Butterfies

  

 

Butterflies      

 

      Nearing the end of the Korean War, I was drafted into the infantry and because of my nationality, I was shipped to Germany.  The army felt that if  I was shipped to Korea instead, I might, in the heat of battle. have  easily been mistaken for the enemy and be shot.  It would have been no         great lost  except that the government would have had a difficult  time  explaining to my mother why I was killed by total strangers who were basically

 

               on our side.                                               

    
     While I was in Germany, I met Dietrich Plagmann, an ex-army corporal who served in Rommel's Afrika Korps.  He was taken prisoner in 1943 and shipped to England where he learned English. We bumped into each other during a beer festival and became good acquaintances (acquaintances you borrow money from, friends, you don't).  I liked him because he was foreign and spoke English with a heavy German accent.  He liked me because I was strange looking and spoke English with a heavy
                                                   
                                                     Cantonese accent.
    
     I was interested about his time spent fighting the British and his experiences as a prisoner of war.  He was interested in learning to speak American (it's not the same as English), getting a work visa, and coming to the U.S.  I couldn't get him to talk about his war experiences so, in turn, he was learning to speak American with a Cantonese accent.  We did have some  great times discussing politics.  Once, near the end of an evening of drinking, when we were slovenly inebriated, we began philosophizing about the causes of  the 2nd World War, and we ended up with      
                                                  
                                                     Adolf Hitler
                                                                  
                       
     Have you ever heard of the Chaos Theory? he asked.  I said, Isn't that the one that says does the flap of a butterfly's wing in Brazil set off a tornado in Texas?  You are well informed, he said, and did you know that Hitler wanted a career in the visual arts and that he fought with his father over this?  I didn't know that, I said, but I am interested because I, myself, plan for a career in the visual arts when I leave the service.  Small world, he said, and did you know that he failed to get into the Vienna Academy of Arts not once but twice?   Imagine that,                 
                                                   
                                                     I replied. 

      He took a large swallow of beer and said, the examining board looked at his drawings which were mostly buildings and landscapes, and some idiot on the panel decided there wasn't enough people in the drawings, which might indicate that he couldn't draw people.  But the joke was that Hitler had no problem drawing people.  There was a rumor that one member on the panel, an idiot in my book, spilled hot coffee on himself and had to go change his pants.  By the time he arrived late to the examining room, he was angry at himself and at anyone who looked funny.  He took one look at Hitler and blackballed him because he felt like it.  You know the kind.  Yes, I said,                                
                                                
                                                   I know the kind.
                                                
     He continue to drink beer as if I was paying for it and said,...supposing that panel member did not spilled hot coffee on his pants, maybe his grasp was right on the mark?  Maybe he did not have to change his pants?  Ya, now, supposing he drank his coffee instead and felt much better and was in a cheerful mood when he walked into that examining room?  Would he not received Hitler's drawings, crude though they may be, and accepted him into the Vienna Academy of Arts?  Hitler would have graduated, received his degree, and gone on to became a professional visual artist.  He would have met a nice quiet fellow student who would remind him of his mother and married her and have children. 
    
      When the first World War broke out, the Wehrmacht would have assigned him to the propaganda ministry because he had a degree in the visual arts and he would have ended up making visual charts and posters for the military.  He would have never seen action, and when the war was over, he would have come home to his wife and children, teach art at the Academy from which he came, and lived a quiet and productive life.  But because of that eine tasse kafee, he became a monster causing millions of deaths and untold sadness.  So would you not say that a mere cup of coffee, being just a few millimeters off kilter and thereby causing it to tip over easily by the passing of a hand, be responsible for
                                                 
                                                      the Second World War?

      You are joking, I said, and he asked, How am I joking?  Because, I said, Flapping wings of butterflies will not make tornados in Brazil.  A spilled  cup of coffee will not stop countries from beating up on each other.  You can just as well say that Hitler could have gotten the Spanish Flu and died because he was stupid enough to be in a place where a sick person had coughed and sneezed a few minutes earlier, or that he turned at the very second a bullet whizzed by and, instead of missing him, blew his head off, and so on.  I believe that the butterfly story is not a good example of the Chaos Theory, and you read into it               
                                                          
                                                     wrong.      
                                                  
     Of course, he wasn't listening.  Eric had already passed out and had his head leaning on his shoulder with his mouth open and snoring.  I left him sitting on the bar stool, and on the way out, I told the bartender that Mr. Plagmann would settle the bill.  It wasn't much, just a few marks.  But, you know, that was the best beer I have ever                             \
                                                
                                                      tasted.