IYKYK

If you know, you know; people always say that now. I wish they wouldn't. Even I don't want to know what I know. I don't want to think of how many lives we lost trying to save just one, and in doing so save many more. Trying got me here. Here, I know and don't want to. In my here, I answered the question, what if, as the smells of death permeate my nostrils. Everywhere death blooms. Even the flowers waft fragrant bouquets of decay.

Here's the part where everyone asks, well, who were you trying to save? That's what eats me up inside, like an alien creature gnawing away, attempting to break free. It doesn't even matter who I went back to save, but I'll tell you, I will tell it all one last time. The entire tale. I'd say the whole truth and nothing but the truth. However, there's not always just one truth. Truth is like reality, subjective. I'll tell you all, never you fear, but in the end you'll be afraid, or maybe that's not quite the right word, because you're not here, at least not yet. One day you might end up in my here and now, where the bodies litter the roadways, some housed in metal coffins with glass windows for viewing by the few still living. Those lucky enough to not be inside when the gas vented went quick, their simple life spark extinguished in an instant. The unlucky ones languish, watching everything fall apart.

But you didn't come here to read about my here and my now. You came along because you wanted to know why I would want to save Adolf Hitler.

I don't mean I wanted to save him from his bunker, just to put him on what would end up being a series of show trials, or to save him from prostituting himself and catching syphilis. I wanted to make sure he passed art school, the first time. And did I succeed? Yes, and, as I inhale putrid air surrounding me, a resounding no. Sure I saved him, and the world, with a devil's bargain.

How I got there, well let's just say I took a very specific train, sending me back to a very specific time. One way fare. No, take-backs. I told the conductor where, and shovel by shovel I primed the furnace, sweat dripping everywhere, skin baking red. I loaded coal longer than time itself. In my coal shoveling stupor, I couldn't tell you what happened at the end of my eternal train ride. I opened my eyes, and there I was, in Vienna, watching a group of painters working in a courtyard, speaking in German, which somehow I understood well despite no knowledge of the language, outside of "Ich bin ein Berliner". The drizzle tinkled on canvas umbrellas as the hopeful applicants toiled with brush and pen.

"Tomorrow's the big entrance exam. Are you ready?" one painter said to another

"I am. My sketchbook is full. Alas, poor Adolf, his drawings are…" the other painter replied, shrugging his shoulders.

"Oh I know, if they tested us solely on our paint skills, he may stand a chance," the first continued.

A few nodded in agreement as the director of The Academy of Fine Arts, Vienna, entered the courtyard, hoping to curry some favor. A few of the young men stood straight up as if at attention, realizing many of them would stand at attention during the Great War. I walked toward the director, knees threatening to give way with every step. There I was, about to change everything. My hopes soaring, as if a falcon taking flight. Approaching the man, Christian Griepenkerl, I extended my hand, rain pattering on the envelope. He took it, turned it over, squinched his nose, before walking back inside. Not a word spoken, but I know he read the letter.

A letter delivered to Christian Griepenkern:

Sehr geehrte Damen und Herren,

Ich bitte Sie, einem Bewerber, Adolf Hitler, besondere Aufmerksamkeit zu schenken. Obwohl seine Zeichnungen etwas mangelhaft sein mögen, kann man seine Fähigkeiten auf der Leinwand nicht ignorieren. Er soll schnell lernen, sich anpassen und alle Hindernisse überwinden. Ich versichere dir.

Ich danke Ihnen für Ihre Aufmerksamkeit und verbleibe mit freundlichen Grüßen.

-English translation-

Ladies and Gentleman,

I implore you to give extra attention to one applicant, Adolf Hitler. Though his drawings may be a touch lacking, we cannot ignore his skills on canvas. He shall learn quickly, adapt, and overcome all obstacles. I assure you.

I thank you for your attention and remain with kind regards.

Paula Modersohn-Becker

I handed the letter off, watching the man as he took it inside, then I left, searching for a place to rest. Some days later, after seeing some or the places I'd only ever read about, I took my courage up to find the acceptance posting. There, in the very last spot of acceptances, the name Adolf Hitler. I'd done it. I changed everything. That letter, from the soon to be deceased painter everyone knew, must have made all the difference. Now I wish I'd never done it.

You may remember how I said that the train was a one-way ride. I've gotten to watch history I've only read about in books unfold, on a new timeline.

It all started with the Great War. They gave waivers to those involved with the arts, but Hitler volunteered. When he volunteered, someone else took his spot in school and became quite famous. When Hitler found out the artist wasn't even German, it sparked something even darker than I'd read in the history books. Things progressed with great similitude, echoes of what I knew, yet not the same. Time compressed. After the war, he didn’t go back to school, instead he spent his time intensely discussing his stolen dreams with any listening ear. His bitterness overflowed, venomous words flew from his mouth, like knives thrown straight at the heart; finding their mark. Adding salt to the wound, his love interest became romantically involved with a foreigner.

His speeches riled up crowds, growing larger by the day, it seemed, until one day His Nazi party took control, with him as the chancellor. With a swift, iron fist, he rounded up all the foreigners before they could sneak off in the night. Those with skills he put to work, making the most diabolical weapons of destruction imaginable. They sent the rest to camps.

Jet planes were just the beginning. What followed haunts me, years after the war. He followed up his aerial marvels by inventing better dying through chemistry. Gaseous compounds to rot the flesh from the inside, liquid, that when sprayed on plants, would turn them into goo in a matter of hours, and for the finale, his grand triumph, built with the help of men like Einstein and Braun, not just an atomic bomb, but a bomb that could disperse clouds of drifting death. Clouds that would travel the world, raining death upon all they touched. Hundreds of millions died. After the last allied government collapsed, he released counter agents, sparing the few left. He never even had to invade, just drop the bombs from advanced jets. All while building Germany into an impregnable fortress, impermeable to the chaos raining down around the world.

I tried to save one man, and thus the millions he killed. I went through hell to save them and created my own. I alone know what I’ve done, the choice to take that midnight train, shoveling coal, feeding the damnation I would bring, stoking the flames, the train screaming feed me, feed me. More fuel, more, as I burned, turning red with the heat. I still feel that heat inside, burning. I often wonder, shall I ever succumb to death, or is this my curse for eternity?

I tell you this, should you find this letter, or worse yet, should you find this letter on a train, going to one place of your choice. The train is a devil's bargain, a monkey's paw with one finger left, destination damnation. Run, run and live your life, I say to you. You can’t change the past for the better. No matter where you tell the train to go, Hell awaits.