Invisible effort

“Idiots! If they only knew whom they’d rejected!” Adi was pacing the room.

Gusti listened in silence.

“You’re talented. Just don’t give up,” he said, trying to encourage his friend.

“Maybe I should try again… But if it all repeats… I’ll make them see justice!” There was a fire in the young artist’s eyes that August had never seen before.

The Academy had declared Adi’s skills insufficient. He burned with outrage and hurt. But things were no easier at home.

“Drawing is work too,” his father said loudly, with reproach. “Although it is far from the best choice for a man. And I warned you!”

Adi bit his lip till it hurt and suddenly snapped:

“Enough! You never supported me or Mom!”

He jumped to his feet and ran out of the house, slamming the door.

Conversations with his father were always painful. Only his mother expressed constant support. Sickly, kind — it was she who had persuaded him to go and study. And now the treatment was failing, and Adi blamed himself for leaving her alone.

They met where people would never see them. In fact, hardly anyone ever noticed their presence at all.

“Tellenor,” the elder’s voice rang in the air, “you need to arrange things so that he finds the magazine. Open to the right page.”

“Interfere in such human trifles?” the younger smiled softly. “That means someone has to forget a magazine, or he has to wander into that room… at just the right time.”

“At the right second,” Aristel corrected him. “Destinies converge in seconds.”

“I prefer to work quietly, kindly, without pressure,” Tellenor muttered. “People are fragile…”

“Your ‘quietness’ cost us a year without summer,” the elder reminded him. “One more act of such ‘kindness’ — and expect a disaster.”

“Ridiculous,” Tellenor smirked. “How can kindness lead to a catastrophe?”

“If you mix it with carelessness,” the mentor replied without a hint of a smile.

“And remember: we are not the only ones trying to help people. Others won’t hesitate to ruin everything — for them and for us.”

One day, Adi went to the library to return the books borrowed before. He decided to wander between the shelves, looking for something new. Quite by accident, he stumbled upon a magazine — ‘Die Kunst für Alle’ — devoted to modern sculptors. For some reason it lay open beside the shelves.

Adi’s attention was drawn to the image of a thoughtful man — strong and yet doubting. “The Thinker,” he read.

Until then he hadn’t been interested in the human figure: architecture, landscapes seemed much more alive. “Why people? What’s in them?” But now there was something in that pose that resonated with him — with his will and his confusion.

The article was about Rodin. Adi had heard the name, but had never really looked into his work. The text said: “Failed three times to enter the Paris Academy… had no formal education… learned and became famous.”

Three times! Adi was struck. And the Academy was not the only path? The thought shook and encouraged him.

He recalled Professor Griepenkerl’s words: “Architecture starts from the human being. Understand the body and both ornament and form will come alive.” Once that had seemed like old man’s nonsense; now it echoed with meaning.

Next morning his mother came up behind him and laid her hand on his shoulder: he was sketching his cousin from memory. Her heart felt lighter.

“I’m so glad you’re sketching again. Your talent is greater than you think. The world has to see it.”

“Are you feeling better?” Adi smiled.

“Yes. Today is a special morning.”

“Mom… may I ask you to pose? I need to practice.”

“Of course, Dolphi. I’m always with you.”

Tellenor himself came to his mentor, pleased with his results.

“Have you seen? He’s drawing! So who’s the clever one here? I’m the clever one!”

“Pride is somebody’s favorite sin — you know whose,” the elder remarked.

“Oh, spare me those fairy tales.”

“You did a good thing. I appreciate it. But this is only one stage. Remember the last time we helped Dickens and almost miscalculated? Everything seemed under control, but he nearly died in that railway accident.”

“Well…” Tellenor began uncertainly.

“Let’s do without any ‘well’,” the mentor cut him off. “His path is safe now. But he’ll need us along the way for years. So get back to work.”

Adi happily saw his mother feeling better, and every week he drew her portraits. His father still called it a “circus”, but had become softer.

“I’ve spoken with Joseph, the local artist,” he said one day. “He teaches drawing from casts and life. If you want to get in, that matters.”

“You said it wasn’t worthy,” Adi said in surprise.

“You’re a stubborn lad. And stubbornness is strength. Think about it,” his father threw over his shoulder and walked away.

“I agree!” Adi almost shouted.

Lessons with Joseph unexpectedly revealed a great deal. In few days he had come up with his own architectural ideas that combined the harmony of nature and the human body.

But after some improvement his mother was getting worse again. The bleakest predictions did not come true — she lived to October, then to November. They even celebrated Christmas together — for the first time truly as a family. In January she was taken to the hospital.

“Just don’t stop drawing…” she begged.

Adi kept drawing — as if he could hold on to hope that way.

…And in February she was gone.

“Why?!” he cried to the sky.

“Just don’t stop…” whispered his memory.

“What for? Whom did it help?” he asked, feeling utterly powerless. His father had become rough again. Adi went to Joseph’s lessons only out of habit.

One day Gusti asked:

“What do you think of Herr Lueger?”

“A genius!” Adi brightened. “Vienna has never had a mayor like him — the one who broke liberal rule and fought for the people!

“He sees clearly who is ours and who is the enemy” - August nodded.

“That’s exactly what we need!” - replied Adi, - “Sometimes I doubt: what will I become with all this drawing? Maybe Father is right. Maybe I’m made for politics.”

August looked at him intently.

“Talent is greater than a life. Don’t bury it.”

When Aristel arrived, Tellenor was sitting in a garden beneath a violet-blue tree on a glowing bench.

“Master,” he bowed. “What wind blew you into our quiet corner?”

Aristel smiled inwardly — a cheeky, amusing pupil.

“Our previous support isn’t enough. He has to end up in the library again.”

“Well, last time helping with Father and Joseph was more fun than magazines, no?”

“We need a library.”

“You have such a boring approach, master,” Tellenor drawled. “How about some creativity? And what exactly this time?”

Hearing the explanation, he brightened:

“Fine, let it be the library. But let’s use Joseph! And his students. Otherwise there’s no benefit from the old man besides his lessons…”

Something shifted in the air. A faint breath of spring — or fate — stirred around. It was the very end of February.

Klara, one of Joseph’s students, asked Adi to help her. He didn’t really get along with girls, but she had the same name as his mother… a sign?

They agreed to meet at the Hauptplatz at ten. When Adi arrived, Klara was already waiting — in a light-blue coat and a funny beret.

“Come on!” She immediately took his hand and pulled him up the Promenade.

Winter in Linz was mild; this day was sunny, almost springlike. Klara led him to the Provincial Library at the foot of the castle hill — the very one he used to visit often.

“Herr Joseph asked us to pick illustrations by foreign artists,” she explained. “We’ll borrow some books for a while and work from them in his studio. Will you help?”

“Which ones exactly do you need?” Adi softened.

“Doesn’t matter. We’ll walk along the shelves: you on one side, me on the other.”

On one of the shelves, someone had left an art album sticking out into the aisle. The title read: The Soft Power of Art. Adi opened it at a crumpled page: on the left — Courbet; on the right — a painter unknown to him, Surikoff. Under the picture of Frau Morozova were small handwritten notes: “failed the exam,” “studied for a year,” “admitted,” and a quote of his: “If I do not yet know how, but I am worthy, I can learn.”

Adi sat down on the floor, whispering, “I am worthy to learn.” Leafing further, he saw Munch, Daumier, Millet.

“Politicians come and go… but artists remain,” flashed through his mind.

Klara sat down beside him.

“They say art inspired revolutionaries and reformers,” she said. “Can one paint in such a way that life becomes easier for people?”

“I don’t know anymore…” the young man answered quietly.

When the letter of acceptance arrived from the Academy in August, Adi didn’t believe it at first: he had got in.

And so, after failure and pain, he stood at the gates of the Vienna Academy as a student. Vienna looked different now: the same streets, the same squabbling clubs — yet everything seemed brighter. The pain was gone; only elation remained. August cheered for his friend with all his heart.

Politics seethed all around — the right against the left, nationalists against liberals — but Adi felt: this was not his war. His world lay in the studios. And, more importantly, Klara was by his side.

At the first student exhibitions, his work unexpectedly drew the attention of several respected artists.

Soon after one class, Professor Griepenkerl held him back:

“Adi, I owe you an apology for not supporting you last time. I see now that you have not only talent, but depth and will as well. If you agree, I’ll recommend that you go study in London and Paris. It’ll help you broaden your vision.”

Adi nodded, feeling joy spread inside him — and yet a faint shadow of anxiety: it would mean parting from Klara.

The professor went on:

“Still, there’s one thing I don’t understand: you’ve all but stopped working on architecture. A great part of your ability lies there.”

Adi smiled.

“Where there is a human being, there will be architecture.”

“Well, well,” Griepenkerl grunted approvingly.

How grateful Adi was to the old professor! Was it someone’s help from the world unseen? Was it his mom? New studies opened up the world to him. Moreover, he met artists whose boldness and freshness of thought deeply influenced his own path.

In London he grew close to Walter Sickert — witty, sharp, but a brilliant master of composition. They often met in a small café not far from the Slade, where Sickert would show him sketches and say: “Don’t be afraid of emptiness in the frame — sometimes it’s stronger than the figure.”

In Paris everything was different — noisier, broader, freer. There he befriended Modigliani: the latter came to class rumpled, but full of some strange inner music.

And a bit later fate brought him together with quiet, dreamful Chagall, who spoke as if each word were a brushstroke and each pause a spotlight.

These encounters, no less than his studies, gave him new forms and ideas. His art was already stepping beyond its time.

Weeks and months passed in the whirlwind.

Behind him lay a dazzling exhibition in Paris in 1912 and his participation in New York in 1913. His triptych ‘Heritage?’ provoked heated debates; many critics noted that it was he — Adi — who had raised humanism to a new level, drowning out the gloomy Futurism and “dark Expressionism” of Europe.

At the Königliche Ausstellungshallen am Lehrter Bahnhof, Adi stood among crowds drawn to his triptych ‘Heritage?’. Prince Ferdinand and even Kaiser Wilhelm praised him.

“If you ever choose to give your talent to politics, young man, our nation would rise to a new level,” the Kaiser remarked.

Adi only bowed with a smile. “I deeply appreciate your kindness, Your Excellency.”

A reporter from The New York Times caught him for a brief interview.

“What inspired Heritage?” was the question.

“Art unites,” Adi said. “It teaches harmony. The Bridge carries what is best in us toward the future; The Past warns us about the cost of old mistakes; and The Politician reminds us that true leadership is fragile, human — a man holding his child, not a figure of power. The triptych works only together. Three voices of one truth.

Yet, he managed to stay humble among the fame. Sometimes he and Klara would recall their Viennese years — the cheap rooms, odd jobs, constant fatigue — and smile at how far they had come.

At New York airport, waiting for his flight to Munich, Adi reflected on his life. How much he had achieved — and how much he still wanted to do. He drank his coffee and glanced at his watch: 10:20, a bright morning of May 4th, 1945.

When boarding was announced for the airship, he calmly headed to the gate, knowing that a full day of flight would give him time for memories and new ideas.

By mid-century, most empires had become parliamentary republics, and Europe looked peaceful. But the world was still far from ideal — Asia and Africa remained torn by conflicts.

Had he achieved much? Or had he simply been lucky?

He remembered the brink of war in 1914 — and how, almost miraculously and largely through the efforts of Duchess Sophia, who had created a women’s movement, the fighting was halted after only half a year. He had mobilized artists against the madness as well, yet even so there had been victims.

Perhaps he should have become a politician after all?

A week at home was over and he again was heading to Berlin. New exhibition.

He was alone. Klara had stayed in Vienna with their grandson Franz — Emma’s third child.

And then out of the blue…

“Ah, my friend, so you’re here too?” August walked into the compartment shining with his blinding smile.

“Ha! I can’t believe it!” - Adi jumped to his feet to met an old and dear friend. They embraced joyfully.

“I was going to drop in at your opera on my way back,” said Adi.

“We would have met anyway,” Gusti laughed. “By the way, I’ve made an unusual friend. He very much wants to meet you.”

“An artist?”

“No. An illusionist.”

The opening of the exhibition was as bright as thirty years earlier.

In the end, Gusti found him again.

“My magician will wait for you after the awards,” he said. “On a bench outside. And… be ready for anything.”

After Adi broke free from reporters and guests, he stepped into the park. A young couple sat on one bench; on another — a gentleman in a light jacket.

“Arist,” he introduced himself.

“Adi. Or Adolf.”

“You came. I’ve heard your doubts.”

“I’m not sure I follow.” - Adi said, puzzled.

“‘Art or politics?’, ‘Have I done enough?’, ‘Am I a good person?’ — does that ring a bell?”

A curiosity, not fear, came over him.

“Who are you?”

“Not important. But you still doubt your gift.”

“And what do you suggest?”

“Think with me. Was meeting Klara an accident? Providence?”

“Providence, I believe.”

“Wrong. You chose to go; she chose to trust.”

“So you’re… an angel?” - Adi felt as if he was dreaming.

“Call it what you like. But certainly not a demon. You went through your trials honestly.”

Arist studied him closely.

“Tell me, why didn’t Europe drown in war in fourteen?”

“Duchess Sophia, the women’s movement, America’s help…”

“And you. Say what you will, but your triptych influenced decisions you never heard about.”

Adi was bewildered.

“But there is still so much evil in the world… My influence is exaggerated.”

Arist’s face grew stern.

“Exaggerated? You helped the world become what it is. But someone else… didn’t manage to.”

“Who?”

“If you want to see — put your hand on my shoulder.”

Adi stepped forward like a boy ready for an adventure. The world dissolved.

He was standing among ruins. The Reichstag — a black shell with a red flag above it. The Reich Chancellery — in rubble.

“What flag is that?”

“The USSR. In your world it doesn’t exist: you prevented war and revolution. But in another, everything went differently.”

They walked along the corridors of a ruined building. In an office sat a dead man, his head fallen, a pistol on the floor.

Adi grew pale.

“He looks… exactly…”

“Like Adolf Hitler. Like you. This is you, who failed the exams and chose politics. This is the outcome. Well, you’ve seen enough,” and Arist grabbed his shoulder.

The world dissolved again. Adi found himself back in the familiar Berlin park.

“Hey, Adi!” August was running towards him. “Where’s the magician?”

“He was just here…” Adolf muttered, still trying to make sense of it.

He thought for a moment, then asked:

“Gusti, do you think we shape our lives? Or is everything chance?”

“Life is full of invisible effort,” August smiled. “Ours, and of those who love us.”

Adi looked at the empty bench.

A gust of wind lifted into the air the light petals of fallen blossoms.

And something became clearer than ever.

It’s not artists and not politicians who save the world. The world is saved by people who one day refuse to hate.

“How good it is to be here,” he said to August.

“You know,” Gusti replied, “I’ve recently realized something funny. ‘Here’ is not a place. It’s a choice.”

Adolf nodded.

“I think we’ll have a lot to talk about.” He seemed to shake off his pensive stupor. “Let’s go to a restaurant. My treat!”

“With pleasure!” came the answer.

A boy with a sketchbook walked past.

Adi smiled. The invisible effort went on.

They walked further down the alley, and he felt that every step was filled with a kind of miracle. For the greatest miracle of all is to believe in your own talent and remain true to yourself.