The Butterfly Boy

by Tony Klinger

  Helmut focused his winning smile in my direction, “I don’t know if I would go that far Arnie, but how about giving the idea a try and we’ll see how it goes, you’ve got nothing to lose.” “Except my self respect!” I replied.

  Jessica stood and with the most unladylike of gestures turned her back toward me and lifted her skirt so I could see her perfect camisole covered bottom. “And here is what I think of self respect!”

  We couldn’t remain serious and all of us roared with unrestrained laughter. I walked over to the printing press and examined the first batch of postcards neatly placed on the table next to it in small piles. I noticed that my partners in crime were watching me to see my reaction but I tried to give nothing away. “I have one question for you Hynie. If you answer satisfactorily I might, just might, possibly, consider your ridiculous proposition.”

  Helmut leaned towards me in anticipation, “Yes?”

  “How much do you think we can charge for a pack of cards?” I asked. Both my friend and lover laughed again. Helmut grabbed me in one of his huge, all enveloping bear hugs and Jessica threw a bunch of cards into the air to celebrate.

  It was very soon after that happy moment that she was out pounding through the streets, now softly carpeted by the first snows of winter, knocking on doors. At one particularly fine house a maid answered her knock, “Yes?” the maid asked, “May I speak to the lady of the house?” Jessica asked, “Who shall I say is calling?” Jessica smiled, “Oh she doesn’t know me.” The maid’s attitude suddenly hardened, “If you’re peddling something then you can get yourself to the back of the house, to the tradesman’s entrance, a bit bloody nervy aren’t you girl?”

  Jessica stood her ground in face of this onslaught, as ever when faced with confrontation she seemed to swell with imperious self importance, “But I have a gift for madam and I will thank you to mind your manners or feel the back of my hand.” The maid immediately became contrite, “I’ll fetch madam straight away,” but before she turned to go she hesitated, “it was a silly mistake, just a stupid mistake you understand?” Jessica smiled to herself as the woman retreated into the house, “Bloody Germans,” she muttered, “either at your throat or at your feet.” An overweight lady, dressed in frumpy blouse and long black skirt arrived at the door, she eyed her pretty visitor suspiciously, “My maid said something about a gift?” she asked. “Yes that’s correct.” Jessica beamed at her, “Forgive me, but we don’t know each other do we?”

  Unperturbed Jessica handed the lady a small attractive beribboned box, which the woman immediately began to unwrap. “I am here to help the crippled artists of Germany, by demonstrating to you, a lady clearly able to discern honest effort and true German artistic expression of talent.” The lady is impressed by both the contents of the box and what she’s hearing, but still unclear as to its meaning.

  “The paintings are charming, but it would be embarrassing to accept such a gift from you. Why should a disabled artiste give me any such gift?”

  “It’s Christmas even for the disabled madam, and they also want to spread some joy and happiness.”

  The lady of the house clutched the cards to her ample bosom and fought hard to suppress the tears, “Then, in the same spirit let me give your invalid friends some token of our love and appreciation; would they perhaps like some nice cakes, I’ve just finished baking?”

  Jessica smiled an almost saintly smile, “Well a cake would be lovely and very kind, but perhaps even more appreciated would be a small cash donation, that way we can facilitate their every need.”

  I well remember Jessica looking a lot less happy by the time she got back to our little apartment and stood by our small coal fire as it fought a losing battle against the biting cold. “I stood talking to that fat frau for a lousy few coppers, the cards are worth much more than that!” Jessica protested. I was glum with these poor initial results but I wasn’t very surprised. The local folk of Darmstadt had never been over generous in any matters concerning me. Helmut didn’t seem much concerned. “I knew all along it wouldn’t work, don’t say I didn’t warn you, perhaps if we were in Berlin or somewhere else that they appreciate some art, but here, never.”

  Helmut didn’t answer straight away; instead he simply started extracting money, paper money, from every pocket in his coat, jacket, shirt pockets and trousers, making a huge pile of cash in front of us.

  “What’s all this?” I asked, “Money you dumb ox, what do you think it is?” he answered, “I don’t believe it” I said, and meant, “This is just our first day’s profits, you’d better believe it.”

  Jessica ran her hands through the cash and was silent for a moment, then asked, “How much is it?” “A lot, you little mercenary woman.” Helmut responded. He turned to me, “Now you must believe me, we’ve made it. You’ll have more money in a month than most men earn in a whole year.” I was spellbound, “this means that hundreds, maybe thousands of people will see my paintings.”

  Helmut leaned closer to me and put his arm protectively around my shoulder, “Thousands, maybe, one day, millions of people will see your paintings.” I turned and kissed him on the mouth, he laughed and Jessica joined us in a group hug after throwing the money in the air.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Darmstadt

  1935

  It had been a long while since I faced my father across the living room of our family house. I had long avoided his disdain and constant, harping criticism. He sipped tea and barely controlled his anger under an icy veneer.

  “I have heard what you and your friends are up to, and needless to say I don’t like it one little bit. What’s more I absolutely forbid you to continue. Do you understand me clearly, I will not allow it!” I waited a moment, not bothering to waste my breath in arguing a hopeless case. My father became even angrier at what he would consider my insolent silence. “Do you not realize the harm your shabby little business enterprise can do to my standing in the Party, it could ruin me, it could pull us all down like a pack of cards?”

  “Why do you always ask me questions and then answer them yourself?” I replied, “Don’t get clever with your father.” He said more quietly, now he was trying to be more conciliatory, “Why are you always so argumentative, what’s good for me is good for you also, why can’t you understand that, do you want them to measure you and your mother racially, do you not understand what that could mean?”

  “All I see are those bloody black uniforms and hate filled faces. What would be good for this family is if we were on the same side, the right side against those very people that you consider to be your friends.” My father stood up and started to pace the room unable to suppress his fury over what he considered my stupidity. He leaned closer to me. “It has long been clear to me that you have too much of the Jew in you. You’re the product of my biggest single mistake, you’re mistake number two.”

  Now it was my turn to be infuriated, “Marrying my mother was the best thing you ever did, she’s far too good for you.” I stood and faced him; neither of backed away, how I wished I could smash my fist into his face. “I could divorce her just like that!” Bertie clicked his fingers, “What’s stopping you?” I asked, he was suddenly not so sure of himself, “I don’t know.” He sat down again, as if the air had been let out of him.

  “You still love my mother don’t you, that’s why. Perhaps you’ve still got a spark of humanity left in you.” He raised his hand as if to strike me in the face but stopped his impulse. “Go on big man, or haven’t you got the guts to hit the cripple?” My father subsided, moved back slightly and lowered his head. “You don’t understand how it is, you simply don’t understand.”

  “Oh I understand all too well, you make me sick, you’ve chosen the new religion rather than your family.” Bertie looked momentarily disconcerted by this, but it was only a passing shadow in his eyes, nothing too definite, or obvious. “I still care for your mo
ther, I like and respect her very much, but I’m just not in love with her any more. But none of us want to see her utterly defenseless.” He almost made it sound plausible, but I was no longer an immature boy, I could see through him, and respond.

  “You sound like some stupid child. This is your wife, the same woman you married, and she has been your wife for a quarter of a century. You can’t explain this away with some wooly platitudes.”

  There was a moment of cold calculation between us, as the fury abated but the anger remained, my father continued, “Don’t you understand, under the law, the consequences? If I divorce her because she’s Jewish then you might be automatically disowned as a non-Aryan. That’s the only thing that has held me back. Whatever our disagreements you are still my son, I still love you.”

  “Do what you want, and so will I!” I wasn’t quite sure what I meant, but I wanted him to understand that there would be a reaction from me and he didn’t have my blessing.

  “Perhaps we could reach an accommodation, you quit your ridiculous business and I arrange a chance for your mother to get out. Otherwise I shall do my duty for the Party and the Fatherland.”

  “Do you know how ridiculous this whole conversation is, my business or my mother, while you weigh up a choice between your wife and the Fatherland. This is all some sick joke.”

  “Put it whichever way you like, but if it’s a joke no one is laughing.” He replied.” I decided that I couldn’t win this argument with my father, but I didn’t want to lose it just yet either. “Would you give me some time to make the necessary arrangements, I couldn’t do everything necessary immediately?” Father was clearly relieved, he even smiled and the tension in his shoulders relaxed, “I’m glad to see that you’re finally seeing sense. Of course I’ll give you some time, I’m a reasonable man, a pragmatist, is a week sufficient?”

  “Ample.” I replied, hoping he didn’t notice the insincerity in my smile as he forced me into his wooden embrace to seal the deal.

  It was at the end of that week that I was driven to the town’s Gestapo headquarters by Helmut in his swanky new Mercedes. I looked at the tension in his face and looked at my own reflection in the car mirror, willing myself to appear calm. Nothing must reveal my inner thoughts. “Are you sure you can do this alone?” He asked me, breaking my focus. “This is between my father and me.” He clapped me on the shoulder, “I shall wait for you.” I nodded to him as one of the guards at the building who recognized me opened my door smartly and I jumped out.

  Whatever I thought about these Nazi thugs you couldn’t help be awed by the sheer sweeping swagger of their flags and bunting, their never mind the quality feel the size of our reach, the colors of our revolution, the cut of our uniforms, the symbolism of our new order. For their growing number of fanatics it was as if they were supporting the best-dressed football team in the world.

  I marched in the imposing building past the billowing Nazi flags and armed sentries. Inside all was ordered, antiseptically clean and almost mechanistic; not a natural habitat for an artiste. I had my father’s carefully written instructions to take me through the corridors, up the central sweeping stairs, down more, seemingly endless echoing corridors. I felt myself accelerate all the way until I reached an imposing set of wooden double doors, again guarded by two armed sentries, the one on the right recognized me, smiled and tapped quietly on the door. He opened it and I walked inside. There, in the large, room with its high ceiling I found Kurt, my father’s young bespectacled aide and secretary, he looked up and pasted on his formal forced greeting, uncomfortable as ever in my presence. I never knew if his discomfort was due to my never discussed disability, or whether he was aware of my being only half Aryan, and the other, half, possibly the disabled half, being Jewish!

  “Hello Arnulf, your father is expecting you, he said you should go straight into the office. What do you think of your father’s new surroundings, we’re moving up in the world, pretty impressive eh?” I mumbled something in response, knowing I shouldn’t trust myself to talk to this little bastard whatever his origin or position. He knocked on my father’s door and without waiting for a response opened it for me and stepped aside as I entered the inner sanctum. It was palatial, dark, with wood paneling on every wall. The only relief from the gloom of so much dark wood was the six floor to ceiling picture windows.

  My father’s desk is, as ever, fastidiously neat, he turned to his aide, “Kurt, why don’t you take a coffee break, my son and I have some family matters to discuss.” Kurt almost wagged his tail, “Of course Herr Hessel, straight away,” he turned to me, “is there anything I can get you, a tea or coffee, perhaps a glass of water?” I declined and as he left the room he continued smiling, “It was a pleasure to meet you again Arnulf, I look forward to our getting to know one another.” He nodded to the two of us and finally left the room. “What an ass!” I said to father, “He comes with the job,” he agreed, “but yes, he is a bit pompous isn’t he. Why don’t we go and sit down more comfortably over by the windows.” He directed us to two big armchairs next to the huge fireplace, which was dominated by a life size, stylized portrait of Adolf Hitler. He followed my eye line to the painting, “I’ve already told my colleagues you could paint a much more flattering but realistic painting of the Fuhrer that would more realistically capture his magnetism. You should consider that a priority.”

  He paced up and down opposite me, the fire crackling loudly in the background as I sat in my chair. “I like that you have come to visit me here, its important that a son sees where his father does his work. Well, what do you think, impressive isn’t it?” He indicated the huge room, its drapes, its rugs, everything reflecting my father in all his Nazi glory. He had arrived, found his destiny and was immersed in its gory embrace. “Very impressive indeed.” I agreed, thinking what was to be gained by further argument. I looked out of the window from my chair, which was overlooking the front of the building down to the ground far below, I looked back to my father when he continued to talk. “I presume as you’re here that you’ve reached a decision for sure. I’m confident that it will be the right decision.” He smiled expectantly.

  “So do I father, I hope so to.” “What’s it to be then, I want to hear the words, there must be no misunderstanding between us, what is it to be, your card art business or your mother?”

  I stood up to face him, “the answer is obvious, isn’t it father?” My father smiled, “I’m so glad you’ve seen sense my son.” I walked to the other side of the room, but still facing him from some distance. “Yes,” I said, “How else could I decide when faced with the choice of my mother being divorced and thrown to the tender mercies of your Nazi party colleagues? How else could I possibly decide?”

  My father looked out of the open window, unable to meet my stare he appeared to be studying the comings and goings in the town below, “You always personalize issues too much. You take after your mother like that. It’s the emotional Jew in you. But National Socialism is not personal. It is a movement for the greater good of the country. The individual is simply less important than the group. You just have to look how things are already improving in Germany...”

  He never even sensed me running towards him until it was too late for him to do anything about it. His reaction as he turned in my direction as I barreled into him was shock and a look of almost comical astonishment. That’s why I laughed as he flew out of the window as if shot from the cannon, unable to resist my huge momentum. I watched him drop, almost as if it was in slow motion and then normal speed as he crashed into the cold unforgiving concrete far below. The fall was clearly fatal, I had murdered my father, and I felt relief.

  I saw people move toward his still body and quickly moved back from the window. I heard myself pant, and didn’t know why. I remembered our plan. I flicked off my right shoe with my left foot and pulled the handle to the door open with my stockinged foot. I sneaked a look and there was no one in t
his smaller office. I put my shoe back on and quickly left the room as fast as my feet would carry me.

  Meanwhile Helmut ran over to Bertie’s body, turned it onto its front and was seemingly seeking to revive it by the time the men and women from the building had encircled them. Kurt, who had been discreetly smoking a cigarette around the corner, and hearing the commotion, had run to see what was happening. Kurt he saw it was his boss and mentor who was the victim. “What happened?” Helmut turned to him, “He just jumped!” I had, by now, just managed to exit the building from the side entrance and joined the back of the crowd. “You’re trying to revive a bloody corpse you fool, let him be.” Kurt ordered Helmut, who seemingly distressed tenderly laid his own jacket under my father’s shattered head. “Who are you exactly?” Kurt asked Helmut, “I am a long term friend of the Hessel family.” The soldiers and Gestapo officers sought to restore order immediately, moving the crowd back from Bertie’s body.

  Helmut took this as his cue to return to his car and get in. He started the engine and gunned it into action. He was out of the square before he half turned to see me hidden between the front and back seats, and uncomfortable squeeze for someone so bulky as me. Everything had worked as planned, even to the extent that he had left the door of the car slightly open and the front seat pulled forward so that all I had to do was wedge myself in place. Everything had worked, and then the realization had dawned on me, I had just killed my own father. Whatever he was, whatever he planned, I had to live with this terrible fact, for the rest of my life I was to know I had killed a man, and that man was my own father. What kind of man did that make me?

  I became aware that Helmut was talking to me, “Arnie are you all right?” All I could think of to say was, “Drive Hynie, just drive!” The car sped from the square, and we were both unaware that a particularly vigilant local police officer noted our haste and wrote the details of our car carefully into his notebook.