by Tony Klinger
She smiled again, “I’m not any other woman, I’m not even a woman yet, I’m just a girl and you’re not a man, just a boy, we have plenty of time for growing up.”
Now it was his turn to smile, “do you really believe that, I don’t think so, I think you liked it as much as me?” Marlene didn’t answer but her blush deepened as she thought about what he said, then the fates took a hand in events and a cold wind whipped through the garden and broke the spell between them. It was as if Marlene and Arnie were wakened from a trance, “I had better make tracks for home, and my parents must be wondering where I’ve got to.”
Arnie wanted to believe she would have stayed were she able, but understood that the conventions demanded that she leave. But he was nothing if not persistent and determined.
“Are you afraid to be left alone with me, after all what can I possibly do to you, just a crippled boy without the use of his arms, what harm could I do to a strong young lady like you?” she examined his face, looking for the hint of mockery she knew lurked behind his feigned innocence. “I imagine you could do quite a lot of harm actually.” They both paused for a moment and then they burst into laughter, recognizing both the mischief and sexual chemistry hidden just below the surface between them. “You’re impossible!” she said, “Worse than all the other boys I know put together.”
He bent one knee to the ground and looked up at her, “Truly I’m just a lonely boy, your being here brings me my only ray of sunshine, I just have one wish....” He left the thought unsaid, teasing Marlene, “You can’t stop there, what is it, what do you wish for?” he shook his head, “No I can’t ask it of you.” “Tell me.” She insisted,
“I need to see a woman’s body, desperately.” Marlene was truly outraged, “This time you have gone too far, how could you say such a thing to me, and do you think I’m a complete trollop?”
Arnie quickly stood up and shook his head, “No, you misunderstand me, this is for art, I am an artist.” He pleaded, “Now I’ve heard everything, you take me for an idiot. What art could you do, you have no arms!”
“I’ll show you.” Arnie said, turning towards the rose garden down the incline of the lawn. He was relieved to see that she followed him to the charming little clearing. “This is beautiful.” Pleased with the discovery, she was enchanted by the spot. Then she saw Arnie’s easel set up in the middle of the lawn and she walked to the canvas and stopped, she stood staring at the painting. It was a simple enough study of a rose bush, one of the best Arnie had managed to that point, but nothing he was particularly proud of, but Marlene was clearly more impressed.
“It’s wonderful, who painted it?” she asked him. There was a pause, where he wondered, is she mocking me, and she pondered on this strange, unique boy man. He laughed, “Why are you laughing at me?” she asked, “You think it’s impossible for me to be the artist don’t you.” He accused, “How could you paint?”
She paused in consideration, “nothing is impossible, but I don’t know how it’s possible.” He shrugged expressively, “that I can show you.” He walked over to the easel and picked up a fine brush from the water cup with his mouth. He dipped it into the pallet and using his mouth as he had done for long years of private practice he started to paint. His technique was now fairly assured, his hold of the brush strong enough and his touch particularly deft for this special audience. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Marlene’s look shift from cynicism to pity to something between admiration and awe. “It’s a miracle,” she said at last, Arnie smiled at the praise, he forgot that the brush was still in his mouth.
“It’s a mmmmm”. He mumbled before Marlene kindly took the brush out of his mouth, “It’s not a miracle but it does stop me talking and ......”
“And what?” she asked,
“And kissing.” I completed. Again Arnie covered her mouth with his, this time there was no resistance although eventually, and reluctantly, she stood back. Their eyes locked as they stood a couple of feet apart, both slightly breathless. Very slowly she began to unbutton her dress, moments later she stood before him completely naked. Arnie couldn’t believe such female perfection existed and was standing so close, if only he could touch her. He didn’t know what to do. He coughed, suddenly he was a small boy again, a boy facing a woman, she angled her head in a question.
“I don’t have another canvas to paint you on here,” he said to cover his embarrassment, “I don’t want you to paint me silly boy.” She said this with a meaning that Arnie couldn’t misunderstand. He slowly moved closer to her, closing the gap careful not to spoil the magical moment or startle her. He was now standing just inches away from her naked flesh so close that he could he feel her heat. “You’ll have to help me.” He said, and she did, until he needed no more assistance. They made love and were to remain in love for the rest of their lives.
Chapter Eight
Darmstadt High School
1927
Time seemed to drift by on a cloud for Arnie following his first intimate encounter with Marlene. He was dreaming of her whilst his mother soaked him in the bath with distressing results. “I’m sorry mama.” But there was little he could do to conceal his tumescence from her as she smiled understandingly, “It’s entirely natural for a young man, there’s nothing one can do about such things.” But this did nothing to stop him feeling total humiliation with this predicament in front of his own mother who carefully avoided his very obviously aroused penis as she washed her son as she had done so many times before. “These things happen.” Marlene said, “I wish you could stop talking about it!” he replied.
His mother set about distracting him by making him sit up as she washed his back with a painfully hard bristle brush. It soon took him mind off of his other problem.
“Have you thought any more about your going to the art academy?” she enquired, “Mother,” he said, always being more formal when she annoyed him, “how many more times must we discuss the same, dead issues?” Arnie knew he must sound inflexible and obstinate, but he couldn’t cope with his mother in this mood, and found himself becoming more childish the more mature she wanted him to be. “I’ll keep discussing this particular issue until you admit I’m right.” She insisted, “Mother, you love me so you’re blind to the fact that I’m simply not good enough to be in the academy.” She made a harrumph noise, “Nonsense, of course you are, you’re simply scared to go in case the other students are better.”
Marlene knew her son too well, he nodded, “All right, I admit I’m scared, but I’m also not qualified.” She made that noise again, like a horse whinnying, this time a bit louder, “Who is it that says you’re not qualified, they would just have to use their eyes when they look at your paintings and they would have to know you’re more qualified than any of the rest of them.” Arnie felt his conviction wavering but although he would like to believe that passion and wanting could get a person anything they really wanted, the logical part of him dictated the truth and this stated that there would be no places in the art academy for those who had not matriculated the school. Then, if you had done particularly well in the conventional subjects, would a student’s artwork, which demonstrated outstanding talent you would be considered, but as Arnie reminded his mother, “I haven’t even been to school since before I was...for such a long time, so the whole idea is just a fantasy.” Arnie had avoided the use of the word crippled, not because it upset him, but since he knew it made his mother so angry. She couldn’t bear to hear him admit any defeat, however small, ever. There were no permissible excuses, since they did not, could not exist except to be overcome. “Professor Epstein, who is the most qualified tutor in Darmstadt says that you are very bright, brighter than almost anyone your age at the school.” She stopped massaging Arnie’s legs but her obsession was beginning to make Arnie angry.
“Herr Epstein’s opinion doesn’t count for much when measured against a matriculation!” She looked at her son
with that special look that spelled trouble, “Yes, you’re right, that you’ll now have to do for yourself. Now let’s get you out of here so we can dry you off.” Bertha helped Arnie pull himself upright so that he could step out of the bath. She began to dry him as though his total lack of privacy and dignity, still so like a baby, should be of no concern to him. “I would have to be in the school to even be allowed to enter for the examination, it’s forbidden otherwise.”
She paused in her drying, “So you will go to school, like everyone else.” Marlene said this as if unaware of any difficulty.” “I can’t” he replied, “You mean you don’t want to because you’re scared the other students will laugh at you. Isn’t that the truth?”
She was right of course, as she almost always was, but Arnie hadn’t even admitted this to himself, and certainly wasn’t ready to do so with anyone else,
“Look at me mother, I can’t even wipe my own ass!” he spat out at her. Her slap stung more than hurt him, they stood staring at one another; it was many years she had hit him at all, she didn’t believe in it, and she instantly regretted the impulse. She kissed him on the cheek she had hit. “Don’t talk to me like that again, I don’t demand too much do I, but mutual respect is the least we must share or we lose everything civilized.” Arnie was deeply disturbed that he had caused his beloved mother to lose her temper; theirs was a mutual devotion.
“I’m sorry, truly sorry, but you don’t understand what it is to be different from all those around you.” Bertha looked at him as if he were a fool. “Your mother is a Jew in Germany.” She said this as if it responded to him directly, but Arnie didn’t agree, “Please mama, we’re living in modern Germany, serious persecution is a thing of the past, who cares about your religion except you, why should they, but I’m a cripple, I can’t decide not to be a cripple, and everyone can see I’m a cripple every single day. Don’t you get it, your son is a cripple.”
She stood back on pace and let his towel drop to the ground. She stared at her son with something bordering on contempt. “You’re pathetic,” she said coldly, Arnie simply had no response left to give, “If you’re going to worry what other people think about your outside you’ll never let them inside to find what a wonderful person and marvelous artist there is to discover. Inside is something strong and pure and talented, and if you’re not prepared to share your talent with the world because of your fear you disgust me! She finished and then stomped out of the room leaving him alone as she slammed the door.
“Are you going to leave me to wander the world naked?” he called after her, but she didn’t answer. “I’m not going to be the school freak!” he yelled at the door, but his defiance was wearing thin as he felt the air begin to chill his skin. “All right, you win, I’ll go to the damned school but for God’s sake please come here and put on my underpants before I shrivel up and die.” His mother, who had been waiting just outside entered the room, her face a picture of radiant happiness.
Chapter Nine
Darmstadt High School
1927 -1928
The weekend prior to Arnie’s first day of high school started most unusually. The family was eating breakfast in the dining room when Brigittete, who had now taken up permanent residence, entered the room looking extremely agitated. There was a hasty whispered conversation between her and Bertha, which Bertie studiously ignored whilst Arnie strained to hear the women unsuccessfully.
Bertha bustled to the front door with Brigitte and the latter soon returned. “Arnie your mother wants you right now.” Arnie reluctantly got to his feet and obediently followed her.
When he got to the drawing room a thin young man, with a small, meticulous but sparse goatee beard stood talking to his mother. He was immensely tall, cadaverously thin and white enough to qualify as a zombie drained of all blood. However when he turned to Arnie the boy could see how alive the young man’s eyes were. His manner was like that of an ostrich; he pecked at his words, his Adam’s apple bobbled sympathetically. “Hello Arnie, pleased to meet you, my name is Herr Rosen, I’m a journalist with the Frankfurt newspapers, and I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance at last.”
His head appeared to bob up and down in sympathy with his words and his throat at each breath. Arnie found it hard not to laugh. “Say hello Arnie, where are your manners?” said Bertha, “Hello Herr Rosen.” he responded, “Yes, well, as I was saying, I am an arts correspondent, Brigitte was kind enough to send me one of your smaller works together with a letter explaining your indisposition. To be frank I didn’t, no couldn’t believe such a thing was possible. Your work fascinates me and that’s why I’m here.”
Arnie was too dumbfounded to respond coherently, so he remained silent. “Have you any other canvases that I could see?” he enquired, “What for?” was Arnie’s response, “I beg your pardon.” Said the correspondent, nonplussed by the boy’s negative reaction. “Why do you really want to see my paintings, perhaps you want to compare me to the chimpanzees having tea at the zoo, an amusing distraction, but not to be invited into polite society. The truth is that you’ve come here to see the freak, isn’t that the truth mister Rosen?” The room was momentarily silent, but Rosen wasn’t someone easily blown from his chosen course. “Certainly not, but perhaps if you let me look over all your work I could offer some constructive criticism. I promise if I think your work is good enough I shall review it and say so in my column, without mention of your disability. If your work isn’t yet good enough I shall put away my typewriter until the day that you are ready, fair enough?”
Not being an entire moron, Arnie nodded his head with alacrity. The pursuant viewing was an unqualified success. Rosen loved Arnie’s work almost without reservation. Brigitte suggested that Rosen be allowed to borrow three of his favorite canvases, although Arnie was loath to release them from his sight but he was just too excited to refuse.
The following Monday morning began with some excitement as Bertha dressed her son in his new unfamiliar school uniform. He felt most uncomfortable but when he looked in the mirror he was pleasantly surprised by how good he looked. They went down to breakfast together and found Bertie, his head already buried in the newspaper, as usual, managed a monosyllabic grunt in reply to their chorus of Good morning. They all settled down to their toast and marmalade when a roar of anger and outrage from Bertie suddenly interrupted the peace and quiet. “My God!” he jumped to his feet upsetting his coffee in the process. Bertie held up the newspaper as if it had attacked him.
“What is it, what’s wrong?” asked Bertha of her husband. He threw his newspaper onto the table and then his wife picked it up, and she started to read aloud from the offending page, “The heading on the arts page - Darmstadt’s crippled art prodigy, Arnulf Hessel.” She paused and looked toward her son, “Do you want me to continue?” Arnie nodded, unable to bring himself to speak.
“Today I was privileged to see evidence of the remarkable artistic gifts of a handicapped fifteen year old youth in the ancient town of Darmstadt. This crippled prodigy, without the use of his arms since contracting Polio at the age of seven has taught himself to paint using, instead of his hands, his mouth and feet. The youth’s name is Arnulf Hessel. We all need to take special note of that name after seeing Master Hessel’s wonderful and original work. Arnulf is proof that our German youth can and does overcome any adversity. I have no hesitation in calling upon our National Academy of Arts to provide Herr Hessel an exhibition so that everyone could share this sublime talent.”
Arnie’s Mother paused to smile at her son who now had his mouth half open in astonishment, “He broke his promise, he promised not to mention my handicap.” Tears of self-pity were forcing their way past his long eyelashes, he hated his weakness and ran from the room determined not to be the subject of anyone’s pity. “Why do you raise that boy’s expectations when you know he will ultimately fail?” asked Bertie.
Later Bertha was able to reconcile Arnie
to the meaning of a journalist’s promise being like ice on a very hot day; only kept if circumstances allowed. This was a lesson he always remembered. Arnie soon managed to convince himself that no one outside a small and obscure number of folk in the rarified world of high art would ever know about Rosen’s article. It helped that Arnie noticed that although the journalist hadn’t kept his word he had praised the young man’s artistic abilities to the heavens and one place such comments wouldn’t go unnoticed was the Art Academy.
Feeling much better after reaching this conclusion Arnie walked to the school. It was a golden day, when the warm breath met the cold air and signaled your path like a steam train and the cold frost in the paving stones quietly attacks the soles of the feet right through the soles of your shoes. Autumn had been sent cowering by its more severe and pernicious big brother, winter. The shock of the newspaper article had been replaced by Arnie finding himself a schoolboy for the first time he could remember at the age of fifteen. Any normal boy would be rightfully nervous but he felt a knot of sheer terror at the pit of his stomach. Would his peers realize he was normal in all respects bar one, or would they, as he dreaded, use his handicap as a weapon to beat him with?
He approached the large red brick building hesitantly. He saw a group of youths and smaller children gathered in little huddles. For Arnie they all seemed to be staring at him alone, their eyes like the turrets of a thousand guns, trained mercilessly at him.
Arnie, with much relief, saw his friends Tomas and Otto in the center of a crowd of about ten other boys of similar age all huddled near to the door of the building. He approached with a smile on his face but as he did so the group all pointedly turned their backs toward him, except for Tomas who, alone smiled at Arnie and walked the few steps between them. “Good morning and welcome!” he boomed, loud enough for anyone and everyone to hear, “Good morning Tomas, and thank you.”