed from his trance, noticed my curiosity, and motioned for me to climb on the bench to get a better view.
The next song he played was a sad one; it also has no name and was not given to me by Gustav. I can still only play parts of it with the few lessons he would eventually give later in my life.
A few hours later, and many more songs later, that memory would eventually end. It blurred out with my mother actually entering the room and calling us away for dinner.
What stood out was that she was not even mad at me for leaving the room, or even skipping the dishes she called to be cleaned.
She smiled at us in a way she rarely did. It was one of the many but so few pleasant nights I had at home, all thanks to my brother and his piano.
Early Childhood
This memory is not my own, but a short story Gustav would tell me in later years. It was near the end of March, Gustav was only ten while I was seven, about to turn eight.
I do not know what gave him the idea to trade stocks, if it was the newspaper, or one of his books. But he wanted to play the game. The only problem of his was that it was illegal for a child to do anything of the sort.
When those times were current it was somewhat looked down upon, as a kind of gamble by the masses. You needed to be an adult to participate, which Gustav was clearly not.
Everything was stacked against him, yet he worked forwards. As in downtown Linz, there was a small trading center.
Gustav took all his money that he had scrounged up over the years, from yardwork, to selling trinkets.
Just to that building, and instead of walking in and getting himself in trouble he simply waited for the place to close.
Only a few hours before closing he met a man, I was never told his name from Gustav, but he was British. I do know somethings about the man though, he was a capitalist who invested in the poorest nations for mines.
Essentially exploitation, he would give the tiniest fraction of the profit to the workers, and they would be ok with it.
I again, never got the specifics of the conversation between the two, but eventually he convinced the man to allow himself trade under his name.
One would think that a man such as him, willing to exploit the poor would simply go back on his word and take the money, but no.
He kept his promise to Gustav, and came back every month, and helped Gustav trade. He even taught him English lessons, English!
When Gustav first told me this story, I could not believe it, it was too coincidental, why would a British capitalist stay in Linz? The cheap property?
But later I knew it was true that Gustav traded stocks in the building, so why should I not believe the man existed too?
Gustav throughout his life has had extreme luck. So, something such as this in my eyes, would not be unbelievable. I trusted his story.
That next month in July, a week before my birthday, my mother would pull me out of my room for a talk. At the start I was confused at her serious look, as I had done nothing wrong.
So, I just held my breath and waited for a stern talking, that would never come. Instead, mom spoke to me in an even tone.
"I noticed that you have not invited any of your friends to your birthday party." "Is everything alright?"
Not really getting the question I replied with an awkward "Yes?"
"It's just, you never bring anyone over, are you feeling lonely or bored?" my mom continued.
Again, somewhat more frustrated with these nonsense questions I told her that "No mom, Gustav and I have been keeping each other busy. I don't feel lonely, or bored."
Realizing that I was fine, and not a lonely, depressed child like she assumed, she finished the conversation by giving me some advice.
"You will always have your brother, you get that, but I worry for you if that's all you have. You need good friends in your life. For my sake, when you play outside next time, please try and find some."
Wanting to finish the awkward conversation I told her that I would. We exchanged I love you's and that was it.
I don't know why that conversation sticks out to me from all the others I have had, but looking back, it's nice to know just how much she cared for me.
Since I am going on about impactful memories in my early childhood, I would have to say one of if not the greatest, was when I was about to turn nine years old.
Father had gotten drunk again. Not violent or angry, just drunk, but mother took us out to Linz anyway.
This usually only happens once every two weeks, to help with the groceries, errands, and such. But this time, as we were walking down the street, a man ran up to us, specifically towards my mom. He was wearing a fancy suit; the likes of which Gustav loved.
I had assumed at first glance he was some man trying to sell us a house or some kind of expensive product based on his look.
The only reason I thought at the time why he would approach us was he thought us wealthy. Profiling us because Mom was wearing a somewhat expensive floral dress.
Immediately after approaching, he started a pitch about a family portrait. How it would be a great piece that would last if we kept it clean and in a frame.
It would last a lifetime, and so on. I was surprised that he was trying to sell us a family painting, as we were far away from any of the art galleries that usually sell street art.
Mom looked at us and, without hesitation, agreed with the man before a price was given. At the time, I was kind of shocked at that too.
I knew we were relatively poor, just not to the extent that we were. We had a budget for groceries with maybe some room for clothing, and that was it.
When I looked at Gustav, I also saw the same confusion in his eyes before he started to smile in one of his rare smiles.
Smiling was rarely done in my family—not that we were not happy, but it was just rarely expressed so freely. "Thanks, mom; I appreciate it," He said. Eventually, we were guided to sit down on wooden stools in front of one of the many churches dotting the streets of downtown Linz.
He had us sit in an awkward position for what felt like hours. My back was aching, but he kept changing our posture.
I had thought it was torture, but I stuck through with all the pain just to make mom and Gustav happy, I could clearly see they were doing the same for me.
Around an hour in, I could tell we were nearing the end of the portrait. His brush strokes were much smaller and more deliberate. As I looked, even mom and Gustav's smiles had faded from all the posturing.
But when the man announced that he was done, I saw that all the pain was worth it. Our pain together was worth it. The art was just so good. It looked like he had captured us in time.
Not only that, but it was one of the most realistic of the few paintings I had ever seen in my life. It was us as a family; if I could explain the image, it was just warm, happiness on a canvas.
Clearly, Gustav and mother also thought the painting did too. All of us were smiling as we walked back home.
Even though we had fewer groceries than usual, which we would feel through the month. We all collectively decided it was worth it.
Mom had always talked about real art like this. How deeply it could envelop someone. A piece of art was so true that it was more real than reality itself. Changing the world around it, including the people caught in its gaze.
She was an amateur painter my mom was. She did small things on blank mugs or pieces of paper. Furthermore, she liked to draw nature, and animals (usually birds, the trees by our house, and the rare golden sunsets as they came).
I only watched her paint once out of the few times she did. It was a bluebird, and what stuck out to me was the care she put into its wings.
She probably spent two hours on them. But eventually, a month before my 9th birthday, I noticed she had stopped.
Her painting station was left empty for months. I could not find any of her work anywhere in the house.
I had questioned her about it, as I was worried for her. She had told me that she had given up. She explained that she had never actually produced "Real art," as she calls it. When she gazed at it, she saw all the work, she had tirelessly done. She felt it was lacking something real.
Even though it was beautiful in my opinion, and I told her as much, that it was no reason to quit, she did so anyway.
She had already cast her works away. But with a smile, she went to her station, handed me all of her supplies, and told me that if I could make a piece of true art, she would start painting again with me.
That was when I got into doing the arts myself. Small things at best, from the view of the distant mountains to the tall buildings of downtown.
Each work was sloppy and messy, but I continued. I had wanted—no, needed to create a piece; of "Real Art" that would mark the soul.
Something my mother could not do, but the kind created by that street artist could.
That year, Gustav completely astounded me with a much more "proper" painting set, which included many thick sheets of canvas with some supplies as paints and brushes.
It was an extremely expensive gift, especially for a 14-year-old kid in a relatively poor family.
It was the most expensive gift he had ever given me; in fact, no one had ever given me one at that time or in the near future.
Likewise, it astounded me that he could afford the materials, but looking back it was obvious with how much he talked about stocks.
My interest in painting ever since that day had been obvious to him—not that he was there for the conversation between me and mom — but after that street artist.
I was always looking at the family portrait whenever I was in the room with it. Always trying to draw mom, Gustav, or even myself, but always falling short of the spark I desired.
I stuck with painting as my measure of art that day onwards.
Middle childhood
Another memorable moment happened when I was 11. I had just gotten home after playing Soldier with the neighbors in the woods by the creek near our house.
Before I could make it to my room, I was motioned to come over with a single hand motion by Gustav to his worktable.
Before he could open his mouth, I just asked, "Chess?" He in return replied with a quick, "chess."
It was a game both of us enjoyed together, no matter what we had done to each other, be it fight or argue. It was always solved with a nice game. A form of sportsmanship to bridge our mistakes. Something to just talk over.
Without saying anything, Gustav took the set from his shelf hanging from the wall and started to prepare it. He began setting up the detailed pieces. "White or black?" he asked while rearranging. "Black," I say without hesitation.
He always won, no matter what side I chose. But I almost always managed to last longer on the defensive.
I was much more capable of reacting than planning and executing any complex attacks that he liked to explain.
Dozens of hours of playing had taught young me that fact. As we played the game, he continued to teach me history and ask me questions.
He absolutely loved to put me in a historical person's shoes, sometimes even something as ambiguous as a "nation" and have me try and act in a way I saw fit.
From the Roman Emperors of old to even what were then modern-day figures like the Russian Czars, he always tried to use history lessons to teach cause and effect and the hidden dangers those choices bring.
One of his favorite parts of this whole word game was when I made a mistake that looked obvious upon reflection and thought. Or when I or he got closer to the obscure "Right Choice" as he called it.
"History rarely has any right choices, but some choices are more right than others." Was among the most meaningful quotes of his.
But he also loved to say to me when I lost the "game" that "Every action you take has a reason, and it is your responsibility to not just ask yourself why you act but the consequences of it."
I am going to share some of my favorite problems and conversations he gave me while we played chess. "When did the Roman Empire truly die?" he had asked me. An extremely general question.
We talked for hours through the matches, whether it was imperial power, Latin as a language, culture, customs, or even what the people believed themselves.
What stuck with me that Gustav explained was the idea of Rome as a concept itself.
People born in Frankia hundreds of miles away from Constantinople or any true "Roman" ruler's control, could be born, raised, and buried, fully believing themselves to be Roman citizens and in the idea of Rome as a state of being.
When I read "The Prince Of India," which he had let me borrow, I understood the meaning it presented that the Roman Empire died in 1444 when the Ottomans conquered Constantinople.
However, people in the former empire fully believed themselves to be Roman at the time and would continue to do so for centuries to come until somewhat recently.
Did the empire die with the rise of the "Hellenes?" There was an argument to be heard there.
Nothing is a simple as it seems.
We never really got an answer to the question he gave at the end. Both of us could agree that there was an answer for every case you could argue.
It was just a fun conversation, me and my brother had. But it would shape some of my future thoughts on national identity and political belonging.
The most useful lessons my brother would ever teach me, though, would have to be economic ones.
I never could understand the intricacies of the invisible hand as he called it. But I took a great takeaway from one of his statements.
A people could still be relatively rich and extremely poor at the same time.
"A nation is only as valuable as the goods it produces. The amount of money is relatively worthless in the end," he told me with a blank face.
I honestly did not believe it at the time, I was somewhat shocked, "Gold?" I said somewhat confused. My word as definite proof to the contrary. He then went into further detail.
The value of labor and goods and the value of automation affect the market. High labor costs drive innovation, and a rich populace means labor is more expensive.
The reason the British made so much money was that they could make so much output for so little input and that free trade allowed them to stifle upstart companies in various nations with their soft and heavy industries like textiles and tools.
Making their innovations create more innovations out of sheer necessity.
People with the gold just purchased from those who made, gold is a limited resource after all. But it could not hurt to have both.
"The free market is a weapon like any other. But it is a double-edged sword that can cut the user just as deep as it can cut its victim." Was another one he liked to say.
This one I found harder to grasp because a week prior he had talked to me about the benefits of countries specializing.
When I had asked for some examples; instead of talking immediately like he would he just sat there and looked at me. Thinking like usual, "Russia and her grain" he said.
The extreme production and exports meant many countries were reliant on her for their production of processed grains, and some still are. It is a weapon used to great effect for a long time but has a double edge.
For example, when it was more efficient for vertical production of processed goods the Russians would suffer the most which was when the industrial revolution kicked off.
Their main supply of money was a key export. Their depressed grain prices meant an extremely poor population and a reduction in standards of living.
After all, people can only eat so much grain. They had no pre-industry built for grains' more advanced uses. The Russian Czars made good decisions at their time.
However, there were unforeseen consequences that sacrificed long-term gain for relatively short-term profits.
They were at the time of our conversation loaded with debt. Gustav told me he was certain that it would get worse with time.
It was stuff like that which reshaped my view of the world from the dull tales and lessons in school.
And I learned these life lessons while just playing chess with my brother.
It was so funny in a way, that I learned more about the past and the wider world from my brother just three years my elder. Than a system that has been worked on for much longer than I have been alive.
Heart to Heart
Instead of asking for more liquor like normal, father told me to sit on the couch next to him. I could tell he was already somewhat drunk based on his face, but I sat down regardless.
Instead of talking to me he just sat his beer on the table and stared at the wall for a few minutes. Eventually I got frustrated to the point I was about to leave when he finally started to speak to me.
"I love you son, but life is short, it's hard too." He grabbed his beer and took another sip.
"I get that you have read about the hardships you may face, but its different when its on a book, and when its in the real world... I don't want you to live in regret like me. Looking upon my life you may think your father was a failure, was destined to be a failure, maybe even is... I don't care what you think."
After a long pause he continued.
"That opinion is worthless son, what matters is you. You have your entire life ahead of you. I am going to die someday, I had many options of adventure and I squandered them. I could have dropped alcohol but I was too reliant, I could have been kinder raising you two, but I failed. I failed my family, and I failed you."
Setting the empty beer down he just sighed.
"But my mistakes don't matter anymore, what matters is your future. I know Gustav has it all planned out, but you? I don't know son. I guess I'm just worried for you... I don't know what I wanted to get out of this talk, but I just hope the one takeaway you understand is that you should not live your life in a way you will regret when your an old man like me.
Live your life to the fullest, and accomplish what you want. Get rich, become famous, start a company, have a family with a wife, become an explorer, a politician, I don't care.
Just do something. In the end, When you look back upon your life, I want you to have the ability to say that you honestly tried your best."
With a little smile he repeated himself, "Especially for a wife."
After a brief silence he finished his talk.
"Promise me you will live your life the best you can. No matter how hard it gets, you will always continue to do your best son."
There was honestly nothing I could say but what he wanted. "Yes, Dad, I promise." And that was that. I always keep my promises. My word is gold.
Stuck
Later, just after I had turned 13, my father had to go to Vienna for one of his work meetings, he decided that we should go with him, to see the city, and maybe find a career path.
Or rather just me, which was heard but unsaid. Father never really bothered Gustav about work as he did me.
I know why of course, it just hurts that he is given that faith and I was not. He wanted me to be a customs officer like him, even offering to show me his workplace and employer.
Yet I was against it completely, even if I knew my deep disdain was irrational I kept it anyway. I wanted to pursue my passion as an artist.
To prove to myself that I could make it on my own like Gustav. As a bonus, the life of a petty rule lawyer just sounded horrible to me.
So when he left for work we stayed at the hotel. After some offers of help and some replies of "I got it", Gustav and I decided together that we would see some local sights. The closest place was an art gallery.
The largest one in Vienna, When we arrived, I looked at the large fee and immediately Gustav said he would cover this trip.
I was a little shocked but thankful nonetheless as I did not have enough to cover it. He left me with no debts thankfully.
I could tell he knew just how much that meant to me. With the smirk he gave me I was certain of the fact that my hatred of debts was obvious.
As we were walking in, we stopped by the main front desk to get a pamphlet that described the art on display for this month. As we were reading together, I noticed that the clicks of his dress shoes had stopped.
He was just standing there behind me in the main hallway, his hands shaking. The guiding pamphlet left fallen on the floor by his feet.
I had never seen him like this before, he was always collected and calm. It made no sense. The only thing remotely similar was when I fell from a tree and broke my arm.
But he snapped out of it and helped me almost immediately. I had to know what made him shaken. Had he seen something I had not? Did he get pick pocketed? Were we followed?
I just pulled him aside by the main entrance doors to ask him what was wrong.
"Do you believe in destiny? Be honest with me." Gustav said in a serious voice.
"No," I said quickly, confused I said to him "Why? What the hell is up with you? You're never this, well this."
Looking like he was caught in something, he stilled his hands before he replied, "Nothing, I just got a really bad feeling, I'm sorry, let's just go back." I tried to look him in the eyes to see if he was lying, but he just averted.
I found it obvious he was not going to talk anymore as he had set his face to one that was just monotone. So, I followed him as he speed-walked past me back into the art gallery.
As we passed through looking at the innumerable pieces, I noticed he had something acting up again, not shaking, but walking slower.
I just ignored this change as we went through row upon row. but then I saw IT. It was huge, one of the largest paintings in the whole building.
Accented with golden trim on the edges, the painting had a figure in the center atop a horse, a red cape flowing around him, as he was holding a sword, what appeared to be the damned were following. The poor natural lighting in the room forced me to step closer more.
After a few, I then saw a gaunt man with his hair swept to the side. I can barely make out his face, so I got even closer.
I then was set to admire the detail inscribed with obvious care. The wrinkles set on the cheeks, the nose cast downward at a bent angle, followed by the figure's mustache.
His companion was done with similar care, a grim, with the hound's hollowed eyes set bare on the viewer.
"It's amazing," I say just to myself, "another Stuck?"
I answer my question as I read the script at the bottom. Yes, it is another of his.
Stuck is what my mother would call, "A creator of True Art," As when I gazed upon the man, I could feel his gaze upon me. Judging me silently. Measuring my worth, even though I knew it was inanimate I swore I felt the eyes move, following me as I paced around at different angles to admire.
I knew with absolute certainty that I would create a work like Stuck someday in my own manner. One not unlike his, that would affect the viewer with a gift of deep emotion. Straight to the soul.
At the time of the visit I knew paintings could change the world around it, but I never thought I would see another painting again affect me so greatly. It was unlike any of the other works by Stuck I had seen.
It just filled me with a spirit and drive when I admired it. A feeling which I would not feel again until a year later. After basking in this feeling for a few minutes I turned to move towards the next painting and I saw Gustav was just gone.
He had left me behind. He had already paid my fee, so I decided to continue without him, perhaps he was going to fix what had worried him.
After I was done looking at the great works of art that were being presented, I returned to the hotel and found him helping our mom set up.
With a smile, I joined as well. It was the most interesting and wonderful trip we did as a complete family, father included. But also, sadly would be the last.