Meine Geschichte
The Iron Chancellor
Preface:
On April 2nd, 1963, I find myself on the edge of mortality, with my body ravaged by the curse of a metastasized lung cancer, which has spread as of writing, to my liver and left arm. As confirmed by the Vienna Hospital Authority. Thus, my current state of affairs in writing, an inevitable and somewhat poetic conclusion to my life, one marked by forces beyond my control. Yet, even in these final hours, I remain resolute in my will to document the journey from which fate had led me to this moment of providence.
This may be described as an autobiography, perhaps, but more than that---it is my testament, my legacy, to those who will inherit the future I once sought to shape in my youth.
Many, my brother among them, had implored me to write such a work as this in the earlier years of my life. But I resisted, for I saw no need early or late. The actions I took in my life, the ones that shaped the very course of history, have been endlessly dissected in much greater fidelity by institutions with far more time, and effort than I could hope to achieve in my current state of being.
What, then, could my now feeble mind add to the wealth of scholarship that has been dedicated in my name, by hundreds if not thousands of my fellow Germans? My only claim to authority is this: I am the primary source. There is no one else who can speak with greater certainty of what I have done, and why I did it, than myself.
This book could be perceived as many things: a will, a testament to a life lived with purpose, a mans final grasp on the fleeting mortal plain, a revision of history as seen through the eyes of a man who lived it, and, of course, subject to both adoration and detestation in equal measure. With more open and closeminded viewpoints being possibilities. This work is none of those things. It is simply an embodiment and sum of my will, my spirit, and my being.
This book is not intended those among the world who already despise me, nor for those who have already lived long lives shaped by bloodshed and sorrow. It is not for the elderly, who have learned their lessons through hardship and bitterness. No, this book is for the youth--those yet untouched by the cruelties of the world.
It is a call to the future, to those who have the strength to understand what drove a man like me, what, forced by fate, had shaped my path. Through these pages, I hope to offer a means by which you, dear reader, might forge your own future not unlike my own, as I once forged mine. May the lessons I impart not be written in blood, but in ink---clear, legible, and permanent, for all time.
I wish I could deliver this message to you face to face, as my words would have far greater impact in your presence. But the reasons are clear: I am not timeless. The speeches I once gave in my youth, filled with fervor and passion, will eventually fade---lost to the decay of time, their copies of copies deteriorating in some forgotten vault. Already, countless speeches of mine have vanished into obscurity, lost to the ravages of history. In this form, in the permanence of the written word, I hope my wisdom endures---not for a century or two, but for a thousand years or more.
Therefore, I dedicate this autobiography, not to Germany alone, nor to myself, but to you, dear reader, with my brother and closest confident Gustav. May this work allow him to live on---if not through our deeds, as state-builders, politicians, artists, or businessmen, then in the minds of those who think. Who contemplate what of to come with the future. May this work be pondered by generations evermore, and may our spirits endure forever in the realm of intellectual thought.
I know that, under ordinary circumstances, I would have taken the time to refine this work, to ensure that every word, every sentence, was perfect, that my message came across with the utmost clarity. But time is not on my side. So I abandon the luxury of length and precision, and I turn instead to brevity. My words must carry their weight quickly and decisively. There is no time for multiple drafts, no time for second opinions. My will must be done, and it must be done now.
The shortest conversations can often be where we find the most profound insights, maybe not immediately but upon reflection. --- GUSTAV.
The old world is dying, and the new world struggles to be born: now is the time of monsters. --- Unknown.
Chapter One:
In the House of my Parents --- 1896 ??/??
Now, upon reflection, it seems almost providential that my earliest clear memory should be of something so sublime, so deeply rooted in the realm of creation. Fate herself could have chosen from a multitude of memories---some joyous, others sorrowful, filled with achievement or with anger---but the one I first grasped in my developing mind, the one I could hold onto in the depths of my consciousness, was one of pure creation: of true art, of music. It was, I believe, fate's decision, a rare whim, against all odds. In this moment of remembrance, I was not merely witnessing life, I was witnessing the act of life itself---creation.
It was my brother Gustav, at the grand piano in the main room, whose music became my first true experience of art. I had been sent away from the family as punishment, for some minor transgression---perhaps breaking glassware during breakfast---but the reason for my punishment no longer mattered. What mattered was the music that had echoed throughout the house, drawing me away from my induced isolation, beyond the looming threat of punishment, as if some greater force had called me to it.
In my youth, I had often heard Gustav play the piano. His talent was always apparent, yet this particular performance, was different. It was not merely a song---no, it was something more. It called to me in a way no other piece had, no matter how joyful or melancholic. It is strange, even a little comedic, to think now of the boy then, he was only eleven years old, yet commanding such a vast instrument. The contrast between him and the piano, between his small form and the enormity of the music was staggering.
Yet, at that moment, there was no room for comedy in my mind. I did not see a child, but a figure, a figure so large in my perception that he seemed to consume the very space around him. There he sat, eyes closed, head gently swaying to the rhythm, utterly absorbed in his creation. That image, that singular moment, was one of the earliest seeds in my fascination with true art. And though my mothers influence on me was profound, the music he played that day remains among the pinnacle of my artistic appreciation---more so than the visual of paints, or the less audible in speechcraft. For it was music that spoke directly to me first of art, and it was from Gustav's hands that I first would begin to understood that language.
Gustav's ability at the piano was astonishing, especially considering his tender age. When he played, it was as though the very air around us was transformed. The household itself, often marked by tension and conflict, would fall into an uncanny silence, as if we were all united in a single purpose, even if only for a moment. Father, despite his usual volatility, would sit quietly and peacefully when Gustav played. To my youthful mind, it was a miracle, what about the music influenced our father to make him so docile? Was it pride? An unspoken pact between them? A sense of shared dignity?
Thus, I will never truly know the answer. But what I do know is how rare and beautiful those moments were, sitting together in that room, speaking as people do when they are free from the burdens of the world. It was a pure, untouched scene. Occasionally, we would gather as a family, a pitcher of lemonade in hand, and simply listen to Gustav's songs, letting the hours drift by unnoticed.
For those who may wonder about the actual composition, I confess that the title eludes me. What memory I do recall, remains vivid, being one of quick repetition, and it's deep resonant tone. It was heavy song. I can only describe it as a Marschlied, based on its repetition and beat.
Later, during my time in the service, I would listen to tunes very close to it, but none exactly the same. Gustav would eventually play it again when I was ten, yet despite my persistent inquiries, he never gave me a true answer about the songs name. Instead, he merely joked about forgetting it, leaving me with nothing more.
I stood there, mesmerized, listening to that song for what seemed like an eternity. The sight before me was so captivating that I could not tear my eyes away, even when someone called to me. It was only later that I realized it was my mother, who had asked me to attend to some chores in the kitchen.
The deep red of the piano's wood stood in stark contrast to the white ivory keys, while my brother's black sleeves and pale hands seemed to blend seamlessly with the instrument. He wore one of his favorite suits once again. Every press of the keys were deliberate, precise, yet so fluid, as if he were not even fully conscious of his movements.
The music itself carried a sense of urgency, as though time itself was passing, it demanded action from me. It stirred something within me---a sense of duty perhaps(?), yet I could not name it. It disturbed me, leaving behind a sense of mediocrity. I had to do something, but what? The music was true art, unsettling the soul with it's churning vibrations.
I lost track of time as I stood there watching. Eventually, Gustav was removed from his trance, he noticed my curiosity, and motioned for me join him on the bench so I could see it more clearly. The next song he played was a sorrowful one; its name still unknown to me, a mystery that I could not resolve, even with effort searching later in life. I can only play pieces of it, the ones that he taught me during the few lessons on the piano he would later give.
Several hours later, after many more songs, that memory began to fade. It blurred out for me as my mother entered the room, calling us to dinner. What stuck with me the most was that she did not reprimand me for leaving the room, or for neglecting the chores she had assigned. Instead, there was only a quiet acceptance, my mother clearly knew how I had felt, and let it go.
She smiled at us in a way that was rare for her---genuine, unguarded. It was one of the few truly peaceful nights I had at home, moments made possible only by my brother and his piano, in that moment in time, I felt a strange comfort, as though, despite everything, I might somehow be all right.
The Author
Vienna Hospital Authority
Long-term Care Ward