by Tony Klinger
Initially Bertha allowed all of this pressure because she was a wise woman, clever in her understanding of men, and their frailties. She understood that her husband found it difficult to readjust to civilized life after spending so long fighting and living like a savage in the mud and squalor. But even her saintly patience became exhausted as her kindness and smiles were rejected and answered by scowls and anger. Now a mother’s instinct to protect her young took over from her wish to placate an unreasonably angry man who, instead of loving her as he had once done, now took her brutally in the dead of night as if she were his whore. All thought of finding a reconciliation were fast fading as she moved her husband’s things back to the guest bedroom and found the key to lock her bedroom.
Next, summoning her courage, she confronted her husband about the way he had been treating their son over the last months. One morning over breakfast she waited until they were alone and, although he was still engrossed in his newspaper she spoke, “Of course you know there is nothing wrong with the love of art Bertie.” He put down his journal and stared at her for a moment with a look of pure contempt, “It is a cosmopolitan weakness and is not to be encouraged in our son, do you hear me, and I will not countenance this.” Bertha considered this for a moment as he resumed reading. “I have an equal right to decide how our son shall be raised Bertie.” She stated, with her voice raised, and quivering a bit more than she wanted with anger.
He put down his newspaper and smiled. “What nonsense is this, you are my woman, and you and the boy will both do my bidding or I will take my belt to both of you, do you understand?” She knew he meant it, but this was too important for her to be intimidated. “My parents were right about you, you’re a bully, and if you can’t win an argument you resort to violence.” He laughed at her, “Are these the parents that love you so much that they pretend you’re dead?” Despite herself she found herself crying, and hated her weakness. “When did you become so evil, I loved you, and now you’ve become so horrible.”
He looked at her closely, as if she were an exhibit in a display. “Is this the moment when you cry and I am supposed to become sympathetic? It is not going to work this time, I assure you. This is far too important; it is about the well being of our son.
Chapter Seven
Darmstadt
1920 - 1927
The only value of being a child without the use of their arms is that if you survive you will only do so by becoming harder, stronger and more determined than any of your peers. So it was with Arnie, without realizing it he slowly became a much stronger person in many ways, he was forced to build an emotional wall to keep out the hurt and keep in the dreams.
The day that his father had returned to the lives of Arnie and his mother was burned into the mind of the small boy and in his heart, but he wasn’t to realize this for a very long time. Bertie was angry with the boy for being infirm as if it were the boy’s fault. Mostly he was angry with himself for the inadequacy he felt when failing to know how to deal with the situation of his son.
Arnie tried to block out the pain by activity. He almost managed not to notice the pitying glances of his father but sometimes the perceptive little boy couldn’t avoid noticing the disdainful reaction of his father to his disability. The child buried this growing pile of hurts under an even bigger mound of happier accomplishments. Simple triumphs of any small boy became magnified into huge semi imagined accomplishments. Nevertheless certain small hurts couldn’t be avoided. The way Bertie ignored his son was compounded by the older man’s silences, by the way he refused to respond to the boy’s happy chatter, which quickly echoed into sad little silences. The home gradually settled into a house, just a place where the family Hessel lived. Before too long Arnie grew to hate his father with all his growing strength. Arnie convinced himself that this miserable man was an imposter, sent to replace the real Bertie, who must have died a hero’s death on the Front.
But small boys can be determined and Arnie tried in his childish way to ingratiate himself with his father. He instinctively realized that the man respected hard work, discipline and application so he tried to excel in everything he did. When he saw his father admiring other boys play sports Arnie spent countless hours re-learning how to run. He didn’t have a mirror to see how ungainly he looked as he began this huge effort, and he wouldn’t have cared. Just the feel of the wind in his face and hair as he ran felt so wonderful. In his mind he was running like a big cat, but to look at he was simply hobbling fast, his arms flapping lifelessly at his sides like some kind of demented mobile windmill. But Arnie was not satisfied, now he wanted to play football like all the other boys he saw playing in the park. He had no friends to play with. He didn’t understand that his friends avoided him out of their being uncomfortable and embarrassed rather than because of their casual cruelty.
Arnie solved this problem of his being solitary when he realized he could kick his football against the walls in his family’s secluded rose garden. It still proved difficult because when he kicked the ball with his left foot he repeatedly fell to the ground helplessly because his right leg was still weak and insecure. He kicked the ball against the wall times without number. Thousands of times he pounded the ball until he became better. He could hit the ball high or low, right, left or middle, fast, slow or in high bouncy arcs. In his young mind he was the king, the absolute master of those old red bricks and that piece of inflated leather. Finally he was so confident in his ability he asked his mother to invite two of his old best friends, Tomas and Otto over for tea on the next Sunday. He also begged her to make certain that his father would also be present. Although his mother wasn’t sure Bertie’s presence was such a good idea she was delighted that her son wanted to meet people again, so she happily complied.
Sunday arrived and so did Arnie’s friends. He greeted the reluctant but inquisitive visitors with caution, his sense of self worth remaining very delicate. “Hello”, he said, watching their equally wary eyes examine him for some monstrous infirmity. “Hello”, they chorused in reply. Tomas noticed the ball lying on the grass unattended, unsure what else to do he turned to Otto, a shy boy always eager to follow his lead. “Let’s play football!” Tomas shouted to Otto as he ran across the grass.
Arnie turned when he heard his father approaching. “Good morning boys, good to see you, its been too long.” The boys were nervous of the man, but were soon distracted by kicking the ball to one another. Bertie turned to his son, “mother told me there was something you wished me to see?” Arnie smiled nervously, he was proud of his accomplishments with the ball, so hard won, but his nervousness around his father stuck his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He found himself unable to speak, his mouth opening and closing with no sound coming from it. “Don’t stand there like a bloody fish!” roared Bertie. Arnie noticed his friends, who were pretending not to hear, look up and snigger at this, “You have no doubt got something silly to show me, so get on with it, I don’t have all day to waste.”
Arnie was determined to show he wasn’t as worthless as his father thought, and bravely held back the tears that were pressing the back of his eyes, clamoring to roll down his cheeks. “Tomas!” he called, “Give me a kick.” Tomas looked at Arnie in surprise as he ran onto the grass. Tomas looked to Otto and Bertie unsure of what to do.
“Go on, kick him the ball and let’s see what he’ll do with it.” Said Bertie, a spark of interest quickening within his cynical heart. Tomas put his foot on the ball and rolled it backward, quickly managing a tricky maneuver that enabled him to get his foot under the ball so that he scooped it up into the air and onto his knee, there Tomas kept it bouncing as if he were a magician, “I say, bravo Tomas.” Bertie said, clapping his hands together in appreciation. Tomas always played to the gallery, and at that moment Arnie hated him. His friend kicked the ball into the air and then sent it in a lazy airborne trajectory toward him without it ever touching the ground.
Arnie kne
w at the moment the ball blotted out the sun on its way to him that all his efforts and practice were going to be inadequate when compared to his friend’s football tour de force. The ball came toward his right leg, he tried to turn so that he could carry his weight more comfortably on his stronger left leg, to trap the ball, but he was too slow and ponderous. The football hit him on his right arm just as he was at his most unbalanced and he stumbled backwards, landing hard and clumsily on his bum on the grass. The shame, the ignominy as Tomas then Otto, but worst of all, his own father burst into uncontrollable laughter at Arnie’s collapse. No one moved to his assistance as he tried to get to his feet, their cruel laughter was to echo in Arnie’s mind for years to come.
It was at that moment that Bertha appeared at her son’s side. But she recognized the need for him to get to his own feet without her help. All she could do was smile in his direction, and nod, as if by these mute signals they would share the information, Arnie get up!
Arnie focused all his attention on that task and used his legs to propel himself back towards an oak tree, which he reached after a huge effort, having rubbed his bottom raw. He used the sturdy bough of the tree as a support for his back and working his legs like pistons he forced himself up the tree until he was standing upright. Perspiring with the effort and feeling distinctly wobbly after over taxing his weary leg muscles Arnie kept his eyes focused on the ball at his feet, scared to look up into mocking eyes. Reaching for the ball he knew that just kicking it would not remedy his embarrassment. But Arnie was nothing if not determined, and he decided to try the trick he’d been rehearsing so hard for so long. Failure didn’t cross his mind as he summoned up the willpower to overcome his adversity. He put his left foot on the ball and gently rolled it back a few centimeters, quickly locking it between his heels and in one glorious motion that he’d practiced endlessly he jumped and whilst in the air he jackknifed the bottom half of his legs sending the now released ball high in the air and over his head. Before it could touch the ground he volleyed it back over his head and turned in time to witness it land perfectly at Otto’s feet. Both the boys watching Arnie were amazed at their friends athletic triumph, too amazed to speak, their smirks of condescension replaced by quickly found boyish approval.
Satisfied with this Arnie looked away from his friends to seek a similar reaction from his father, but Bertie had already turned his back to march off toward the house. He had given up on the small boy before witnessing his achievement. “Papa!” shouted Arnie, his voice a mixture in equal parts of anger and self-pity. The man stopped and turned to face the boy. “Perhaps you should realize your limitations and try something less difficult next time.” Before Arnie could summon a response Bertie marched into the house. His back seemed like a giant accusing wall shouting no to his son. “But papa, you missed my trick!” He called over his shoulder, without looking back, “Don’t waste my time.” He entered the house, Arnie’s devastation would have been total but at the moment of his deepest hurt and depression Tomas and Otto appeared at either side of him, both of them smiling broadly. “Can you show me how to do that trick?” Otto asked him. His approval was a wonderful, if temporary, substitute for his father’s total lack of interest and support.
Over the following months Arnie didn’t speak with his father except at the behest of his mother who did all she could to mend the rift between the two men in her life. Arnie’s interest in and love for painting became an obsession as Brigittete and Bertha worked with him to seek methods to perfect the way he could hold a brush in his mouth instead of continually mourning the fact that he couldn’t use his hands. The major difficulty of holding the brush this way was that it brought Arnie’s eyes too close to the canvas on which he was painting. He couldn’t see the overall look of the painting as he worked. He tried working with longer stemmed paintbrushes but soon discovered that these were almost impossible to control with any accuracy. Often Arnie came close to despair as he saw the results of his painstaking work were nowhere near the same level he had achieved with so little effort before his accident and infirmity. His mouth ached from clenching the brush too hard between his teeth for so many hours but still his paintings didn’t come near to the levels he had set himself. He didn’t want to be a good disabled artist, he wanted to be just a good painter.
One day he finished trying to paint a portrait of his mother who had patiently sat for him as his model for two entire afternoons. The light diminished so Arnie let the brush drop onto the palette on the chair and stood back from his labors. He looked up at the canvas and sighed, despairing of his lost ability. The line of the work was uncertain, unsteady and disgustingly weak. Bertha looked at the painting and said nothing for a long while. Brigittete, always uncomfortable in such silences, looked at the painting; “it’s lovely Arnie” she said kindly, the boy could sense her insincerity, and despised himself for being weak enough to want to believe the woman.
“No,” said his mother grimly, “there must be some other way for you to paint or you will never amount to anything at all. This simply is not good enough.” Arnie tried to summon up the will to argue, but knew she was simply telling him the truth.
Bertha set about using her inventive and elastic mind to discover some method to enable her son to unleash the talent she knew lay within him, undiminished by his physical impairment. The trio tried everything for day after day, but still they were no nearer to a solution. They began to despair after the days became weeks and they became months, still without success. Arnie couldn’t bear the repeated failure and he begged them to leave him alone. “You think I’m some kind of game don’t you?” he cruelly asked his mother, who loved him without reservation. He was mortified when he saw the tears welling up in his adored mother’s eyes, “I don’t mean that mama, its just that you’ll soon have me standing on my head painting with my feet!”
Brigittete laughed but Arnie saw his mother with that familiar glint in her eye. She had an idea. Within the hour she had her son experimenting with various types of brushes clenched between his toes. Initially Arnie couldn’t reach the canvas comfortably so it was raised, lowered and adjusted at the same time, as was the chair. A process of elimination had the women place cushions strategically behind him, under him and to his side, until, they made the idea functional even if Arnie was not secure on his perch. This seemed to worry no one except Arnie as he labored hard to clench the brush firmly between the first and second toes of his left foot. However hard he tried the brush was impossible for him to control. “This is hopeless, just hopeless!” he called out, “I’m useless, just a useless cripple.” His mother, always his unquestioning support and anchor looked at her son long and hard, “I agree, we really shouldn’t waste any more time on you, you’re twelve years old now, no longer a baby to be mollycoddled and cajoled. You haven’t even managed to equal the paintings you did when you were seven yet, I am going to give all your painting equipment to the people at the orphanage, they’ll appreciate it.” She started to pack away all his precious brushes and paints. Arnie didn’t know whether to get angry or cry, he decided on the former. “That’s not fair!” he roared, “I wasn’t crippled then, its not my fault I can’t paint as well as I could then.” But his mother continued to pack away his artists tools as if he weren’t talking, “Mother why won’t you listen to me,” he turned his head towards Brigittete, “Tell her she’s being unfair.” Instead of answering him the teacher began to help Bertha to pack away his paints in a brown canvas bag, “Why are you both being so wicked to me, it isn’t fair, I try to paint, I just can’t do it any better, it’s not my fault I can’t do it.” His mother paused in her work and looked at him.
“Fair?” she said scornfully, “what does fair have to do with anything? You keep repeating I’m not fair, the world’s not fair, why do you expect fairness from the world? It’s time you realized that no one owes you anything. If you want to live like a lump feeling sorry for yourself that’s how the world will value you. B
ut while you’re working this out for yourself I expect life will simply pass you by. You will be one of those people who could have been something, could have been, might have been. You will meet many people who tell you that they have a great notion for a book that they will write if only they have the time, but they never will find that time. We all have ideas and many people have talent but talent without application is nothing at all. To achieve anything worthwhile takes a person with talent thousands of hours of hard work; then one day, hopefully, other people might recognize this. Talent without application is like a sail without wind, useless, like you, and I’m your mother and I love you, or I simply wouldn’t bother with this truth. You are handsome and will be a charming diversion for people passing by in their busy lives, but you’ll be one of those bitter people who could have been somebody, but settled for being a nobody. Don’t worry though, your father, would probably think I was simply stating the obvious and thinks all this effort is cruel on my part, he has already made provision for you so that you’ll always have a roof over your head and food on your table. Me, I just thought you’d prefer to do this for yourself than settle for being a self pitying lump, I was wrong.” She swept from the room without looking back and Brigittete, now shaking her head and quietly wiping a tear from her apple cheeked face followed her out.
Arnie bowed his head in shame. Was he really how his mother had described him he wondered? He sat there, alone for hours, until the light from the sun dimmed, and he was in the darkness without the ability or will to do anything about it. He examined and weighed the evidence of his mother’s words and his own beliefs and arrived at the same conclusions. This made him even more miserable, to the point of desolation and despair. He had degenerated into being simply a burden on others, especially those that loved him, always expecting someone else to do anything difficult or irksome whilst he had grown accustomed to his using his infirmity as a shield from hard work. The unpalatable truth was that he had become accustomed to starting everything in a half hearted fashion anticipating certain failure, a pat on the head and then assistance, quickly followed by platitudes that would excuse him. He instinctively knew that his mother was forcing him to face up to himself for his own good.