What's In A Name Read Online Free PDF

still embarrassed the old man. “Well, at least things got better,” he said. “Germany came out of the darkness… unscathed.” He looked at the manuscript, the way the old man’s hand was now stroking it gently. “So,” he said, “your book.”
    The old man said nothing, his sadness so deep, his disappointment so fathomless, Altman once again felt a wave of pity sweep over him.
    â€œI’d like to read it,” he said as he nodded toward the package. “Would you mind? You’ve said that has to do with Germany after the Great War, and I collect that sort of material. I plan to place my collection in an archive at some point. The collection of these… documents will be my legacy.” He sat back and smiled broadly at being able to offer the old man a little sliver of immortality. “Your manuscript would have a permanent place in history.”
    The old man looked at the manuscript as if offering a long goodbye before his hand suddenly swept out dismissively, a gesture that suggest that at long last he had decided it had no value. “Take it then,” he said. He picked up the manuscript and handed it to Altman. “I have no use for it.”
    â€œI shall treasure it,” Altman said. “Thank you.”
    â€œYou are most welcome,” the old man said. He began to put on his raincoat. “Well, good night,” he said and with those words, struggled to his feet, then reached into his pocket.
    â€œNo, please,” Altman told him quickly. “It’s my pleasure.” He patted the manuscript softly. “Payment for this gift you have made to history.”
    The old man appeared quite touched by Altman’s remark. “Perhaps my life might have some use, after all,” he said softly as he got to his feet.
    â€œBy the way, what’s your name?” Altman asked.
    Rather than answer, the old man simply waved his hand as if to dismiss himself from Altman’s interest, or the world’s.
    â€œIt is a silly name,” he said.
    With that he drew on his coat with trembling hands, then with a soft nod, bid Altman good night.
    Altman watched as the old fellow moved shakily down the aisle, then out into the night, the chill, the suddenly returning rain, all of which bestowed a deeper fragility upon his figure so that he seemed to Altman much like man himself, weak against the great forces that are arrayed against him, the ravages of time no less strong and ultimately overwhelming than vast social and economic forces no “hero”—Carlyle’s magisterial language not withstanding—could alter or affect. Even so, one thing remained clear, this old man, along with millions of others, could have had it much worse. He’d fully expected it to get much worse on the day he left Germany. Most everyone had felt the same. The predictions had been terrible. That Germany would fall under the hand of dictatorship, that there would be yet another great war, one that, like the first, would engulf all of Europe, the whole world. He offered the forces of history a soft, appreciative smile, for they’d been kinder to the world than anyone had expected all those years go.
    Still captured in the warm glow of that smile, Altman glanced down at the manuscript, then, on an impulse, untied the string and read the title page: Mein Kampf by Adolph Schicklgruber.
    He smiled again.
    Schicklgruber?
    It was true what the old man said, Altman thought, it was indeed a silly name. But it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d had a different one. The old man had hoped to change the world, but no single man could shape history. Only great forces could do that.
    He glanced down at the manuscript again, smiled at the name. The old man had clearly blamed it for all his failure. He shook his head at so absurd an idea, for after all, he asked himself as he reached for his coat, what’s in a name?
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