Short Story / Chafing
It wasn’t a hero he sought. Heroes were just men who hadn’t been killed yet. He’d had heroes before and he’d read the reports in the pamphlets (back when he felt it worth the risk to maintain an interest in such things) about their deaths. A hero was someone who led only to disappointment. He was no longer interested in seeing men attempt the impossible, fail, suffer, and die. He considered this wisdom.
“Papa, is it wisdom to believe that no one will ever create a finer world?” His son, proud Leopold, would ask him over a dinner of bread and lentil soup. They grew the lentils themselves, but this is not why Leopold was proud. He would shake his head and smile at the boy – young man, he reminded himself, he would be joining the army soon and then have to form his own opinion of heroics – and swallow another mouthful of soup, in no rush to hold this discussion.
“It is not a matter of belief,” he would say gently. “I know that it can not be done. You ask a child’s question. No one will create a finer world; a man hasn’t that power. A man has only the power to feed himself, his family. To fight when called, and to accept with humility the truth that he could not be a hero, because there is no such thing. We can not escape the bonds of this life, Leo. Wisdom comes at the point at which one stops chafing at the restraints.”
He was pleased with himself for the line. Simple pleasures, like a turn of phrase in a conversation with his son that made him feel he truly was wise, were what he reconciled to himself as the best this world had to offer.
Leopold frowned. “Perhaps not you or I, Papa. But you are a farmer, and I will be a soldier. We are not made to be heroes. But that doesn’t mean –”
“Show me the man who can not be held by the Kaiserreich, or be disappeared in the night, who can not be conscripted into service, or have his harvest taken, who can do more than sit idly by as the Pope is ignored, and then I will consider the existence of your heroes, Leo.”
Leopold responded the following week by bringing to his father two tickets to see an American entertainer in Cologne.
“Tricks, Leo? I thank you for the gift. I haven’t been to the theater since your mother – since she…” He paused, chose his words. “I haven’t been in a very long time. Thank you. But you offer me tricks? An American ‘handcuff king’? Leo, boy, you should have saved your money for a new coat. It will be cold this winter, and I will not be able to fill you with potatoes to keep warm.”
“Just say that you’ll make the trip with me, Papa.”
He agreed. It was not far to Cologne, a few hours by train, and it had been some time since the older man had been to the city. He was unprepared when he entered – on the outside of the town, a massive fortresses had been erected. Proof, thought the old man, of what has happened here. We are not meant to escape.
They had arrived early and, as they left the train, saw a row of men stand with top hats and tuxedo coats, seven men standing rigidly on the corner. They caught the old man’s eye, but Leopold seemed not to have even noticed. As the passengers of the train walked past, the men all bowed at the waist and removed their hats simultaneously.
Upon each man’s bald head was a letter, in English, written in shoe polish.
H – O – U – D – I – N – I, it spelled. The old man erupted with laughter.
“Oh! Oh, this is clever. Leo, your handcuff king, this is who we are going to see?”
His son smiled softly and nodded. “We have to hurry, Papa, if we are to watch him this morning.”
“This morning? The tickets are for tonight.”
“It is a special performance.”
The older man followed his son, asking occasionally where they were headed, which was always answered with a you’ll see. He enjoyed the mystery and intrigue, delighted to have this time with his boy before he was to leave. When he had been younger, when he still sought out pamphlets and believed in heroes, he had believed in the power of the arts to matter in the world. He was German, like so many of the great artists – Thomas Mann, Die Brücke, Mommsen – and had believed in their significance once. A part of him still thrilled at the showmanship of the theater, even if, he knew ultimately, it was comprised of men and women who were powerless in the face of greater things.
The day and his enjoyment of it grew cold as the younger man’s father realized where he was being taken. The fortress. There were others, walking in as well, and for a moment – the man was ashamed to admit it, but for a moment he was afraid his son was going to give him to the police, that he had found an old pamphlet (old fool, no one cares about your old pamphlets!) and was doing what he thought was his duty. But he was a good boy, and the man would later offer gestures of apology without ever explaining why, until Leopold grew annoyed. This was no trap.
The people entering the fortress were greeted by an unsmiling guard with a heavy weapon. The entire place felt like a single large weapon, well protected. There were barred gates with locks the likes of which the man had never before seen, and everywhere the police.
“This is why we have come, Papa.”
The police had a short man with black hair. He was tiny, but looked strong. Big muscles for such a little man, the older man thought. He could see all of this because the small man was naked.
He stood before the assembled people, shackled at the wrists and clapped in irons at the ankles.
“That is the American. He is going to escape.”
“Impossible.”
Houdini bowed to the crowd and conferred, Briefly, with the policeman near him. The officer nodded, and Houdini was allowed to walk beyond the gate and inside the building by himself.
The old man drew in his breath. This was the Landespolizei, the arm of the Kaiserreich. He was a small American. But captured by the spell of performance, he held that drawn breath in, allowing himself to believe in the possibility. But how? Those were irons on his legs; things like that, like the chains around his wrists, were not a thing from which people escaped. Many had tried – so many, so many names that he had seen in the pamphlets, so many whom he had once believed might be heroes, and they too were –
The American strode out of the building, still nude, unencumbered by the chains or the leg irons. It was not until moments later, as he became aware of the crowd cheering for this Houdini, that the older man realized that he himself was screaming his throat sore. He threw his arms around his son’s neck, and the two of them deafened one another.
Another bow, as an officer offered Houdini a blanket to cover himself. He thanked them in German – a nice touch, the older man thought, that eye for performance still sharp – and reminded the assembled of the engagement that night at the theater.
The man sits now at a table in an empty house; he has letters his son has sent arranged in a book. Next to the letters are the clippings from the newspapers – mostly the General-Anzeiger, but also the British Guardian, even the French L’Équipe, whatever he could find – on the American handcuff king. At night, when the emptiness of the house threatens to overwhelm him, he arranges carefully the pages of this book, growing the legend of his two heroes, Leopold and Houdini.
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I must admit I got lost a couple of times of what was going on. I thought the story was really smart though, especially becuase of that opening paragraph. I thought it was just some confusing mumbo jumbo, but it kind of educated me. Most people arent seen as hero until after death..you think of that proves how talented you are.
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First of all, I didn’t start reading this planning to review it. I just signed up for this sight and was more interested in just seeing what was out there, but the first paragraph about heroes made me want to read further. I like the description of going to see houdini in cologne, especially the details like the men with the top hats. I think the main thing missing is more information and a clearer picture of the father character. Maybe it’s just my historical ignorance, but I don’t really get what’s going on here. At first I thought the setting was around World War 1 but then you talk about Thomas Mann and Die Brücke, so I realized it must be later. And what were the pamphelets? Was the man a Communist?
He was German, like so many of the great artists – Thomas Mann, Die Brücke, Mommsen – and had believed in their significance once. And in this line: what made the man loose his faith? Why is he afraid of this fortress? Again, it could be lack of historical knowledge (but that would probably happen with a lot of readers)but I don’t remember hearing about a fortress in Cologne that was particuliarly ominous during or after any war. I think you have a lot to work with and the story and idea are interesting, but I just want more.
As to the end, I think the change of tense is ok but that it would be stronger without it. As a reader I would rather imagine myself what happens with the father and son and the details aren’t so interesting or revealing that I couldn’t do without them. What I would find better would be to expand the story, make the father character stronger and the historical references a bit clearer and then end the story after the trip to see Houdini.
This was a really well conceived story, and it was neatly executed. The character of the father was well developed, and the ending was appropriate and satisfying. As far as your notes go I didn’t notice a tense change in the ending, although I don’t think you need `now’,(I would omit) if it is a separate paragraph. The pacing was good as was the narrative voice.
The story generaly flows smoothly, but some sentences seemed long, and the sense a bit hard to obtain eg `Simple pleasures, like a turn…had to offer.’ The central subordinate clause was long and I had to re-read to understand. Perhaps shorten it a bit.`There were others,...thought was his duty.’ – this was another which I found difficult to hold onto. IMHO thoughts generaly are short anyway, like sound bites. Overall your phrasing was good, just considered some would benefit from being broken up. Re brackets – I would try and incorporate contents as phrases within sentences.
The fortress: When Houdini enters the fortress I wanted to know more detail. At the moment it sounds as though he walks unseen behind gates and that is it. Suggest spend more time describing the obstacles to release Houdini faces – this will increase the idea of him being hero etc – and provide interest for reader. I mean just the word `fortress’ can conjour up many ideas – suggest pin it down a bit.
That said, I really liked this story, the relationship between father and son had a demonstrated realism, a fondness and feeing were evident. And the ending where the father sees his son also as hero was heart-moving. Your characterisation of the old-world father and his halting, dashed nature was well done. Good luck with this.
The brackets near the start are poor style. Try to lose them.
The paragraph about proud Leopold is all over the place. would is surely the wrong tense. Leopold asked him. He wouldn’t keep on repeating the same question.
Try saying some of the dialogue out loud. It sounds unnatural.
The story is great, but the execution needs some work
I really enjoyed reading this story. I think the ending worked well and I personally wouldn’t change any of it.
If you want to extend it I think you could put some more work around Houdini escaping or their trip to the performance.
How do you think you went with this piece?
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