Unofficial rumors of a strange figure flying over the Leuven library spread through the home front. They reached the ears of Fritz Ziegel in the USA through his friend in Germany.
Fritz was working at ports and in factories but continued drawing. Feeling that the strange figure of Leuven was the same thing he saw during the Great War, he picked up his colored pencils and began drawing in his Brooklyn apartment, adding in some essential elements.
He hadn’t drawn a monster for a long time. Remembering the days on the front lines when he would draw frantically whenever he had the chance, Fritz ran his pen across the paper as if something compelled him.
Soldiers with hollow eyes huddled low in trenches. A black creature dancing in the gray sky. Burning structures bent and twisted and the forms of people covering their eyes as they screamed. He called this collage-like drawing The Razing of Freedom and Spirit, signed his name, and dated it. It was the first of Fritz’s drawings to incorporate both humans and monsters.
Had he stayed and created this drawing in Germany, it certainly would have elicited scorn and political consequences. The works of famous painters dealing with such topics were subjected to a variety of insults by Nazis supporters. They would say things like “It doesn’t depict the bravery of our soldiers” or “It’s too depressing” or “It doesn’t convey the pride in being German.”
Still a nameless artist in the USA, Fritz hid everything he’d created since the outbreak of the second great war in his closet.
The US joined Europe’s second great war in 1941, and Fritz and Jörg spent every day on edge, since people viewed German Americans as potential enemies of the state.
Jörg was the one who had suggested Fritz keep his drawings in his closet. He was in the US, too, working as a barber, and stayed highly attuned to public sentiment. Works critical of war were becoming hard to display even in America right now. It was always that way during wartime. Criticizing war was simply not allowed. Even with pieces that had no ulterior motive, simply depicting war in a negative light was reason enough for the government to condemn the work as detrimental to public sentiment and for the masses to criticize the creators.
Jörg advised and supported Fritz, telling him that someday he would be able to paint freely and that he simply had to wait for the time when he could display his work publicly.
In September 1945, Europe’s second great war came to a close with another German defeat. And so, this war came to be known as World War II, ending with an inconceivable twice as many military casualties as WWI and an estimated twenty-six to thirty-four million civilian casualties. For the missing, the total is still unknown. The evil within humans that people came to know during WWI evolved into a more terrible manifestation of cruelty and foolishness.
The works Fritz created during the war were extremely dark and raw, but after the war, one art dealer fascinated by the spark hiding within such darkness bought some and began advertising them with captivating descriptions. They stimulated the sensibilities of the younger generations and gained a sort of cult status among certain circles. Many people came to art galleries in large cities to see Fritz’s paintings, which became quite popular, critiqued, and even complied into a book. Such fleeting popularity never lasts long, but his growing reputation allowed his work to reach the generation that needed to see it most.
1964, winter.
Manhattan, New York City.
Fritz’s paintings were hanging in an art gallery on Houston Street, when a man walked in and stopped before a certain piece. He didn’t move from that spot for quite some time, but he eventually called the gallery owner over and said that he wanted this painting.
The owner was overjoyed and immediately ordered his assistant to pack the painting up. This picture had been hanging for a long while, and while many people admired it, this man was the first person to ever express a desire to own it.
The man asked the owner if the artist was still alive. When the owner respectfully inquired whether the man knew the artist, he replied that his name was Jörg Huber.
The owner stood in disbelief and looked at the man again. “I didn’t think the day would come when I would actually meet the man called Jörg Huber. While he was still alive, Mr. Ziegel said that if a man of that name ever said he wanted a painting, to let him have just one for free. To tell the truth, Mr. Ziegel had a dear friend named Jörg Huber. Unfortunately, Mr. Huber passed away just recently. What a strange coincidence that a man with that exact name would appear directly after.”
“Where and how did this Mr. Huber die?”
“He succumbed to old age, sleeping in his bed at home. Apparently, it was a peaceful death. Mr. Ziegel left us right at the end of last year. Their families gave them proper burials. I had the pleasure of knowing both men for almost a decade, and they were always gentlemen. Their company was always a gift.”
The man named Jörg solemnly closed his eyes for a moment, then quickly composed himself. “Did Mr. Ziegel create many paintings?”
“He didn’t make many tableaux, but he left a lot of pen drawings. His drawings of monsters were used for things like the covers of horror novels. Honestly, his popularity derived from the cult following arising from those. I’m sure the government would have made life dangerous for him had he remained in Germany. I’m so glad he found his way to America before the war started.”
“I actually know the place this drawing was based off.”
“Really? Just from the scenery?”
“It’s from the trenches in Champagne. I remember it well,” Jörg said, tenderly stroking the frame. “How are things these days?”
“Well, African Americans have been fighting for their civil rights, and that movement seems to be in its final stages. Socialist revolutions are active in Central and South America, and the fighting in Vietnam doesn’t seem likely to settle soon. Every country has spilled their fair share of blood. It would be wonderful to find a proper end to it all, but, well, that seems unlikely. I really don’t know how important any of the movements actually are, but the people involved must have their reasons if they’re willing to risk their lives. There are people in every age who must act against injustice, even when they know the government will massacre them.”
A wry smile rose on Jörg’s face as he asked, “And when you were young, did you fight anywhere?”
The owner shook his head no. The answer made it difficult to tell if he meant that he hadn’t or that he wouldn’t talk about it.
Jörg thanked the gallery owner and accepted his picture. He tucked it under an arm as if he were hugging an old friend or comforting the corpse of a soldier who had endured the same hardships as him—then left the gallery.
Walking east away from the store, he stopped in surprise, seeing a familiar figure at the intersection on Chrystie Street. The Count. They hadn’t seen each other in decades.