This memory is not my own, but rather a story Gustav would recount to me in our later years. It occurred near the end of March, when Gustav was just ten, and I was seven, nearly eight. What inspired him to pursue the trade of stocks, I cannot say---it may have been a newspaper he stumbled upon, or perhaps one of the many books he loved to read, and eagerly explain to me the contents thereof.
But he was drawn to the game nonetheless, and yet, there was a fundamental obstacle. It was illegal for a child to engage in such dealing. As in those earlier days, stock trading was seen by most as little more than gambling for the less deprived, it was a pursuit reserved for prosperous adults. Gustav, of course, was no adult.
The odds were stacked against him, yet he pressed on, unrelenting. Near the center of Linz, there stood a small trading office---nothing more than a modest building. With the money he had painstakingly saved over the years, from chores to selling trinkets, Gustav made his way to this building with a purpose. But instead of charging in recklessly, as a lesser child might, he waited patiently until closing time.
A calculated move, as one would only find men who were dedicated to the practice for them to stay in the building for such a long time. The act demonstrated a sense of patience and strategy beyond what one would expect of his years. For a normal child might try and enter, expecting to find a way through sheer will alone. Yet Gustav was no normal child; he was simply more.
After the markets had closed, Gustav encountered a man. His name was never told to me---Gustav kept that to himself---but I do know he was British. This man was a cold capitalist, investing in the poorest nations, exploiting their resources through mines.
He would return a meager portion of the profits to the workers, who accepted it as better than what other options they had. I never learned the other details of the conversation, but eventually, Gustav managed to convince the man to allow him to trade stocks under his name. An extreme risk for the man, due to the legalities of such an arrangement.
One might assume that a man so willing to exploit the vulnerable would soon renege on his promise, absconding with the profits Gustav had earned. But no. The man honored his word, returning month after month to assist Gustav in his trading. He even took it upon himself to teach him English---a truly strange thing.
When Gustav first shared this tale with me, I could scarcely believe it. It seemed to improbable. Why, I thought, would a British capitalist remain in Linz? Was it the cheap property that drew him in? But as time passed, and I saw with my own eyes later in life that Gustav indeed traded in that very building, I had little choice but to believe the man had existed as Gustav would proclaim.
It made sense in a certain way. Throughout his life, Gustav was always a figure of extraordinary luck. To me, the story seemed entirely plausible. I trusted his words. And now, with the wisdom of hindsight, I see that Gustav's fate was surely guided by providence itself.
The odds of a British man of such character crossing paths with a child in Linz were astronomically low. The chance that he would not only take Gustav under his wing, but also teach him English? Even slimmer. Such things did not happen in the real world, odds like that were found in fairy tales. It must have been the whim of fate herself that guided their meeting.
1896
The following month, in July, just a week before my birthday, I sat alone in my room, reading a book. That was when I heard the door open. Setting my book aside, marking my place, I looked up and saw my mother standing in the doorway.
Her expression was different from usual---an awkward smile, tinged with concern. It struck me as odd that this, of all things, caught my attention. Her façade was extremely well done. Yet her eyes had told me a different story.
"Come on Sunshine, I need to talk to you."
At that moment, I became uneasy. That term of endearment, "Sunshine," was rarely used unless she was exceptionally happy. The disparity between her words and the look in her eyes was disheartening. My mind raced, trying to understand what I had done wrong.
"Had I done something at school?"
"Had I damaged something while doing the dishes?"
"No," I thought, the severity of her demeanor not matching the usual punishment. If it were something that trivial, Father would have simply beaten me. It must have been something worse.
In my panic, I irrationally concluded that someone or something must have been hurt. This foolish assumption was born from a memory of when a neighbor's dog died. I had seen that same awkward smile and forced cheer years before, as the news was broken to a grieving child.
Fortunately, I would soon learn that my fears were entirely unfounded. My mother led me to her room, and once the door was closed, she adopted a more serious expression---or at least, as serious as she could manage.
"I noticed you haven't invited any friends to your birthday party."
"Is everything alright?"
The moment I realized the true nature of the situation---a question born of concern, not a problem---I relaxed. I looked her squarely in the eye and simply told her the truth, trying to convey the full meaning: to put an end to any notion that I was anything but well and healthy. Not wanting her to worry.
"Yes, mom, everything is fine."
Even though I said it while meeting her gaze, it must have sounded awkward, perhaps even insincere. She continued, frowning now.
"It's just... you never bring anyone over. Are you feeling lonely or bored?"
Frustrated that my message wasn't coming across, and with some fear that any harsh words would be misunderstood, I simply restated my answer, using different words.
"No, Mom, Gustav and I have been keeping each other busy."
After a brief pause, I continued, finishing my little speech with a firm statement.
"Honestly, I don't feel lonely or bored, I always have Gustav around. You needn't fear me dying of boredom---we play chess, read books. Everything is fine, Mom."
Realizing I was indeed fine, not the lonely, depressed child she feared, she ended the conversation with some advice.
"You'll always have your brother. You understand that, don't you? But I worry if that's all you have."
She gave me a small smile at that, trying to wrap up the awkward conversation, ending on a positive note.
"You need good friends in your life. For my sake, when you go outside next time, please try to make some."
Eager to end the awkward exchange, I told her I would. We exchanged "I love you's," and the painful ordeal was finally over.
I don't know why this conversation stands out among all the others I've had, but looking back, it's comforting to realize just how much she cared for me---despite the fact that, at the time, I found it overbearing and somewhat annoying.
Since I am reflecting about impactful memories in my early childhood, one of the most profound occurred just before my ninth birthday. Father had gotten drunk again---not angry or violent, merely intoxicated---but Mother decided to take us out into the streets of Linz regardless.
Our outings were usually biweekly affairs, meant for groceries or running errands. But this time, as we walked along the streets, a man approached us---more specifically, my mother. He was dressed in a fine suit, the kind Gustav was want to admire.
At first glance, I assumed he was a salesman, perhaps peddling a house, or some expensive product. Why else would he approach us of all people? I figured at the time he mistook us for being a well-off sort, likely because of my mother's floral dress, which looked more expensive than it truly was.
Without hesitation, he launched into a pitch about a family portrait---how it would be a timeless piece, a treasure if kept clean and framed. I was surprised he was trying to sell us a painting, especially since we were far from the art galleries where street artists were want to often congregate.
To my astonishment, Mother agreed to his offer without even asking the price. I knew we weren't well-off, but this moment just shocked me. We had a budget for groceries, with maybe some spare moneys for clothing. That was it.
I glanced at Gustav and saw the same confusion of mine mirrored in his eyes. Then, to my surprise, he smiled---a rare, genuine smile. Smiling was uncommon in our family, not due to unhappiness; it was simply a gesture we didn't express often, or so openly.
"Thanks, mom. I appreciate it," Gustav said.
The artist then guided us to wooden stools set in front of one of the many churches scattered throughout downtown Linz.
He arranged us in an awkward pose that we held for what felt like hours. My back ached as he continually adjusted us. It felt like torture, but I endured it, determined to make Mother and Gustav happy. As I could see they were also enduring the pain for me as well.
An hour in, it became clear the portrait was nearing completion. His brushstrokes grew smaller and more deliberate. By then, even Mother's and Gustav's smiles had faded under the strain of holding their poses. But when the man finally announced he was done, I realized that all the discomfort had been worth it.
That all of our shared pain had been worth it. The portrait was astonishing. It seemed as though he had captured a moment in time, freezing us and our emotions. It was one of the most realistic paintings I had ever seen, it was us as a family; if I could explain the image, it was just warm, happiness on a canvas.
Mother and Gustav clearly felt the same way. We were all smiling as we made our way home, despite the lighter grocery bags--- a deficit we would feel for the rest of the month. Yet we all agreed: it had been worth it.
Mother often spoke of real art like this---how it could envelop someone entirely. She believed that true art wasn't just a captured reflection of reality, but something more real than reality itself, capable of transforming both its surroundings and the people who beheld it.
She was an amateur painter my mom was, creating small works on blank mugs or scraps of paper. She favored natures and animals---birds, the trees near our home, and the occasional golden sunset. I only saw her paint a few times, but one occasion stood out vividly.
It was a bluebird, and I was struck by the care she put into its wings. She spent hours perfecting their delicate details. But a month before my ninth birthday, I noticed she had stopped painting altogether. Her small workstation sat untouched for months, and her works seemed to vanish from the house.
Worried for her, I asked why she had stopped. She confessed that she had given up, explaining that she had never created what she called "true art." When she looked at her work, she saw only the effort she had poured into it, not the elusive essence she felt was missing within.
To me, her works were beautiful, and I told her so, insisting it was no reason to quit. But her decision was already made, and she had discarded her paintings. Still, with a smile, she handed me her supplies, promising that if I created a piece of "true art," she would paint with me again. That moment sparked the beginning of my own artistic pursuits---small attempts to capture distant mountains or the 'towering' buildings of downtown.
My early attempts were clumsy and 'messy,' but I persisted. I wanted---no, I needed---to create a piece of "true art" that could stir the soul. Something my mother believed she couldn't achieve, but that the street artist had captured so effortlessly.
That year, Gustav astonished me with a proper painting set---thick canvases, high-quality paints, and brushes. It was an extravagant gift, especially for a fourteen-year-old in a struggling family.
It was the most expensive gift anyone had ever given me, then or in the years to follow. I was amazed that Gustav could afford it, though in hindsight, his constant chatter about stocks hinted at how he managed it.
Gustav must have noticed my growing fascination with painting. He wasn't present for my conversation with Mother that day, but surely he saw the hours I spent gazing at the family portrait that man had crafted. I tried repeatedly to capture Mother, Gustav, or myself on canvas like that man, yet I always fell short of the elusive spark I craved, the spark I saw in that mans work.
I stuck with painting as my measure of art that day onwards.