Es Gibt Keine Gerechtigkeit

Nun liebe Kinder gebt fein acht

ich bin die Stimme aus dem Kissen

ich hab euch etwas mitgebracht

hab es aus meiner Brust gerissen

mit diesem Herz hab ich die Macht

My body was twisted into unbridled spasms as a chilled northern wind played with my hair. I tread wearily through the snow banks on the empty streets for what seemed like centuries, and although the sky was still blood red with sunset, the arctic bitterness of the night had set in. As I had been repeatedly told, "The streets of Austria are not kind to homeless beggars." I was forced against my will to learn this the hard way.

In my twenty years of life, I have never truly known the feeling of having a safe home to be able to return to every evening. In my younger days, my mother cared for me greatly, and always tried her best to shield me from my father's rage. If only she could shield me from this cold After my day's work is done, there is no one to say, "Welcome home, Adolf! Do come in and warm yourself." This is the way for every man, but not for Adolf Hitler. I despise my own name, for in it, all I see is a derelict wretch who wanders the streets, idly dreaming of what life should be.

Die Augenlider zu erpressen

ich singe bis der Tag erwacht

ein heller Schein am Firmament

Mein Herz brennt

More than any other, 1909 has been a difficult year for me. Christmas is fast approaching, and with it, the end of another year. I can only hope that next year will be better, for I can't imagine it being worse. Begging for food and sleeping on park benches is not exactly what one would call a productive and content life. Now that the cold has set in, I have abandoned the park benches, preferring not to wake up covered by no blanket other than one made of snow.

Days ago I discovered a space between two buildings, where the rooftops cover my head, and I can escape from the world out here. Each day, the sky is a crisp blue, and the streets bustle with men, women, and children, and it is time for me to go out amidst the crowds. Over the years, I have set my heart on becoming a painter, and I relish the delight I get out of putting ink and oil to paper, and letting everyone see what I see.

I have painted dozens upon dozens of postcards, which I plan to sell. The money I make may well be all I need to get back on my feet. I refuse to fall to my knees and beg for money; that has never worked for me. The last time I tried such an approach, I followed a man much older than myself for quite some time. The ivory-necked cane he carried assured me that he was wealthy. Giving a tug on the sleeve of his overcoat, I pleaded, "Please, sir, a few coins"

The most I hoped for was sympathy, but instead, I got nothing more than a stony glare and a furious shout, "Damn beggars! It's your kind that destroy this country's pride!" Without another word, he raised his cane above his head, clearly intending to bring it down on mine. Rather that wait for his next action, I fled in terror, taking off in the direction from which I had come.

Sie kommen zu euch in der Nacht

Dämonen Geister schwarze Feen

sie kriechen aus dem Kellerschacht

und werden unter euer Bettzeug sehen

Today, I still roam the streets from morning until night, waving my hand in the air, crying, "Postcards! Hand-painted postcards! Only six schillings!" In better days, I could sell one or two each day, but now I am fortunate to sell any. The whole ordeal would be less unbearable if I didn't run into any of my old classmates on the streets; they give my efforts their abrasive flavor.

One occasion in particular sticks with me. Emmerich, a boy who had been two years ahead of me liked nothing more than adding to my desolation. After a day that had gone reasonably well, I had sold two of my postcards, I was making my final rounds before making the final trip back to my hideaway in the alley. I had the streets nearly to myself, as nearly everyone else had already retreated from the cold.

Nun liebe Kinder gebt fein acht

ich bin die Stimme aus dem Kissen

ich hab euch etwas mitgebracht

ein heller Schein am Firmament

Mein Herz brennt

My mind was allowed that short amount of time to expand its boundaries, and wander wherever it wished. To this day I have preferred thinking and dreaming to speaking. I lie on the outskirts of civilization, waiting and watching, which was what my trip "home" is typically composed of. On that night, I wasn't even given that small amount of comfort to provide myself.

A blow struck me in the back, and in an attempt to regain my balance, I twisted sideways, but slipped on the slick street and fell, sending postcards scattering across the roadway. Before I had a chance to fight the wind and gather them up, I heard Emmerich's voice behind me. I turned to see him, sporting a fancy new overcoat, and clearly well-to-do. I had always hoped that if ever I met him again, I would be the one on top of the world. Instead, his mocking tone was all I heard, "We meet again, I see. This is just how I expected to find you, Adolf," he murmured through cracked blue lips.

I wanted to cry out for help, but the sound just couldn't pass my own frozen lips. All I could do was get away. To the best of my impaired ability, I gathered up as many postcards as I could, and every few moments, I would feel one of his boots digging into my side. Finally, I dropped from exhaustion, and my head hit the paved street with a certain amount of force; I imagine he helped me along. My eyes burned with hot shame that came with the icy debris being kicked into my face.

Now that I reminisce on that day, I don't want to consider what I must have looked like. Curled up in terror, like a dog rolling onto its back, just waiting for the trouble to pass. It must have at some point; but I woke in that spot the next morning. It was too early for anyone to be out yet, but the stars were fading. I extended a feeble arm to prop myself up, only to feel an excruciating pain on the side of my head near the front.

Sie kommen zu euch in der Nacht

und stehlen eure kleinen heißen Tränen

sie warten bis der Mond erwacht

und drücken sie in meine kalten Venen

My mind raced again, going once more through the trauma it had been exposed to the night before. Before my hand had even reached the place on my head, I had to draw it back. Already, the sting was too intense, forcing me to close my eyes to hold tears back. The pavement was spotted with red, which I knew was my own blood.

Whether Emmerich had left me for dead or simply tired of his fun, I may never know, and I have no desire to find out. Carefully, I went scrounging through the snow to find my postcards, and I wiped my hands on my torn coat so as not to smear them with blood. A flyaway drip would fall every now and again from the gash on my head, sometimes blemishing the painted Austrian landscape. The salt for my physical wound was seeing my hard work damaged in such a way. I keep a careful eye out for Emmerich now, although I haven't crossed paths with him since.

Nun liebe Kinder gebt fein acht

ich bin die Stimme aus dem Kissen

ich singe bis der Tag erwacht

ein heller Schein am Firmament

Mein Herz brennt

That was the past. Not that that helps me at all; I can still hear his hollow laughter echo my ears and die, as the world disappeared in darkness. Once again, I am fighting the falling snow to return to my sanctuary, and even that protects me from little. The snow is frozen to my face, and my strength drains quickly trying to clear the snowdrifts. No one with a home to go to is out on the streets now, only those in a dire strait such as my own.

At all costs, I must remember not to let anyone know I have money in my pockets, especially on an evening like this one. I have been attacked on more than one event simply because I was too open about the fact that coins rattled in my pockets.

Nun liebe Kinder gebt fein acht

ich bin die Stimme aus dem Kissen

ich singe bis der Tag erwacht

ein heller Schein am Firmament

Left with no one but "my kind" on the streets, I get an understanding for what "my kind" seems to be. I can hardly turn a corner without seeing children begging at a doorstep, extending their dirty, withered hands, only to be sent away with a sharp kick. Women in rags will approach me, place a hand on my shoulder, and tell me that I look as if I'm cold, and need to be warmed up. Tempting though such an investment might be, I need all that I earn.

Above all else, I want to escape from here. I have considered letting myself simply let go, but it feels wrong to give in to it. As long as there is breath in my lungs, I will stay. Even if it takes another twenty years, I will bring myself out of the frozen hell. Even though my face is without feeling after being so harshly stung with cold, even though my hands are blue and ice covered, and even though I have no place to go to

Mein Herz brennt