Chapter twenty three:
To the Congo IV --- July 1907
No matter how I adjusted, how I positioned her, the result felt unnatural.
Positioning the yet-unnamed woman proved far more difficult than I had anticipated. The withering of her arm, the loss of its function, made any attempt at a natural pose seem forced, unnatural. Even a simple forward-facing stance failed to capture anything but an air of discomfort.
Realizing that no standing posture would suffice, I sent Conrad and Nicholas back to the village to retrieve one of the wooden benches used during the celebration. With any luck, having her seated would restore some sense of ease to the composition.
As we waited, Arnold took a deep breath and began recounting the woman's story.
"She had been taken as a hostage, a bargaining chip for her family's labor. She was young—too young—and her fate had been sealed not by her own actions but by sheer misfortune. That year, an issue arose with the rubber storage; three barrels, each containing countless hours of toil, had been damaged."
"This loss left the village short of its assigned quota—an unforgivable failure in the eyes of their overseers. Each barrel represented backbreaking labor, countless hours stolen from the lives of those forced to extract the sap."
"The officer himself was absent, and so, by the cruel logic of the system, a 'more lenient' punishment was administered. In his stead, his delegates ruled that rather than severed hands, the guilty would receive lashes instead—a mockery of mercy."
"It was, in their eyes, a moral compromise—a way to maintain the facade of justice without outright slaughtering half a dozen innocents."
"When the moment of punishment arrived, the others endured their lashings and survived—some even escaping serious injury thanks to the protective layering of their clothing. But for the young girl, Mwanza, fear had already consumed her. Watching the pain of those before her, she had built it up in her mind, let it fester into something greater than itself."
"So when her turn came, when the first lash fell upon her, instinct betrayed her—she recoiled. In that split second, as she twisted away, the tail of the whip snapped across her face, striking her eye. The wound was instant, and irrevocable."
I winced at the thought. I had long understood how fragile the human body was—how little force was required to break an arm, to shatter bone. As a child, I had learned that lesson firsthand. But an injury such as this? The mere thought sent a shudder through me.
I tried to place myself in that moment, to grasp the sheer agony she must have felt—but words failed me. Pain of that magnitude defies the pen. It is something beyond human description, beyond comprehension, until one has endured it themselves.
True horror can only be known through experience. No story, no description, can ever fully capture it. This, I believe with absolute certainty.
"From that moment on, everything blurred together. She remembered little beyond the ceaseless care of her parents—their desperate prayers, the crude herbal remedies they prepared in vain."
"But the wound festered. Infection took hold early, and the pain was unlike anything she had ever known. Twice, she was certain she had died. Yet somehow, impossibly, she lingered. She had no way of explaining it, but she knew—she was dying."
"When the infection reached her spine, there was no hope. None survived such a thing. She was carried to the church so her family could say their final goodbyes. Yet against all odds, against every natural law, she lived."
"It was nothing short of a miracle—one in a billion, I would say. A True miracle. She emerged from the ordeal with only the loss of her left arm's function and a slight weakness in her legs. A small price to pay for survival."
"You must understand that simply does not happen. You may not have my understanding of medicine, but even you must see it. A spinal infection in this place? There is no surviving that. No explanation exists but the will of God—no other answer will I accept."
"Had I not seen her with my very own eyes, I would have dismissed it as impossible."
I did not respond at first. I simply absorbed the weight of the story. Though I had no formal study of medicine, I understood well enough the horrors of infection without proper treatment. In every account I had read, such cases ended in death. That she had survived such a fate seemed beyond the realm of possibility. A true act of providence.
We sat in silence for a time, gazing out over the village below, waiting for Nicholas and Conrad to return with the bench. Then, Arnold turned to me with a question.
"Would you hear the story of how this village burned?"
My first instinct was to refuse. I had little time left—once this painting and the village scene were complete, we had to depart if we were to reach the train station before dark. But there was something in Arnold's expression, an unspoken weight behind his words. He needed to tell this story. And so, I relented.
"I would be honored to hear it. Speak while I work."
Arnold seemed ready to say more, but before he could, the sound of approaching footsteps drew our attention. Looking down, we saw Nicholas and Conrad struggling up the steep incline, forced into a zig-zag pattern as they balanced the heavy bench between them. The sight was almost comical—they looked like beasts of burden, methodically picking their way up a mountain path.
At last, they reached the summit. Together, we set up the bench and helped Mwanza into position.
Painting Mwanza proved to be the quickest of the three portraits. By then, something within me had shifted—I had broken through a barrier, where thought and hesitation no longer held me back. My hands moved instinctively, guided by something greater than reason.
I began with the foundation—proportions, the defining edges where body and space met. From there, my movements grew swifter, more deliberate. Shadows took shape, color bled into form, the blending of figure and background seamless. Then came the finer details—the soft strands of hair, the flicker of light, the subtle textures of skin and cloth.
In the end, it had taken no more than two hours. And yet, as I stepped back and beheld the finished work, I knew—it was among my finest.
It was not perfect. Compared to Makasi's portrait, the flaws were more apparent. But in those very imperfections lay its power—something raw, unpolished, yet deeply human.
Where Makasi's portrait bore a heavy, esoteric rage, something that only the most unfortunate men might experience in their life, this one burned with something grounded, of defiance, of focus, the pain of an unhealed wound. And in that, I understood something fundamental: art is not merely about feeling, but about understanding. For what use is an emotion if it cannot be grasped? If it cannot be tempered? If it cannot be used?
Throughout my life, I have seen many paintings. True works of art that stirred emotions within me--obscure, indescribable, esoteric sensations that faded as quickly as they came. But this?
This painting, I felt, could speak true its emotion to anyone who beheld it. And in that realization, something shifted in my heart. My disdain for abstract works softened—if only slightly. Perhaps, I thought, abstraction was merely another means of conveying what their words and figures could not. A heavy crutch, perhaps—but a necessary one for those who lacked another way.
"Yes," I decided, it was a hidden crutch, no doubt. I would never embrace such a style myself, but for the first time in my life, I could afford its practitioners a measure of respect—even if I would never in my life voice it aloud.
After Mwanza had taken her time to observe the painting in silence, then she departed. I retrieved my final canvas, setting it in place. Yet, unlike the portraits, I had no clear vision for this last piece. So, I let instinct guide me, allowing Arnold's voice to again fill the space as I worked.
"In early 1900, a reporter arrived in the mining town. Walloon or Dutch, I could not say for certain—only that his accent marked him as a foreigner. He came to uncover the truth, to document the officer's crimes and the atrocities carried out by his so-called 'delegates.'"
"He did his work well, capturing photographs of the wounded, recording testimonies of those who had suffered. I never met the man myself, only heard of his efforts after he had gone."
"At the time, I thought little of it. My own letters to the government, detailing the same crimes, had been ignored, dismissed, or simply lost in the bureaucratic abyss. But later that year, when word arrived that the officer was to be replaced, I allowed myself a fleeting sense of righteousness."
"Reading between the lines, it was clear—the journalist's work had stirred something, if only politically. The government, eager to quiet the storm, chose the simplest solution: remove and replace. A 'reformation,' they called it."
"It should have been a mere transition of power, a quiet exchange. But the officer, now faced with the loss of his wealth—wealth built upon illicit rubber sales—chose another path. He sent a report back to the authorities: the natives were rebelling."
"The claim was absurd, baseless. And yet, what purpose did it serve? The man lost his job all the same. Was it mere spite? Revenge upon a village that had done nothing, in a place the reporter had never even set foot?"
"Regardless, the order was given—burn the village, execute the people. But the latter never came to pass. As the reluctant delegates set the first flames, one among them, a man granted authority by the officer himself, turned against him. A blade found his back, and within minutes, he was dead."
"We fought the flames as best we could, but the fire had been set deep. Only a handful of buildings at the village's edge survived, their materials salvaged and repurposed in the years that followed."
"The government never sent another officer. Perhaps this place was simply abandoned, erased from their records—a forgotten ruin in the heart of the Congo. I do not know. I only know that, since that day, we have been left alone."
"I thank you, Adolf, for listening. Even if it sounds too far-fetched to believe, it is good to have the story heard by someone who will one day leave this place."
Two hours after Arnold's tale had ended, my work was complete. The painting was unlike anything I had done before—not necessarily better, but different. It demanded more of me, more imagination, more precision, more planning.
I abandoned my original vision. Instead, I chose to depict the village as it had been—engulfed in flames, the missing buildings restored only to be consumed. At the heart of the scene, atop the hill, lay the body of the officer, his dead eyes turned skyward. The composition was beyond anything I had attempted before, pushing the limits of my ability.
Lacking any clear reference, I had to invent the officer's uniform—an approximation drawn from distant memory, borrowing elements from police regalia and the vague outlines of colonial dress.
Each building had to be reconstructed from memory, pieced together from what I had observed in the port and the mining town. Creating something from imagination alone was a challenge—but capturing not just form, but feeling, was even harder.
Yet, when I stepped back, I saw that I had crossed the unseen threshold. The painting did not scream with rage, as I had anticipated, but rather exuded something quieter—wistfulness, perhaps even a resigned indifference.
I could not decide if I liked it. It was different, that much was certain. Not every piece an artist creates is one he holds in high esteem—this, I knew, was one of those works. Perhaps time would grant me a new perspective. But for now, it was finished. After a final handshake and brief farewells, we departed.
The return journey mirrored our arrival—trudging along the same trail, wrapped tightly in cloth, the heat pressing upon us with relentless weight. It was stifling, miserable even, but never to the point of true danger.
We pressed forward until the last usable light faded into soft darkness, forcing us to make camp just off the trail. The night air, cooler than before, offered a small mercy—I drifted into sleep with ease.
The next morning, something was off—Conrad. Unlike Nicholas, who had slung his rifle over his shoulder, Conrad carried his at the ready, held across his chest. At first, I ignored it, assuming it was just another one of his habits. But as the morning wore on, the sight began to irk me. Surely, in this oppressive heat, it would be easier to carry on his back? A glance at Nicholas told me he had noticed as well.
Unable to suppress my irritation any longer, I turned to him. "Conrad, why are you holding your rifle like that? Just sling it over your back—it's not as if we're about to be mauled by a panther."
He barely acknowledged me, his expression flat. Clearly annoyed, he let the conversation die, walking in silence for hours. But near midday, he finally spoke.
"It's the small things that kill a man."
"What?" I muttered, caught off guard. The words held a strange, twisted logic, but they seemed wholly unconnected to my question. He spoke as if quoting some old wisdom, yet his tone carried no weight of authority—just an idle observation.
"My grandfather told me that before I joined the service," Conrad continued. "He always said the smallest details matter most—a broken roof tile, a door left ajar, a curtain drawn differently than usual. Those are the things that decide whether a man lives or dies."
"He knew what he was talking about. He fought in the wars against Napoleon—both the Sixth and the Seventh Coalitions. Spent years in the aftermath, pacifying the land."
"When I fought against Napoleon's nephew, his advice saved my life. I was assigned to a supply route during the siege of Paris, passing by the same old mansion every day."
"I made a habit of watching everything—just like he taught me. Every brick, every shadow, every pattern in the dirt. Then one day, something changed."
"A curtain had been drawn across the highest window. A small thing—insignificant to most. No one else noticed, but I did. I told my officer, and we halted the convoy."
"We raided the house immediately. Inside, we found a man clutching a crude, homemade 'grenade'—if it could even be called that. It was barely more than a tin can filled with powder, useless as a weapon unless it landed right at our feet."
"But the real danger wasn't the grenade—it was what we were carrying. Half a ton of ammunition in our convoy. If that thing had gone off anywhere near us, we'd all have been blown to pieces—him included."
"This place gives me that same feeling," Conrad muttered, his voice low. "Something's wrong here. The village is abandoned, yet we were watched the whole time. The governor disappeared without a trace. You don't just lose a man like that. They killed him—I'm sure of it."
"Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it's nothing. But I'm not gambling my life on a 'maybe.' I'd rather look like a fool carrying my rifle than end up with a bullet in my back."
"That makes no sense. How do you just lose a village?" I asked, my younger self unable to comprehend such a thing. But as I know now—and as Conrad already understood then—the Congo operated on a different scale entirely.
"You can't fathom the scale of this place," Conrad continued. "Picture ten thousand men trying to control all of France, the Lowlands, Germany, Austria, and Italy at the same time—except with barely any roads, no infrastructure, and a government that doesn't care. Mistakes happen. Villages disappear."
I nodded, unable to find a retort. No clever remark, no joke came to mind. What he said made sense. If the Congo was truly as vast and ungoverned as he described, what was the loss of a single village? People die from complacency. In moments like this, better to be paranoid—like Conrad—than to end up dead.
What happened next—I can only call it fate. An intervention by the invisible hand of destiny itself. Just as I nodded in agreement, tilting my head downward—the shot rang out. The bullet passed right over where my head had been.
There are moments in life that defy reason—coincidence stacked upon coincidence, too improbable to be mere chance. I will not attempt to explain it. Let it be understood simply as an act of God. There is no other fitting description.
The shot cracked through the air. As I instinctively threw myself to the ground, I wasn't thinking of the shooter, or the reason for the attack. Instead, I fixated on the sound itself—it was quieter than I had expected. Almost… hollow. It struck me as absurd.
That strange, detached thought shattered as more gunfire erupted. Conrad had already reacted, returning fire into the jungle on our left. I barely had time to register what was happening before I heard Nicholas cry out in pain.
Chaos swallowed my senses. I didn't know where Nicholas had been hit—only that he had. My body moved on instinct, reaching for a strip of cloth as I crawled toward him through the dirt. But when I reached him, he was already wrapping his left hand, his face twisted in pain.
His rifle had slipped from his sling, lying in the dirt beside him. I grabbed it—not in some grand moment of righteous fury, but out of sheer instinct, confusion. I barely aimed. I simply fired in the same direction Nicholas had, emptying my entire magazine before he had even fired his sixth shot.
I never saw a target. No clear figures, no definite shapes—just shifting shadows in the undergrowth. Perhaps there was a scream? A voice carried away by the wind? I couldn't tell. It was all too fast. Then Nicholas shouted—his voice sharp with urgency—ordering us west, toward the tracks. Without hesitation, we obeyed.
I scrambled to my feet and broke into a crouched run, keeping low, desperate to let the jungle conceal me. Every step felt unnatural—half stumbling, half sprinting, with my pack jostling against my back. We pushed forward like that for nearly twenty meters until the ground beneath us sloped downward into a shallow ravine.
As my boots dug into the soft earth, I felt something strange—a sensation beyond mere fear. It was as if the world around me had been stripped bare, leaving among one of its most essential truth's.
This was the abyss. There were no laws here, no treaties, no offices where decrees were stamped and filed away. No judges to weigh the scales of justice, no constables to enforce order. The world I had known—the world of streets and squares, of uniforms and ledgers, of art and debate—meant nothing in this wilderness. Here, power belonged to the unseen, to the hunters in the dark who required no justifications, only opportunity. And yet, was this not the truth of all things? Was civilization anything more than an illusion, a frail construct we built to keep the abyss at bay? How many governments had fallen to the same violence I now fled? How many so-called nations had been wiped from the world by men who simply willed it so?
And in this moment, we were no different. We ran like animals, primal and wordless, dictated not by ideals but by survival. There was no art in this, no grand expression, no culture—only the raw, unfiltered truth of existence. I had read of such things before, of ancient tribes and their struggles against nature, of warriors carving empires out of dust. But never had I felt it in my bones. Never had I seen how thin the barrier truly was. How quickly the modern man, the cultured man, could become the hunted beast.
Would Vienna be so different if its walls fell? Would the palaces and cafés protect its people when the order that sustained them crumbled? I could almost see it—the fine suits drenched in sweat, the professors and clerks scattering like rats, no different from the savages they once pitied. Perhaps I was seeing the world as it truly was, stripped of its pleasantries, revealed in its purest form.
And yet, I did not despair. If the world was a jungle, then strength would be its only law.
The thought hardened something in me, though I had no time to dwell on it. I was still running, still fighting for every breath. Once inside the ravine, the world narrowed to a single command—run. And we did. We ran harder than I had ever run in my life, the weight of my pack forgotten in the sheer panic of the moment. My lungs burned, my legs ached, but we kept going. Thirty minutes, perhaps more, until finally—blessedly—we saw the train tracks ahead, cutting through the jungle like a lifeline.
There was no time to collapse, no time to catch our breath. Conrad immediately turned to Nicholas, his voice sharp. "Your hand. How bad?" The answer mattered. If the bones were shattered, he could die from infection in these conditions. But by some stroke of luck, the bullet had passed clean through, splitting the skin and muscle between his pointer and middle finger—painful, but not fatal.
We didn't stop. We couldn't. As we started sprinting down the tracks, Conrad laid out the plan in clipped, urgent tones. "We take the tracks to the station and hold it. Three entry points—two for the train, one door. If we can't lock it, we barricade it with our packs."
"Adolf, you and I will hold position by the door, lying flat against the wall. We need tight angles—if they push from the tracks, we'll see them first. I take the left; you take the right. Nicholas, you get behind the Ticketmaster's desk. Any questions?"
If I had known then what I know now, I would have pointed out a hundred ways this plan could fail—what if no train came for days? What if we ran out of water? What if they were waiting to ambush us? What if they had heavier weapons? But in that moment, I didn't think. I simply nodded.
Back then, I didn't question it. Conrad was the only one among us who had seen real war. He had no hesitation, no doubt, and so I followed. I ran with them down the tracks, my hands clutching a rifle with no bullets, toward a station with no certainty of a train, with the possibility of an unseen enemy lying in wait.
If there was a moment where I truly became myself—where the Adolf Hitler you now know was shaped—it was there, in that jungle. That night. That run. It did not complete me, but it set me on my path.
The transformation would not be total. Not yet. That would come later.