Part Deux

Wilhelm (along with half the physicists and engineers working at Redstone Arsenal) only lived a couple blocks away in the Alabama suburb, and Ludwig didn't mind a short ramble. The primitive automation of perambulation gave him a chance to get lost in thought; (thought being one of his few happy bastions left in a changing world).

Ludwig enjoyed a little stroll from hither, thither; but the cracked pavements of Huntsville, Alabama were a poor substitute for the rolling, verdant hills of his boyhood home in the Innviertel. Being born and raised in Altheim, a little village on the Mühlheimer Ache, Ludwig was sixteen before he even saw an automobile. But Von Drake didn't allow his mind to linger on memories of home, anymore.

The cool October breeze shot over Ludwig's head, blowing his overgrown, Titian red hair and leaving it clinging to his face. Exceptions were made for genius scientists, but his hair was getting long enough that nosier elements of the community might cast aspersions on his condition. Ludwig hated getting his hair cut—he used to do himself, or have Wilhelm do it, but now he had his darling Matilda to insist he have it done professionally, lest he compromise his career prospects.

In the Fatherland, it was a man's abilities that decided his success in civilised society, not something as shallow as his personal fashion or proclivities. Eccentricity was looked upon with fascination, not disgust or revulsion—not the way these Americans look at it. Ernst Rohm, even, he was a homosexual (along with half of his Sturmabteilung) and still no one batted an eye—because he did his job well. In Deutschland, that was enough, thought Ludwig.

But in America, there was no outlet, no release, no personality allowed. A man's work life was intricately tied to the domestic, woven into a noose around his neck, and if Ludwig were to stumble even once, it would strangle him.

A man's personal life and his work life, in Deutschland—well, they might as well have been different men. At least, that's how Ludwig saw it when he worked himself into one of these little episodes of mental seething. He did his best to think positively of the American way of life, and to think of all the opportunities this land had afforded him, even after working against it with the Reich; and Ludwig was a patient man, and peace loving, but not a saint—he could only suffer so many abuses before that primal pressure deep within built too high. The other former-Nazi scientists were too frightened to even mention their former work, much less discuss any repressed feelings they may have harbored over it; and it wasn't as though he could speak to Matilda about his emotions over the new life foisted on him. She would just shut down whenever he so much as mentioned the old country.

It was as though the entire world had conspired to sculpt Ludwig's ideas and beliefs into a single identity, then rip it all away and call him evil for it. Ludwig wasn't allowed to be Ludwig anymore, or so he had felt, and all he could do was cram his anger and pain and torment away inside his overwrought mind. Only Wilhelm would listen to his woes, and try to ameliorate them—and he'd usually succeed, at least for awhile, in helping Ludwig to feel free again.

But Ludwig hadn't reached Wilhelm's house, yet. He stopped at a quiet crosswalk and reached into his inner coat pocket, producing a half-depleted matchbook and a single Old Gold. As far as Matilda knew, he'd stopped smoking back in El Paso. Ludwig struck the match and lit the cigarette, puffing on it thrice before crossing the street. He held the cigarette outward, between his thumb and index finger—in the German style. Even smoking reminded Ludwig of the chasmal disparity between himself and his new 'countrymen.' There was a time, though, and not long ago, that he'd have been picked on for holding his cigarettes in such a fashion. Now, his european idiosyncrasies were just disregarded, or spoken of in hushed tones.

Ludwig didn't know what upset him more: being abused for his former allegiances, or being ignored for them.

The war in Korea had been raging for almost two years, now, and the popular culture of the United States seemed totally ignorant to the magnitude of it, only viewing the conflict in microcosmic terms relative to the overarching war on Communism. The American psyche confounded Ludwig; whenever they spoke of his war, one that threatened to ignite a Hegelian rejection of morality itself (the morality western history had been predicated on for thousands of years), it was broken down into the most basic and barbaric terms—no philosophy to it. But within the context of this proxy war over Korea, one of competing but similar ideologies, the American people were hard at work delineating and differentiating the finer points of either theory's doctrines.

Ludwig would try to allay his profound inability to comprehend American thought processes through examining them under a scientific lense, which usually took the form of informal psychological discourses with Wilhelm on the idealized American mind. This was really unscientific for any number of reasons, and Ludwig understood that—but the point was never really to figure out the inner workings of the American mind. It was to help two frightened men feel some measure of control over something that they felt was hostile to them.

Wilhelm and Ludwig both had an interest of psychology, though only Ludwig found it's clinical aspects intriguing. Wilhelm concentrated his studies of it into the Jungian school, and generally only followed psychology for, what he called, it's peculiar habit of reiterating what many ancient thinkers had already discerned (albeit in more primitive ways than the ancients, ironically). Ludwig, though, found every facet of the relatively new science enthralling, and spent much of his free time away from physics studying it.

Ludwig threw the butt of his smoked cigarette into the street and stamped it out. Now he found himself just outside Wilhelm's own modest suburban domicile, where he lived with his young new wife. Ludwig strolled up and knocked at the door, which the woman herself soon answered.

In an oozingly saccharine Southern drawl, she said, "Hey, Ludwig. Come on in; Willy's in his den." Andrea Vanderquack (née L'Estrange) was an intelligent young American duck, of Norman extraction but whose family had been living America's South for more than a few generations. She originally came from the vieux riche, but when her parents learned she was quitting her education to marry an ex-nazi scientist almost seven years her elder, she was disinherited (something which seemed to irk Wilhelm to no end). When asked jokingly by Ludwig how he tricked Andrea into marrying him, Wilhelm hinted that he used some manner of hypnosis or mesmerism he learned in his magical studies to make her love him. Whether he was also being facetious, or stone-facedly sincere, Ludwig couldn't ascertain. Wilhelm could be funny that way.

"Thank you, Andrea," smiled Ludwig, before he stepped inside. Mrs. Vanderquack backed away and turned toward the kitchen, from whence wafts of Wilhelm's brunch cooking could be smelled, and Ludwig spied Andrea's swollen, pregnant belly. As she waddled back to finish cooking, he stepped through the hall and up the stairs to Wilhelm's study, which his wife so quaintly (and dismissively) called a den. He knocked at the door twice and opened it immediately after, finding his old comrade sat in an oversized bergère, reading some obscure french grimoire.

"Ludwig, mein bruder, it's always good to see you," Wilhelm stood up and they both smiled and hugged, pecking one another on either cheek as they would have in the old country, the same way they always greeted one another.

"And you, mein Wilhelm! Or should I say, Willy?" Ludwig teased, and Wilhelm pulled away from the embrace just enough to look him in the face with a hard, serious expression.

"Has she been calling me that again?" Wilhelm asked under his breath, before he broke their hug to close the door to his study. "I hate it when she does that."

Ludwig sauntered up to the chaise lounge Wilhelm kept in the study and sprawled out on it, the way he usually did, and Wilhelm returned to his own chair. Around the study, in addition to Wilhelm's small private library on philosophy and mysticism, were recent scientific journals and the duo's own works on cosmology unceremoniously bound with staples and paperclips. When not working on applied physics projects for the rockets, Ludwig and Wilhelm would still collaborate on works based in more theoretical branches of physics, from general relativity to quantum mechanics, the same as they did in Witzenhausen. This earned them some repute within certain scientific circles, but little recognition otherwise. They both hoped, though, that in time they'd have put together a body of work substantial enough to earn them positions in higher education—so they could get away from engineering rockets.

"Did you read that psychological journal I gave you the other day? The pages I marked?" Wilhelm asked, crossing his legs.

"On the 'little professors'? Yes, I read it, and found it edifying." Ludwig replied, trying to figure how to get onto what was bothering him.

Wilhelm, sensing his dear friend's ulterior motive, smiled and advanced with, "Autistic psychopathy, is what Herr Doctor Asperger called it. But my real reason for giving it to you was to show that, even though it was work done by an Austrian in forty-four, it's still been printed in an American psychology journal."

Ludwig's shoulders dropped and his apprehension with them. Only Wilhelm had this power to see past him that way. "Danke…" Is all Ludwig could say, and a few moments passed before he continued, venturing, "But were you listening to the radio this morning?"

Wilhelm sank back into the cushy upholstery of his chair, already prepared, and answered, "No, but I imagine they said something about the holocaust."

Ludwig winced at the word. "Y-yes! And it's all they talk about!"

Wilhelm sat up. "Ludwig, y-"

Ludwig interrupted, already stuttering from frustration. "They don't-! Wilhelm, they don't understand! And that's one thing, but they don't want to understand, they don't care what it was really all about—a-about Kant, and Nietzsche a-and Schopenhauer, a-and-"

"It isn't their place to understand," Wilhelm said, calmly, and waited for a response that never came. When it was obvious his answer had stunned Ludwig into silence, he continued, "Ludwig, amoralism as the practical evolution of the Nietzschean transvaluation of values, or Zarathustra casting the dwarf from his shoulder, or however else you'd like to explain and justify it all wouldn't mean anything to them. They aren't like you or I, and that's what lies at the heart of your anger."

"You're right, Wilhelm, you're right," affirmed Ludwig, as though he had some salient point he was about to address. "But I never asked for them to capture me and ship me here, I never asked to have my home destroyed-"

"No, Ludwig," Wilhelm interrupted, standing up. "I don't mean that you're not like them because you're Austrian, or even an ex-Nazi. By 'them' I don't mean the Americans," Wilhelm crossed his arms, and Ludwig was dumbstruck, so he continued. "Ludwig, nevermind the Americans, or even the vultures, how many Germans do you think understood Nietzsche and Schopenhauer, or any of the philosophical reasons behind the movement? How many of them totally disregarded all the high and lofty notions the lay behind the war? How many were only in it to cause strife, or for material gain?" said Wilhelm, before he realized he was getting sidetracked.

Wilhelm saw, though, that Ludwig was still enthralled, so he uncrossed his arms and stepped closer to his friend. "The point is, Ludwig, all your pain and anguish is very real, but I know you, and you aren't a sore loser. This isn't about losing the war, or coming to America. You're only using it all as a proxy for your own feelings." Wilhelm bent down and set his hands on Ludwig's shoulders and looked into his eyes, saying, "It isn't that Americans refuse to understand our German Idealist philosophy, it's that you people refuse to understand you. You've always told me how you feel so alienated by society, even before we came to America."

Ludwig sat there, befuddled, and could only stare into Wilhelm's steel blue eyes. Eventually, Ludwig had to look away, and Wilhelm continued, "The end of the war was… painful for all of us, and that pain is also real, but this is a different animal, my dear brother. I've faced it too, you know." There was a long silence afterward, and Wilhelm eventually stepped back.

"T-thank you, Wilhelm. I think you're right,' said Ludwig, sitting up in the chaise lounge. "My Matilda, she doesn't understand me. And she doesn't try. No one does. Only you understand, but I don't think anyone understands you, either."

"You're a genius, mein Ludwig," said Wilhelm, laying across the arms of his chair. He smirked, "and we're two-of-a-kind." They both chuckled lightly. "Really, though, there are so many… philosophical problems with saying any one person can understand another, and yet it seems so obvious when we experience it. You have to realize that no one will really understand you, the true you, but we have ways to deal with it."

"How is that, Wilhelm?" asked Ludwig.

"Take me, for instance," he grinned, "I cultivate an air of such arrogance and entitlement around my genius that it intoxicates me, and I don't care anymore if anyone understands." Wilhelm tepidly laughed, and Ludwig realized this was one of those times he couldn't tell whether or not Wilhelm was joking. "But you, Ludwig, you're too humanitarian for my methods. Too eager to have the people embrace you. You walk a more difficult path. You, I think, have to find a way to diminish yourself, until you appear simple enough that they can comprehend, and sense the real genius underneath, in their own way."

"Thank you, Wilhelm," said Ludwig, still slightly dazed, though he wasn't sure why. "I'll think on this."

"If I'm incorrect, I am sure you can find the answer," Wilhelm sat up. "Andrea should be serving brunch soon, would you like to stay and dine with us?" he asked, before setting one leg on the other and recanting, "On second thought, maybe you'd like to be heading home soon. God only knows what she's cooked up for me this time. I'm a brave man, but..."

Ludwig paused for a moment, expressionless, then smirked, "No, I'm sure it isn't as bad as you say—I've heard so much about your wife's cooking, I must experience it. Do you think she'll, uh," he began chortling, "Do you think she'll serve you pork brains again?"

Wilhelm didn't find it as amusing. "You know, she calls that stuff 'soul food,'" he said, "But when I eat it, I fear for mine." Ludwig's polite chortle became real laughter, and Wilhelm smiled at it.