by Tony Klinger
Arnie watched a butterfly perched on a hedge; the boy was transfixed by the insect’s beauty and grace. Arnie sat poised, with his paintbrush over the blanks piece of paper, unsure where to begin, at first his strokes had been crude and unfocused, even to his own young eyes, but now he was beginning to be able to translate his awe and wonder onto to the canvas. His brush traced the shape and color of the wings with surprising sureness of touch and strength of purpose. The beautiful object slowly became a painting of almost equal beauty. Arnie’s fierce concentration was finally interrupted by Bertha calling to him from the distance. “Come on Arnie, it’s time for some lunch.” Arnie reluctantly looked up from his unfinished work but smiled when he saw his mother waving to him; “Mother, just a little bit longer and I’ll be finished,” he pleaded. Bertha laughed, she had heard all of this before from Arnie, and minutes could soon turn into hours if she let him have his way. Arnie laughed also, he was a bit hungry after all; he knew when to give in gracefully. He ran over to her, happy to exercise his stiff body. She patted the blanket next to her where he gratefully plopped himself down. They settled down to eat without too many words, extremely comfortable in their silence as they both appreciated everything around them.
Immediately after he had eaten the last bite Arnie pulled his mother to her feet despite her giggling protestations. Bertha walked along the riverbank whilst Arnie skipped and cart wheeled with the seemingly boundless energy and impish good spirits that nature reserves for the very young.
Arnie spotted an irresistibly inviting tree, which arched out over the river. The challenge was daunting but Arnie immediately accepted and was soon clambering precariously out on the protruding limb, swinging by his legs upside down: “Look mummy, I’m a fruit bat!” he called to Bertha. “Be careful up there!” she responded with maternal care.
The boy was about to respond but heard something, he turned from looking at his mother, to the branch from where he’d heard a loud cracking sound, He turned to his mother anxiously and she immediately realized his predicament and rushed to help. “Arnie get down now!” she shouted but it was too late. The branch snapped before she could get reach him, “Arnie!” she screamed as her son and the broken branch he was still holding plunged into the river far below.
Without thought for herself she dived into the river after her son. Initially she couldn’t find him as he didn’t surface, and she was treading water and looking wildly about as she repeatedly called his name, “Arnie, Arnie, where are you Arnie!” she shouted in desperation, looking around the deserted countryside for someone to help them, but the place was empty. Then suddenly there he was, his head bursting to the surface, like a cork in water, he spluttered for a moment and then seeing his mother swimming towards him in her summer frock made him laugh, and he swallowed a great lung full of the brackish river water and it seemed to reach out and re-claim the boy who vanished under the water again.
“Arnie, stop playing, where are you Arnie?” Bertha called to her son, but he had vanished. She swam to where he had last surfaced and searched for her son with growing desperation, fumbling about as she tried to penetrate the almost total blackness of the river water. For an instant she saw her son’s hand surface but it vanished below the water so fast she wasn’t quite sure if she had seen it at all. “Arnie!” she screamed again and again, her own breath coming in ragged gasps as she looked for him with growing panic. She dived below the surface but it was hard to see just a few feet in the murky water, then she saw a shape, a white shape, rolling and gliding, inert, as it moved sluggishly in the slow and lazy current, she instinctively pushed toward it. As she got closer she realized it was her Arnie, she reached him and lifted his inert head and shoulders out of the water as if were weightless.
With strength born from a mother’s love she surged with him to the shore. It was almost impossible to make her way out of the slippery and steep bank but somehow she struggled up its side, carrying her boy like a woman possessed. Al the time she was stroking his head, not sure what to do, but understanding he had to breathe or die. He seemed to be dead there was no sign of his small chest heaving, no expression on his face, nothing. She somehow managed to conquer her rising hysteria knowing instinctively that if she gave in to it he would have no chance. She laid his inert form on the bank, her iron resolve wavering as panic bubbled near the surface. For a moment she forgot her long held distance from any celestial being as she looked from her boy up to any empty sky, “Oh God, don’t take my boy away, please don’t take him!” she wailed to the seemingly uncaring deity above.
Not knowing what to do next she instinctively kissed her son on his lips and then tried to breathe live into him. She thought she saw a slight rise in his chest, but there was no other sign of life. She hammered on his chest with her fists, “Come on Arnie fight you have to fight, you are not allowed to die, do you hear me, you are not allowed to die, come on breathe, you have to breathe or mummy is going to get very angry!” she shouted as loud as she could into his ears. But there was still no flicker of life from him, she pounded him repeatedly on his small chest, “Breathe!” she begged him, “you have to breathe, listen to mummy, you must breathe.” But his face showed no reaction, no indication of life and it was turning a deathly blue; Bertha screamed incoherently in fear and rage. Now losing her sanity momentarily she flipped her boy over onto his front, and pushed down with all her weight onto his back, “Got to get the water out of him!” she said to herself, unaware that she was speaking her thoughts out loud to any empty, uncaring world.
Miraculously Arnie mouth opened involuntarily in a short forced exhalation, the foul water held so long in his tortured lungs spewed out in a small torrent. Bertha realized that there was suddenly hope where previously there was just despair, she rolled him over again, as he spluttered and spewed, she cradled his head to her chest, searching for more signs of life, an inwards breath, anything, “Arnie, that’s a good boy, come on now, breathe again, that’s right.” She felt his body tense as he struggled for breath, “Arnie live, you have to live for mama, come on another breath, you want to finish your lovely picture don’t you, you haven’t finished your lovely picture yet.” With these words Arnie took a great big breath, his eyelids fluttered and the sickly pallor of his skin began to return to a more normal color.
“That’s right’” Bertha coaxed her son, “Come on now, for mama, another big breath, you’ll feel better.” But it wasn’t necessary as he was already spluttering through semi-consciousness as if he were waking from a particularly bad nightmare. Suddenly his eyes opened and focused on Bertha; “I’ll be all right now mama,” he said and smiled brilliantly, “I promise I shall breathe.”
Bertha exhaled herself, realizing how terrified she had been all along. Now everything was going to be all right, her Arnie was alive, smiling and whole again, everything was going to be just fine. She kissed her son until he pushed her away with ill concealed embarrassment, “I could kill you for scaring me like that.” She said, but contrary to her words her actions were those of a doting mother brought too close to the edge of a terrible precipice.
Chapter Five
A few weeks in 1917
The next week was normal in every respect except, perhaps, that Bertha was even more watchful of Arnie than ever before. Normal that is, until the morning of the eighth day, when Arnie woke feeling feverish and stiff.
Initially Bertha simply felt his brow and declared it a simple head cold, he did feel slightly hot and clammy, but even after she had washed him with damp cloths he still complained of being wobbly and nauseous, so although not really believing that her Arnie was too ill she decided to keep him in bed for the day. She saw him smile at that thought, and her mind tempted her toward the thought that somehow he was playing some small boy’s trick to avoid a day at school. He wasn’t too keen on lessons when the weather outside was temptingly nice for painting or playing. She announced she was going to summon Doctor Springe
r. “We all know what doctor Springer does to little boys who are malingering don’t we Arnie, he holds them by the nose with one hand and gives them a big dose of cod liver oil with the other!” Arnie didn’t even seem too concerned at her humorous threat and that worried his mother.
The doctor, actually a very kindly man in his mid sixties, came quickly after being summoned by the downstairs maid. Methodically the doctor examined his young patient, feeling, probing and measuring in the mysterious ways some doctors have of appearing like initiates in some secret magic rites. During this Bertha kept herself occupied by fussing around the room, unsuccessfully trying to be inconspicuous as she straightened the bedroom for the fourth time as Springer stood up and patted his young patient on the cheek. Bertha couldn’t conceal her anxiety when she noticed the doctor’s grave expression, “Chin up little man, like a good soldier for the Fatherland.” He said to Arnie, who responded enthusiastically, “Will I miss lessons this week doctor?” The doctor smiled indulgently, “Yes you will young Master Hessel, now I must speak for a little while with your mother.” But before he could speak to Bertha the boy had another quick question for him, “All week?” The doctor smiled again, “I should think at least that long, and as much jelly and ice cream as you can eat!”
Arnie smiled towards his mother, this was the best doctor ever he thought as his mother and the medical man left the room. “Don’t you worry young man, I shall arrange for them to send you plenty of work from school so that you don’t fall too far behind.” He sighed theatrically as Bertha and the doctor as they left the room and she led him on to the drawing room, out of earshot of Arnie. “Now, Herr doctor, what is it, some kind of flu he’s caught?” The doctor shook his head and paused before continuing, “How long has Arnie had this temperature?” still the enigmatic medical man, “It began last night.” She replied, “Any other symptoms?” he continued his questioning, “Symptoms?” she asked, feeling a little stupid, what did the doctor mean, wasn’t it obvious the boy has flu she thought, why was he worrying her like this?
“Yes, symptoms,” he continued, “Has he been listless, restless, irritable has he vomited?” She smiled, “Other than the vomiting he is always running around like a toy solider, he has incredible energy.”
Arnie had been watching the exchange like a spectator at a tennis match, but he was losing interest in the boring adult conversation which seemed to be of no interest to him as the nice old doctor with the cold hands and his mother were now using very long words that he didn’t think anyone else could possibly understand. “He did have some tummy trouble as well,” she said, and the doctor was interested in this, “Has he had many episodes of diarrhea?”
“We will run some tests. It’s probably nothing serious” the doctor added when he saw that the boy’s mother was reacting badly to the stress of her son’s illness. Arnie, who had become progressively more bored by the whole affair was upset when he saw his mother becoming emotional. “What’s wrong mummy?” he asked her, she shushed him with a rush of words. “I’m talking to the doctor, and he’s telling me that you have a cold in your tummy, probably from when you fell in the river last week.”
The doctor interrupted her immediately he heard this, “Did he swallow much water?”
“Yes” she answered, “but he’s been perfectly well for more than a week since then so the two incidents are clearly not linked at all. He’s been absolutely fine all week” The doctor’s demeanor, already serious, became even more concerned, Suddenly, the outward appearance of calm in the room was shattered as Arnie’s small body went into convulsion, his head snapping back as if pulled by a giant, unseen puppeteer. Bertha and the doctor moved over to Arnie immediately. They both noticed another symptom as the young boy’s eyes had gone out of focus. “What’s wrong with my son?” she asked, searching the doctor’s concerned face for an answer. She now cradled her boy in her arms as the spasm gradually subsided.
Doctor Springer turned away from the bed and Bertha’s penetrating stare. “Your husband is still away at the front?” he asked her. “Yes doctor, but tell me what’s wrong with our son,” She replied. “You are going to have to be very strong my dear, I know your people tend to the emotional outburst but now you must be stoic and rise to the challenge, like a good German woman.” She looked at him dumbly, insulted but more concerned to know the truth about her son than to deal with his attitude. “Doctor don’t patronize me, what is wrong with my son, I want you to tell me immediately?”
The doctor was not used to dealing with assertive, modern women like Bertha, and although she was very attractive in a Mediterranean, sultry slightly sluttish manner, he certainly did not like her uppity manner. He was used to handling the relatives of patients in what he considered a dignified manner which both he and his mostly middle aged bourgeois clientele, because he thought of them that way, rather than as merely patients or relatives of patients, “Frau Hessel you should understand presently I can only make what amounts to a preliminary prognosis, as it is we have many tests to conduct, results to gather, to collate, to assess.” She was now plainly furious with him, “Stop waffling for God’s sake, just tell me what is wrong with my son!”
The doctor was not used to being addressed like this, he started to pack his medical bag all the while huffing with indignation. “Perhaps madam would be best suited to seeking a second opinion, there is Doctor Meyer, who is, I am given to understand, a perfectly adequate doctor of the Hebrew persuasion, with whom madam might well feel more of an affinity.” Bertha could barely contain her anger, “Stop being a pompous oaf and tell me what is wrong with my son or I shall take this knife and geld you!” Bertha picked up a dull bladed fruit knife that was on the table next to her son and brandished it at the doctor. He gulped in surprise, this was not the way most ladies would behave.
“Young Arnie has a particularly virulent form of polio, do you know what that is Frau Hessel?” Bertha nodded, for a moment mute with shock, “It can’t be polio, there must be something wrong with this, my boy can’t have polio, what can I do?” She pleaded. “There are several things you must and must not do,” he answered, “You mainly catch Polio through contact with stools from an infected person. This can happen in one of several ways, including: Eating food or drinking liquids that are contaminated with poliovirus. Poliovirus is commonly found in sewage water. I strongly suspect that the water in the river where Arnie fell in was contaminated and that would have been enough to start the infection.” He paused to see whether the woman was digesting the information. Then he continued;
“I really don’t think it was caused by his touching surfaces or objects contaminated with poliovirus then putting his contaminated hand to his mouth. As from now neither you nor anyone else can share foods or eating utensils with Arnie. Do you understand me, it is vital we contain this outbreak or it can spread like wildfire. As a precaution we are also going to quarantine your house until Arnie is no longer in danger of being infectious.” Bertha was shaking her head as he concluded. She was simply too horrified to accept what he was saying.
“I’ll get a second opinion as you suggested, I don’t think this is possible, Doctor Mayer will tell me a different story, perhaps you enjoy telling me such things because you don’t like Jews?” she accused, he shook his head sadly. “I don’t confuse my personal attitudes with my professional diagnosis, your son is very sick, and now I will have to report this fact to the medical authorities of our town so that they may protect the other citizens from contagion.”
He rose to leave, but before he could do so Bertha grabbed his sleeve. “There must be a cure, there is always a cure, just tell me what to do, where to go, I don’t care how much it costs, we’ll pay whatever is necessary.” He shook her hand free from his sleeve, “Madam, remember your dignity.” These foreign people, he thought, under that thin veneer of German manners they were still more comfortable in some Byzantine bazaar. Best be direct, he thought, before she became
even more hysterical. “Your son has acute poliomyelitis.” She mutely shook her head in denial that the doctor misunderstood to be lack of understanding. “The boy has polio.”
Bertha still said nothing, she was too horrified to speak, and she had prepared herself for some bad news, but not this, never this. Nothing could have given her the strength to face this new trial.
“There is a cure, nowadays there is always a cure?” she asked rhetorically. The doctor recognized some inner strength in the woman, and found some sympathy for her. He shook his head sadly, “There is no cure that we know of, but we might well be able to mitigate the resultant paralysis on some occasions; put another way, if we’re lucky the crippling aspects can be minimized.” Bertha was staring deep into the eyes of the doctor, and he found it very unsettling, that intense personal scrutiny. She interrupted him again, “No,” she shook her head, “my son will never be a cripple, never, not as long as I draw breath.”
Bertha tried to listen as the doctor patiently explained the medical regime she would now have to follow with Arnie. “Your son will have a high temperature, that might well become very high indeed, he will appear not to want anyone, even you near to him, touching him, he will suffer some great pain, but what you must watch for after a day or so is an inability to use one or more limbs properly, if at all. You must then summon me at once to examine him and I can try to limit the paralysis. For your part, you must use every effort to make him move those limbs. We shall wrap his spine in cotton wool and mustard plaster as the latest thinking is that this will ease the effects of the onset of the polio.” The doctor turned to go, but Bertha made him pause by placing her hand on his sleeve.