Chapter 4

This is Germany, where a Führer is needed, Chapter 4 (4/246)

Morning Drama

“Hey, Armin! What are you doing? Let’s go play!”

“Go ahead. You guys play.”

“Why?”

“Kids, get lost. I’m facing a serious crossroads in my life and have a lot on my mind.”

I waved my hand to shoo away the whiny brats.

“That kid is at it again.”

“Leave him be. He probably got dumped by a girl.”

“That’s why he should have gotten a bike first before making a move.”

“You bastards!!”

I’m not the one to get riled up by the chatter of these featherless chicks who don’t know any better. I have decades of life experience.

I, Cho Bamsuk, who rose from the eldest son of a desperately poor family to the pinnacle of a nation, standing at the top of the military pyramid, and who has come back from the future to see it all, wouldn’t be troubled by something as trivial as the secret of my birth. What? You think I’m the snot-nosed Armin? No way.

I miss the Hallasan cigarettes. I even miss the This Plus I used to smoke by snatching from my adjutant. How could I have missed those cloud cookies meant for responsible adults so much...

I gazed out the window, lost in thought.

Let me clarify again, just in case there’s any misunderstanding: I’m not shaken by the fact that my dad might not be my dad.

Being labeled a bastard makes life incredibly exhausting.

Why would I want to build an airplane? Could it be because I inherited the future knowledge of an aviation otaku, for the same trivial reason? Or is it because the ability to fly is a dream of humanity itself?

Of course, it’s to become famous. Look at the name of the first powered airplane: the "Kaiser Wilhelm II." Do you know? Maybe they’ll even give me a noble title.

But what if the fact that I’m a bastard is like a time bomb waiting to explode?

An aviation pioneer who opens a new horizon for humanity could suddenly be reduced to an illegitimate child, a product of adultery, and a target of moral condemnation.

People are generally obsessed with the downfall of heroes. This can’t happen. It absolutely can’t. To be a traitor in my past life and a bastard in this one...

My head is a mess again, and my vision is blurry. This is... in other words... nicotine withdrawal. Yes. A soldier who was addicted to coffee, cigarettes, and alcohol can’t help but break out in a cold sweat and feel dizzy when deprived of both. Now that I’ve realized the truth, I can take action.

“Hey, are you crying?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Hey!! He’s crying!!”

“Really? Really crying?”

“Get lost.”

“Armin, just because you’re handsome doesn’t mean all girls will fall for you.”

“Life is like that. Get over a breakup and move on.”

“Get lost!!”

It seems my body, which hasn’t finished puberty, is sensitive to hormones.

It looks like it’s starting to rain. Damn.

***

When people think of “Germans,” they often imagine a stern image, and when “Prussians” are added, they picture a war machine with a heart of steel and veins filled with mercury instead of blood.

But remember, there are quite a few Germans among the renowned scholars and famous artists.

I, a rare Prussian with such sensitivity, can’t just go to my mom and blurt out, “Mom, am I really Dad’s?” That would turn our home into a scene of family destruction. I don’t want to end up on the streets.

No, to be honest, it’s a bit dizzying, isn’t it?

If my frequently traveling dad swings his German sausage around somewhere outside and brings home a half-sibling, I might nod and say, “I knew this would happen. Hmm,” and accept the reality.

But if I’m a bastard... doesn’t that mean Mom cheated? Mom would be the victim, and Dad would be a bastard, shattering my firm belief.

Beating a woman is trash, and a husband who beats his wife is trash on fire, but in this 19th century, a wife who gets beaten is a cliché of clichés. I don’t really sympathize, but considering the sensibilities of 19th-century Europeans, there would be plenty of people who think a wife who cheated deserves it.

After much deliberation, I finally made a decision.

To go for a direct approach.

I headed to my father’s study again after another business trip.

“What are you doing up at this hour?”

His eyebrows twitched as I entered without knocking.

“Thank you for your hard work.”

“...Thank you.”

He seemed surprised to hear such words from me. Of course, there was no deep bond at home where domestic violence was the norm.

But I boldly continued, pulling out the bottle of alcohol I had hidden behind my back.

“What’s that alcohol for?”

“I bought it with my allowance.”

“You? Alcohol?”

“You’ve been working hard in a distant place.”

“...Thank you.”

He looked at me with an unreadable expression, then focused on the bottle, as if to avoid looking at me.

I’m not sure if giving alcohol to an alcoholic is a wise decision, but to get more information, I had to get him to drink. If I got slapped again, maybe this time he’d reveal some future knowledge about penicillin manufacturing or something—

“Thank you, Armin.”

“Yes.”

“Drink well. Go to bed now. You have school tomorrow.”

Instead of leaving, I approached the chair next to him and sat down.

“It’s bad for your health to drink alone.”

“You want to join me? Ha.”

I took two glasses from the cabinet and quickly poured them before he could say anything.

“You silly boy. You wanted to drink, didn’t you?”

“No, it’s just—”

“Alright, I’ll take your offer.”

A delicate boundary.

He might be thinking, “Why is this kid acting like this?” But is that all? If I were in his shoes, I’d feel a surge of disgust if a cuckoo’s chick kept trying to get close.

But I wanted to hear the truth.

Or at least something to ease my mind.

Facing the psychological barrier thicker than the Berlin Wall, I unconsciously turned my head to avoid his gaze.

Then, I noticed some documents.

“U.S. stock market crash?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means American companies are getting really cheap. Investing in America won’t be a bad idea.”

“...You’re smart. I wonder who you take after.”

“Maybe Dad?”

Today, he seemed like a broken doll, creaking and groaning.

After more deliberation, he drank alone instead of answering.

And exactly twice.

He then pushed a glass to me.

“The first drink should be with an adult.”

“Huh?”

“Come on, have a drink.”

I quickly downed the glass before he could change his mind. Oh, the burning sensation in my throat and stomach. Yes, this is alcohol. German-made, too!

No wonder Germans are all alcoholics. You’re the bad ones!

“Drink slowly. I know you’re a young kid who likes alcohol.”

“Gah! So, that’s why you always beat Mom? For fun?”

“Is this kid already drunk?”

“Am I a bastard?”

When did I have a backbone?

Bolstered by alcohol, I charged forward without any brakes, and the man in front of me—

Grabbed the bottle and started blowing into it.

After that, he stroked the bottle as if it were a dog and leaned closer in his chair.

“You’ve always resembled your mother. Lately, you’ve seemed different, so different from me that I even wondered if you were really my son.”

“...”

“But, yes. You are my son. If you weren’t, how could you already smell money? So don’t worry and focus on your studies. I’m a money-making machine, after all. As the head of the family, I must bring money home. Yes, yes.”

He awkwardly patted my head a few times, as if handling a porcelain bowl. It took me a moment to realize he was trying to stroke my head.

But is that important now? Armin Rosenbaum, the only heir of the Rosenbaum family, has overcome all slander and been recognized as not a cuckoo’s chick! Unlike the loser Joe, my future is bright...

But the joy was short-lived.

I was again filled with a strange feeling.

If I’m not a cuckoo’s chick, then our home is just a typical dysfunctional family with a violent patriarch.

“Why do you beat Mom?”

“There are reasons.”

“Just tell me. I’m grown up. I’ll be entering the Gymnasium in a few months.”

I took another bottle from the cabinet, and this time he blew into it beautifully before slowly starting his story.

“Your mother, Amalia, is very beautiful. She was even more so before we married.”

“Yes.”

“Amalia and our family have been close for a long time, and I’ve known her since I was young. You might not understand, but I’ve been in love with her for a very long time.”

I sipped the alcohol, enjoying the story. It’s a very cliché opening, but it has a different flavor when it’s about someone I know.

Father kept emphasizing how much he loved Mother and what happened between them, and as time passed, his speech became increasingly slurred.

“I excelled in my studies, skipped grades, and soon joined Deutsche Bank, becoming a young elite known worldwide. But my body was unremarkable, and I wasn’t handsome. I confessed my love to Amalia many times, but she seemed to have her heart set on a half-decent-looking Jewish man! That damn guy!”

“...But you two eventually got married, right?”

“Yes. When a recession hit, Amalia’s family went bankrupt. She chose me on the condition that I would support her family and pay off their debts. That scoundrel left. At first, I was happy, but I never saw her vibrant self again, like when she looked at that damn guy. I could buy her body with money, but not her heart...”

What is this?

I’m dizzy.

“So you beat her?”

“What does a young brat know! Do you understand this miserable feeling?! If only she had cursed me! Spit at me! Why does she just stand there, silent, after being slapped! Why can’t she show some proper—”

“You’re such a mess, really.”

I stopped thinking about this incomprehensible nonsense and kept drinking the alcohol in front of me.

Is this normal in this era? Maybe it’s a safe zone since my dad hasn’t kicked me or hit me with a bottle yet? Considering that even 100 years later, a court in Korea was marrying rapists to their victims, maybe this is okay in 19th-century Prussia, the kingdom of animals...

Drunk, he grabbed me and rambled on incoherently, and I held him, wondering what to do with this drunkard.

Why? The patriarch’s authority is immense, and this person is the one who provides the money I need.

“Anyway, please don’t beat Mom anymore.”

“I don’t want to. But didn’t you see that cold expression? The way she looks at me like I’m trash—”

“That never happened! It’s a delusion! Please, don’t make me a bastard who beats his dad.”

“Ha, does it feel good to overpower me now?”

“I’m doing this to maintain peace in the family.”

The one who needs to go to a mental hospital is Dad, not me.

Damn.

***

I was regularly visiting the hospital.

After I foamed at the mouth, possessed by a ghost from the future, Father mobilized all his connections to find the best doctor he could.

You might think it would be over once I recovered and was discharged, but the doctor who treated me became very interested in me.

‘Unexplained long-term convulsions followed by a change in personality and sudden intelligence.’

He wanted to study this and asked for my help. We got free treatment, and especially since Mother was worried about my health, she was grateful for the offer.

“This time, there are no particular issues. Hmm. Rapid growth. Could this be related—”

“Maybe I’m just eating well, exercising, and growing normally?”

“But neither your father nor your grandfather was particularly healthy. Neither was your maternal side.”

“He’s been asking for chicken breast a lot lately. Maybe that’s helping? It’s good to see him healthy.”

Doctor Herman Epenstein nodded at Mother’s words and scribbled something in the notebook in front of him.

“Go play outside for a bit. I need to talk to your mother.”

“Yes.”

I closed the door and, instead of going to the garden, I pressed my ear to the door.

– You seem to be getting more beautiful every day.

– I’m flattered...

– I’ll take care of that evil man who beats women in a heartbeat.

– Please. Don’t be so harsh on him—

“Damn.”

Why is Mom acting like that after I fixed everything at home?

I quickly went outside before the nurse came and sneaked a cigarette from Dad’s pocket.

I’m nine years old.

Alcohol and cigarettes before coffee.

Is this real life? Really.