by Tony Klinger
“There is nothing more I can say or do presently, except suggest that you pray to your God for his help for your son’s safety as he travels through hell.” She walked after him as he moved towards the door, “Should Arnie be place in a hospital?” The doctor shook his head, “The hospitals’ are already full of our injured soldiers and the very seriously ill and dying, there is no further room Frau Stegmann, but perhaps we could find you a nurse to help you here? He offered,
“No.” she replied, “I shall take care of my son.”
The next few days were a confused nightmare for both mother and son. Bertha religiously followed the doctor’s strict and specific guidelines, even when they appeared distinctly odd to her keen mind. She felt the boy’s pulse, measured his temperature and closely examined his arms and legs. She noted even the most minor variation in a book she headed “Arnie’s Road to Recovery” in bold black letters on its blue front cover.
However, instead of recovering, his condition continued to deteriorate with every passing day. All Bertha’s thoughts and energies were concentrated on the boy as she blotted out anything extraneous to this all-consuming mission. She didn’t leave his side except to grab food or visit the toilet. She noticed her reflection in the mirror as she scurried past and it gave her pause as she realized she had not washed or combed her usually lustrous hair in days, and thought nothing of it. Bertha left unanswered Bertie’s letters from the Front of the War as he was relegated to another, far less important plateau.
The decline of Arnie reached crisis point some four days later when he was unable to move either his arms or legs. Bertha refused to panic. “Sit up Arnie.” She instructed her son. The boy strained to comply, but the effort was hopeless, “I can’t move mama, I can’t even cry, what’s happening to me?” he whined with self-pity. Bertha slapped him across his face; the shock stopped his tears. He found it hard to catch his breath for a few moments. Bertha grabbed him by both his shoulders and stared into his eyes. “You are to be brave, do you understand me, you are a soldier for the fatherland, and this is your battle, and brave German soldiers do not cry in a fight, do you understand, you must be brave?”
The small boy’s fear evaporated hearing his mother’s patriotic call to arms, her courage shamed him, he smiled bravely through his drying tears, “I will try mama, I shall try my hardest.”
The improvement in his condition was very slow and extremely painful, but Arnie did not cry for himself ever again. He found the courage to deal with the very slow progress; so slow that it was Bertha alone who noticed the infinitesimal signs of improvement.
The doctor had tried on many occasions to persuade the woman to accept her son’s total paralysis. In fact the doctor thought, these people were, at least, stubborn in their resolve, almost donkey like in not giving in easily. How was it that they were described in the good book, they were indeed a stiff-necked people. The woman hovered over the boy endlessly, constantly feeding him the prescribed diet of warm milk and cod liver oil with extract of malt. With increasing vigor she massaged his lifeless arms and legs.
“Move your arms, move your legs.” She ordered him every time she massaged his tortured body, but despite the small lad’s tremendous efforts he was unable to do so. “I can’t do it mama, I just can’t.” He was worn out from the fruitless, unremitting and ultimately exhausting effort. “Your toes, you can try to wriggle your toes for mama,” she said this as if his inability was the most ridiculous thing in the world. “I can’t do it mama, I really can’t do it.” He repeated in desperation, his voice a testament for pity, for release from his mother’s constant bullying. “Then you must simply try harder.” She commanded, he tried but was again unsuccessful, but something snapped inside him with this final mighty exertion. “Mama!” he shouted, and before she could angry at the boy shout directly at her she realized what had made him scream. Tears had formed in his previously dry eyes, and now were coursing down his soft cheeks; she stared at his face in disbelief. “You’re crying Arnie, you’re crying!”
“I’m sorry mama, I’m trying to stop it but it won’t” she stroked his confused face, “these are good tears Arnie, these are wonderful tears, you keep crying, it is simply perfect!”
Arnie’s face battled between the tears that were now streaming from his eyes and the huge grin on his face that contradicted them, “I can cry again mama, real tears.” They both cried, great tears of happiness, she hugged him to her, “Does this mean I am going to get all better?” she regained her composure and stood back, she shook her head.
“Arnulf Hessel, we’re over the worst, and if we work even harder we will win more than we lose, do you hear me, we will win.”
It was around this time that Bertha reached the fateful decision that she was not going to tell her husband about my illness. She convinced herself that she could nurse me back to full health, despite all the medical evidence pointing to the opposite result. She was determined that nothing was going to spoil her man’s triumphant return from his ultimate victory at the front.
Bertha’s hope in this regard was misplaced, as, despite all her best efforts at nursing I was never going to regain the use of my arms, and it was to take months, many months, pain filled and seemingly endless, before I could even walk again, but with mother’s constant support walk I did.
Chapter Six
Darmstadt, Germany
1918
Bertha showed me an envelope marked army mail service and began to read to me in her low, warm and melodious voice.
“Dear Arnulf, All is well with my comrades and myself. We continue to carry the fight to the Tommies and it shall not be too much longer before they surrender. We have given them a terrible hammering. I am at Ypres; in France that mother will show you on the big atlas I sent you last Christmas. You will see exactly where we are, and I shall look at my atlas, and we can think of each other. When we fire out big guns the whole earth shakes as if God himself were stamping his feet in anger. I’m sure if I were a Tommy I would give up and go home to England. Soon we’ll be together again and you’ll show me all the fine pictures mama tells me you’re now painting. I can’t wait. Much love, your father.”
Bertha put down the letter and I noticed for the first time that she was quietly crying. “Are you all right mama, are those good or bad tears?” she wasn’t able to reply through the tears, “what is it mama?” I asked again, and buried my head in her lap. I guess I was seeking to give her some warmth from the only human contact I could give. Mother smoothed my hair and this calmed her. “Now mama is OK, you go and play outside, I have lots of things to do.”
I obediently left the room, instantly finding other new things that were much more interesting to a small boy. Like most adventurous children I was always fascinated by what might be around the next corner. I didn’t see my much-loved mother reading a second letter from father.
This one spoke guardedly but at length, in distressing detail, of the privations, the ferocity, the horrendous loss of life, trench foot, mustard gas, disease, men drowning in the flooded trenches, unworthy and unrecorded bravery, and acts of cowardice, that Bertie despised but Bertha sympathized with. How she wished that her own father had not been so heroic, as only two days earlier she had read in the Darmstadt Chronicle that he had given his life for the fatherland. How she wished that they had the one last chance to say how they loved each other, how she regretted their estrangement, which all seemed so petty and futile now.
Bertha questioned herself again, why hadn’t she told her husband about their son’s illness and disability, and now it might be too late. Arnie only knew one thing, however stern and solemn and distant his father might be, he was still his daddy and he would soon be home as a hero.
As time drifted on it felt like forever to Arnie. He waited with growing impatience and skepticism for the soldiers to return home. The only men who did come back were too wounded or ill to be able
to continue with their soldierly duty. To Arnie they seemed particularly useless, and oddly frightening. He had seen men without limbs, and even one man without a face. He had nightmares about the man but he felt even more sympathy for the men who were blinded. Imagine not being able to see the world he thought. Now Arnie began to fervently regret praying to God for him to bring his daddy back immediately, especially if the price he would have to pay was some kind of terrible injury. He could stay away a little longer if his coming home meant he would have to return as a cripple, like himself.
Time passed with molasses like slowness for all of Germany. First the tide seemed as though it might turn their way when the Russian army mutinied and returned to the East, but this was made much worse when the Americans came in their huge numbers and riches. The initial myths of imminent victory had long since vanished and were replaced by a grudging acceptance of harsh, unpleasant, unpalatable realities. “Perhaps” they muttered in their beer halls, churches and homes, “Perhaps it was just a matter of a little more time, perhaps another year or two would see the job done.” But the belief in final, total victory, remained absolute with the German people.
It was during this period that I remember my mother-sought reconciliation with her parents. But it was not to be. Her mother exchanged messages with her, but the word came back that her father stipulated that it would be impossible for him to meet with a dead woman, and since when had the dead given birth to children. Therefore, to him, and his fellow orthodox Jews I could never exist.
Bertha and Arnie didn’t much care who won the war anymore; they just wanted Bertie home. Neither of them could remember what the war was about any more, or why they were fighting. In fact it was Bertha who wanted Bertie back, Arnie could barely remember who his father was, he was just a distant hazy memory. Bertha had begun the process of mythologizing her husband, who she had not loved so dearly when he was with her. Now she ached for him in every way, for his companionship, for his touch, and even for someone just to talk with who was not a child. It hurt her just to think about how much she yearned for her man.
Arnie was less concerned about his father since he cared much more for the wonders of the magical world that crowded around and encircled him with a rich wondrous embrace. All he wanted was to touch this world with his paintbrush as he spent endless hours working on the difficult technique of holding the paint brush in his mouth and perfecting his brush strokes.
He became ever closer to Bertha; she was his mother, father, teacher and nurse to him. News of the endless military stalemate was of far less interest to him than the shape, color and texture of a tree, not because he was uncaring about his father and his millions of fellow soldiers but simply owing to the fact that they were entirely absent from his experience and life. He wasn’t aware of what he didn’t see. Letters still arrived from his father via his mother but even this slight channel of communication began to shrivel and die since Arnie simply didn’t see the need to respond despite mama’s constant nagging for him to do so. Scribbled notes were as much as she could drag from him addressed to the ghost like figure of his father, now just a wraith like memory. It was so difficult to use a pencil in your mouth to write anyway, what was the point?
The final war years drifted for Arnie and Germany as the country gradually bled its resources into the ground of Western Europe. This process was a lingering torture for people everywhere but like most small boys Arnie simply delighted in watching men from the army march through his town, celebrating whatever marching armies celebrate, victories, real or imagined. Still it was exciting to follow the marching band and play at being a soldier, but when he said, “I want to be a soldier, just like my daddy!” she burst into tears, at once both thankful that this could never be the case, but regretful that he could never enjoy that choice. Arnie rushed away from mama, unable to bear her tears, so he suffered in grand childish isolation unable to understand his misdemeanor but confidant that the entire world was conspiring against him. Soon his mother recovered sufficiently to come and seek him out to cuddle him. He didn’t need or understand the explanation offered, content with the feel of his mother’s closeness, calmed by her clean soapy smell. He loved the warmth and softness of her femininity. He asked her if she wanted to have a kick about of his favorite football, and there was no greater compliment he could give, she sometimes would kick the ball back and forth, and for a girl she was really quite good he thought, but today, for reasons beyond him, she declined. Arnie kept badgering her and she smiled as he stood before her facing her directly so that he could talk into her eyes without her being distracted. Suddenly he smiled brightly, “I’m a chatterbox aren’t I?”
They both laughed and she ruffled his mop of unruly blond hair about which he always tried to be fastidious, if he could get mama to comb it for him. “Are you my little man Arnie?” she asked playfully, but perhaps tinged with just a tinge of seriousness. “I am mama, I’m your little man, and I will never go away and leave you on your own, I promise.” They both paused for a moment, the implied rebuke of his father left in the air to float between them in silent conspiracy.
One morning, not long after this, mama spent more time than was usual preparing herself for the day. When questioned by Arnie she smiled enigmatically and said she had a very wonderful surprise present for Arnie and it would be arriving that very morning on the train at the central station in the town. Not bowing to her son’s persistent interrogation she finally allowed her frayed patience a bit of freedom, “don’t be so tiresome Arnie, what have I told you about behaving like a turgid parrot with verbal diarrhea. Be quiet and all your questions will be answered.”
Naturally his mother’s vocal annoyance embarrassed and upset the small boy who still idolized his mother. He managed, just about, to keep silent as they traveled to the train station on the new electric trolley bus and although the mood of the town was grey and somber, the station itself was packed and happy, full of excited, loud women with their even noisier children. In the bustling crowd of grown ups Arnie became scared and overwhelmed by the people all around him, the inadvertent knocks into his unprotected body. What is all this? He thought, who are these people, what do they all want, what are they doing here, what did it have to do with him and his mama?” his questions were answered soon enough.
A big man with mutton chop whiskers and a Prussian style moustache came over and hugged his mother, then to Arnie’s utter amazement the man kissed mama full on her lips; the stranger then reached down and picked Arnie up to hug him. The small boy struggled to break free. “Don’t you recognize me Arnie?” the man asked, clearly concerned. Arnie shook his head, quiet and disturbed, scared by the man who gently set the boy down on his feet.
Bertha knelt next to her son, “This is your father Arnie, this is daddy, and he is now home for good.” Said Bertha. Arnie looked back and forth between his parents, and, after a long pause, he kissed the man on the mouth. Bertie pulled away from his son, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve as he did so. “We don’t kiss like that Arnie, we kiss like this.” He pecked Arnie on the cheek with the absolute minimum of contact with his lips. Arnie stared seriously at his father. Neither was sure how to react to the other.
Bertie turned to his wife, “What’s wrong with the boy?” Bertie asked her above the noise of the crowd, moving back from his son as if might be contagious, “There’s something not right with him.” Bertha saw the confusion and pain on her sensitive son’s face.
“Our son has been very ill, but now he’s better, he had polio.” Bertie’s face turned to a look of thunder, “what do you mean, had polio? He clearly cannot use his arms, he is still ill?”
“It sounds ridiculous now, but I was trying to protect you, you had matters of life and death to deal with every day. I’m sorry I always meant to tell you, but there never seemed to be a right time.” Bertie became silent, looked between mother and son and then turned on his heel, visibly rejecting them b
oth. Bertha followed him as she pulled their son after them. Arnie would always remember his father’s terrible silence and the anger he could feel from the man’s back. His father gave no other visible sign of a reaction; Arnie tired to stop his mother dragging him after his father but was powerless. He tried not to cry but tears forced their way through his clenched lashes and eyelids as his felt completely humiliated. He believed every eye in the station must be on him but the truth was that hardly anyone was aware of this small human drama being played out in their midst. Bertha pushed and forced him to follow in his father’s wake through the crowded station until they joined this man, who was clearly pretending to be his father, in the suddenly claustrophobic hansom cab.
The ride home was silent other than for the clip clop of the horses’ hooves and the solitary breathing of each of the people in the small space. Somehow, it was clear to Arnie, that every exhalation was an accusation from his father. It said, “who are you, what did you do with my healthy son you cripple?”
Days became weeks and they flowed sluggishly into months for Arnie as he discovered what his father had become. This was a miserable experience for the small boy whose fantasies of a loving father were being supplanted by a much harsher realty. Bertie had transformed himself into a military martinet during his service for the Kaiser. He was determined to stamp out anything in Arnie that he deemed soft, effeminate and weak, and this certainly included painting. He directed his anger at art, but really his hatred was for Arnie’s handicap, which he blamed on Bertha’s bad mothering and the boy’s own self-destructiveness.
In effect Bertie instructed his son to get better, and this meant Arnie needed to find a way to make his arms work again. To that end Bertie brought in a fitness instructor from the spa in the town, and every day this young man worked on developing the upper body strength of the tortured little boy. But nothing worked, since nothing could work, it wasn’t humanly possible, despite everything the boy did to make his father hate him less.