Chapter 2: The Frog Boy
Translated by Vine | Proofread by Lust
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1893. German Empire, Prussia, Berlin.
There are two types of domestic abusers. The first is trash both inside and outside the home. In this case, a more accurate term than “domestic abuser” is “human garbage,” and domestic violence is just one of the countless shitty things this human garbage does.
The problem lies with the second type. The man who pretends to be a perfectly normal member of society outside but transforms into a raging monster the moment he crosses his doorstep.
Crash!
“This goddamn house!”
“Ahhh!”
“Nothing is to my liking! You can’t even clean properly while your husband is out earning money? Do I look like a walking ATM to you? Huh?!”
The drunken man, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, began beating his wife. He was average-looking at best, while his wife was beautiful enough to turn heads on the street. But years of relentless abuse had broken her, leaving her silently enduring his fists.
However, today was slightly different.
“Dad!! Dad!! I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please stop!”
“What, you think you’re a man now, trying to defy me?! Then stop crying! Shut your mouth?!”
The son, who always hid in the deepest corner of his room when his drunken father came home, couldn’t bear it any longer. He rushed out and clung to his father, trying to stop him.
But his desperate act only fueled the man’s alcohol-addled rage, and his fury transformed into a slap that struck the child.
Slap!!
The boy’s body flew from the sheer force, crashing into the wall. Up to this point, it was a common story in Berlin.
“Armin, Armin? Son?!” The shocked child started convulsing, foaming at the mouth. The mother, who had been curled up like a ball, enduring the beating, rushed to her son.
“I, I was. Disciplining.”
“Get a carriage! Hurry!”
“I was just trying to, teach him a lesson.”
“If he dies, I’ll never, ever forgive you. Do you understand?! I’ll kill you! Before we both end up in coffins, go get a carriage!!”
“R, R, Right. Doctor. Doctor. Doctor…”
Was it paternal love that chased away the alcohol, or the fear of social ruin from the title of “father who killed his son?” The man straightened his hat and rushed out to find a carriage.
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The child was hospitalized, remaining unconscious for days.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t determine the cause.”
“Th, Then what should we do?”
“I can refer you to a more skilled doctor. So…”
The boy convulsed and foamed at the mouth repeatedly. Doctors tried various treatments, but nothing seemed to work. Faced with this bizarre, unprecedented symptom, they could only offer platitudes like “we’ll do our best” or “prepare yourselves.”
But perhaps the heavens hadn’t abandoned this family. A miracle occurred. The boy’s strange symptoms vanished as if washed away, replaced by a tranquil peace.
Perhaps everyone was so focused on this miraculous recovery that they only realized much later that the boy’s behavior had completely changed.
My whole body ached. Not from pain, but from lying in this cramped hospital bed for so long. I was going to get bedsores at this rate.
I lay on the hospital bed, bound hand and foot, staring at the ceiling.
Who am I? Armin Rosenbaum. A child with a father who, when drunk, switched species from human to a cuddly puppy, a werewolf of sorts.
Ordinary people wouldn’t suddenly contemplate “who am I?” It seemed like a philosophical question.
But I was very serious. After all, the knowledge and memories of a man who had lived for over half a century were suddenly crammed into the brain of a boy who had lived for barely a decade, most of which was spent crawling around as a baby.
I suffered a splitting headache for a long time, and my sense of self seemed to be overwritten by that of General Jo or whatever his name was. Like an ice cube thrown into boiling water, my existence was being swallowed by the persona of the old general.
Just as the personality of the boy living in 1893 was about to disappear, replaced solely by the general flung back in time, a miraculous realization struck me.
Why should I be Jo Beom-seok?
It was a true eureka moment. Like when God declared, “Let there be light,” the flame of Prometheus suddenly ignited in my dark mental world. Jo Beom-seok. A man whose life’s work resulted in the dreadful title of traitor, with no family, a collapsing country, and no legacy. Wasn’t he just a failure?
Even amidst the seizures, after calm and rational contemplation, I concluded that defining myself as “an old man who meticulously ruined his life and committed suicide by swallowing a pill in solitary confinement” was utterly pointless. Even if I was stuck in a shitty home with domestic violence, unlike Jo Whoever, I had a bright and shining “future.”
Confiscated youth? No matter how I looked at it, this wasn’t right. Even if God sent an angel to say, “You are indeed General Jo!” I would have to say, “No, I’m sorry, but I’m not that person…” At that very moment, as the ghostly presence of the poison-eating general faded, the seizures finally stopped.
It was over. I regained peace, and even the repeated examinations—or were they interrogations?—with the doctor while I was tied to the hospital bed, felt leisurely.
During that time, I pondered the astonishing philosophical dilemma I had faced. Not the question of self-identity. That was meaningless now. I wasn’t interested in the truth.
What mattered was this future knowledge. This sudden awareness of the future. Santa Claus, who had never given me a present despite my good behavior, had given me the gift of future knowledge, including interest. I was overjoyed. The bicycle that Hans next door bragged about was nothing compared to this amazing gift. If these memories were wrong…I’d quietly check myself into a mental hospital. Or grow a mustache and go to art school.
According to these memories, two colossal world wars would engulf the world, and Germany, the instigator in both, would be reduced to ashes.
It was too heavy a burden for a little kid, but what could I do? I was forced to grow up with decades of memories. I’d skipped puberty altogether.
If I had grown up normally, I probably would have followed in my father’s footsteps into finance. But knowing that this country, Prussia, would be pulverized like fine flour, I didn’t have the heart to carry on as if nothing was wrong. What if I got dragged off to war and died?
And then there were Jo Beom-seok’s last words.
‘If you achieve an incredible feat, a feat so great that it completely alters the world, history, with your own power, I can grant you one wish as a reward.’
I had never heard such a story in any fairy tale. There were stories of rubbing a magic lamp or selling your soul to fulfill a wish, but this was different.
My first thought was, of course… going to America. If America would become so powerful in the future, the world’s hegemon, wouldn’t it be enough to grit my teeth, save money, board a ship to America, and succeed there? Then there would be no war or anything.
But going to America didn’t guarantee I could achieve that so-called great feat. Besides, America was history’s victor. The phrasing “alters” suggested that going to America wasn’t the answer. On the other hand, Germany offered endless possibilities.
No, I didn’t need to make excuses. While I could sneak off to America alone, taking my mother with me seemed difficult. Moreover, something like patriotism was preventing me from abandoning this country.
“Mom, I think I can leave the hospital now.”
“Let’s wait a bit longer. What if something goes wrong after you leave?”
“No, I’m really fine.”
Look at her worrying like that, even though I’d been fine for a while. If I told her I wanted to immigrate to America, she might faint.
Even after I was discharged, nothing much changed.
“I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
“D, Dad…!”
My father, gripping my shoulders, whispered softly.
“This goddamn house!! This damn woman!”
Crash!
Listen to the sound of breaking dishes. The house wouldn’t survive another day. He’d lasted a week before starting to drink again, and three days after his drinking comeback, he’d turned back into a dog.
It had begun again.
I wrapped myself in a blanket, covering my ears, and fell back into thought. If I ruled out immigrating to America, the fastest path to success in Germany was, of course, the military.
I had once thought that using my ingrained experience and knowledge as a career soldier would make it easy to rise through the ranks. But this was a country with a class system. A commoner succeeding in the military? Becoming a war hero might make it possible. Rommel, the future Desert Fox, was a case in point. The problem was that Rommel hadn’t exactly achieved any history-altering feats.
Besides, it was too late. If this were a chaotic country like America, becoming a war hero in World War I might lead to rapid promotion. But the German Empire wasn’t a country where a few achievements would quickly earn you stars. What good were stars when you were old and decrepit? Future knowledge or not, the probability of dying in some muddy trench was probably higher for a low-ranking officer than for an ordinary soldier.
What should I do?
My contemplation continued. Then, one day, I stumbled upon a book.
[Der Vogelflug als Basis der Fliegekunst]
Bird Flight as the Basis of Aviation.
By Otto Lilienthal.
This is it. This is it!
It was still the 19th century. The era when Lilienthal, the author of this book, was experimenting with gliders. I just had to conquer the sky before the Wright brothers.
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