23

“N—no,” Corey said to Hitler. “No, I didn’t think Handsome Karl was a good speaker. Or handsome.”

It was hard to even look at him, let alone talk. Leila’s face was pasty. She hadn’t yet said a word.

Hitler was setting down his heavy shoulder bag across the street from the Café Central. Fritzie was long gone. After that display in town, so was Corey’s appetite.

“All those things the mayor said about Jews . . .” Leila said. “It was wrong. People are people.”

“Ach, Lueger does not mean this.” Hitler’s voice was raspy and hoarse from all the shouting. “He works with Jews in government. They are his friends. They love him very much. He loves them.”

“That makes no sense,” Leila said. “If they’re his colleagues and friends, and they love each other, why does he want to kill them?”

Hitler looked surprised. “Kill? He does not say kill.”

“But if he says he wants to get rid of them . . .”

Hitler waved a dismissive hand. “He is . . . how do you say . . . politic . . .”

“Politician,” Corey said.

“There are many more who feel this way. Lueger speaks truth, but he is weak. The country is weak. This is because of the Jews, Liebchen. You will see this when you are older. They suck out all the marks—the money. Someday we will take it all back. Someday.” Hitler reached into his sack and brought out two easels and stacks of paintings, drawings, and postcards. “I lost much time today, watching Lueger. So. You stay and help me sell?”

Corey gulped. His brain was racing. He could grab a rope, put it around this man’s throat, and it would all be over.

If he were a murderer.

Think, he told himself. Think this through.

At this point in his life, even though Hitler was clearly a crackpot, he still thought he was talented enough to be an artist. But the dream was crumbling. He was shy and not very talented. He was poor, yet all around him he faced satisfied, well-fed people. He was a failure next to the geniuses who were already becoming famous. Every day brought more hits to his ego. He wasn’t going to be able to take this forever. The more he failed, the more he’d need someone to blame. Someone besides himself.

Corey knew what was going to happen. Everyone in the future did. World War I was going to wreck Germany. The country would plunge into poverty. The Nazi party would form. Hitler would fail as an artist, and he would shift. He would give in to his anger. To that ugly, shrieking voice. The voice would gain power. It would convince others. That power would lead to death. Unless, right now, Corey and Leila did something radical.

Hitler had chickened out when he’d had the opportunity to apprentice with a genius. Somehow, they would have to make that happen.

Corey grabbed one of Hitler’s paintings and held it lovingly in the sunlight. “Whoa. This is incredible. How much do you want for this one?”

Hitler shrugged. “Ach. Vielleicht five marks? It is not very good.”

“Are you joking?” Corey said. “Only five? For this?”

He looked desperately at Leila. She nodded. “It’s worth . . . seventeen,” she said. “Siebzehn. At least.”

“Haw!” Hitler’s cheeks reddened as he smiled. “Liebe Kinder! You are young. I show to people. They say, two marks . . . three. Here is Vienna, not Stuttgart! Here is best artists in the world!”

“You need exposure,” Corey said, but Hitler stared at him blankly. “It’s not just about talent. You need for people to meet you. Important people.”

“Ja, ja, ja,” Hitler replied, still neatly placing his work on the easels. “I know important people.”

“Cool!” Corey said. “I mean, very good! Who?”

Hitler waggled his eyebrows, smiling at a woman dressed in furs who stared at his collection and then at him. She removed a cigarette from her mouth, blew smoke in his face, and left. “Ach. Schreckliche Hündin! She will see. Someday I go to meet these people. I will work for Herr Roller!”

“Alfred Roller? The Alfred Roller?” Leila said, shooting a quick glance to Corey. “You know him?”

“Not yet.” Hitler tapped his pants pocket and raised an eyebrow. “I have letter of . . . how do you say . . . ?”

“Introduction!” Corey blurted out, quickly adding, “I’m guessing.”

“His stage designs are ganz dramatisch . . . strong. Beautiful!” Hitler sighed. “But he is modern. Abstract. I am more . . . klassisch. Traditional. I am not certain he will like me. Or I will like him.” He turned to pay attention to a hurried-looking man with wire-rim glasses, who was examining one of the paintings. “Guten Abend!” Hitler said. “Dieses Kunstwerk kostet nur fünf Mark.”

“Fünf Mark? Ha! Schwindler . . .” The man gave a derisive laugh and walked away.

“He calls me thief.” Hitler’s face darkened. “Schwein. He is thief! Banker. Steals from working people.”

“I have an idea,” Leila said. “My uncle Fritzie is playing piano tonight for a party at the opera house. Let’s go—you, Corey, and me. Maybe Roller will be there.”

Corey smiled. Leave it to Leila.

“Thank you,” Hitler said. “But I will go to the house of Roller by myself . . . someday.”

“Alone?” Leila said. “Just you and this world-famous guy? In his house? I wouldn’t be brave enough to do that. I’d just freeze up! Think how much easier it is to meet people around a piano. Singing. Telling jokes. Maybe Fritzie can play your favorite song. You can sing! Herr Roller will be relaxed. He’ll love you.”

“Ach, I have bad voice . . . very bad.” Hitler nodded toward a young guy who was dressed in an expensive-looking black suit with a cape. “Guten Abend! Möchten Sie ein Kunstwerk kaufen?”

The man eyed Hitler’s postcards carefully, looked at Hitler, and burst out hysterically laughing. “Das ist keine Kunst!”

“He asked the guy if he wanted to buy art,” Leila whispered to Corey. “And the guy said, ‘That is not art.’”

“Ouch,” Corey said. “That’s harsh. I don’t know, sir. It’s so tough to sell art on the street. You need to be in a place where people appreciate your talents.”

As the man walked away, Hitler’s shoulders sagged.

“Six o’clock?” Leila said. “In front of the opera house?”

“I will think about it,” Hitler said with a sigh.