The Butterfly Boy

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by Tony Klinger


  “Who from?” I asked with a growing sense of exasperation, “From people like me you idiot!”

  I could only smile at his honesty about his potential dishonesty. “You’re playing games with me?”

  “Sure I am. It beats us thinking about that mess outside don’t you think?” With that he walked to the door of the hut, somewhat erratically, “I only drunk this much since I got here you know, before I was here it was coffee and a cigarette, now I don’t sleep so good. You know what I mean?” I nodded my head. I understood. I wouldn’t be able to sleep with those images burnt behind my eyes.

  We were both compelled to leave the warmth of the hut to witness the reality of our surroundings, this nightmare, what the Nazi inheritance was going to mean to us all. This was a vision of hell on earth. We walked past people too weak to stand; too scared to sit in case they would simply die unnoticed. Steam seemed to seep from the ground and through these living skeletons, they looked at us with their huge eyes, and we shared the intimate knowledge that they were nearer to their maker than the world we were standing in.

  I was too numbed too cry for them, and too inadequate to do anything other than register what I was seeing so that I could paint it later. It was a part of me that I hated, this divorcing of me from my surroundings in order that I could regurgitate the scenes I witnessed to order, even re-inhabiting the moment. This meant I was sometimes present but not there emotionally. Women, especially, hated this part of me, which I could do nothing about.

  Hank led me to another American temporary building. We entered. A young soldier was asleep at his desk. The room is plainly some kind of records office. Papers and files are strewn everywhere. Some of the papers are partially burned. Hank spoke to me quietly, anxious not to wake the soldier. “You people kept real fine methodical records didn’t you. Seems that some of the high ups weren’t so proud and tried to burn them, but a bit too late, we stopped them just before they made a big bonfire of the whole bunch.”

  “Why did you bring me here?”

  “I believed your story. I think maybe you’ll find something that leads you to your pal, Helmut in here. It’s worth a shot.”

  I looked at him with new regard, regard and respect. “Maybe I should have one of those business cards of yours.” He smiled and placed a card in my jacket pocket. “Sure you do, everyone needs a mouthpiece.” We looked at each other, and both of us knew a new friendship had just been struck.

  Hank went behind the young sleeping soldier and shouted in his ear, “Wake up soldier, you’ve got work to do!”

  The soldier woke comically, almost falling out of his seat with surprise. He sprung to attention and knocked his chair over.

  While I was engaged looking at endless books of photos Ratwerller was seizing the opportunities that fate presented him with. I wasn’t aware of it, but he was making sure that our fates would continue to be interwoven.

  Several hours later and I was as weary as the young soldier. We had been working together for hours before I decided to leave after finding no leads. Hank entered the hut and asked me if I had made any progress. I shook my head, “So many photographs, so many faces, gone, all of them gone. All of them dead?”

  “Yes,” he was quiet a moment, thinking about those huge files of lost people, “Anyone whose record is in that hut is past tense. So if your pal was here, and not listed amongst those people he could still be alive.”

  “How many of these places were there?”

  “We’re still finding them all over this part of Europe, too many to count. Are you going to keep looking for your pal?”

  “What would you do?”

  “Same as you, I’d look until I couldn’t look no more. That makes us two dumb shmucks. You ready for some more bad news?”

  I wasn’t sure I was but what could be worse than this place? “Tell me.” I said, “Your friend, Ratwerller, he’s escaped. He must have got out somehow, security thinks he must have dressed as an inmate after stealing clothes, and possibly the identity from a dead man”

  “That would be typical of him, what are you going to do about it?” I asked, nonplussed by this turn of events.

  “What we call a SNAFU, situation normal, all fucked up, what can I tell you, you know that’s how comes you win wars, you fuck up just a little less than the other guy and you win.”

  “Don’t you realize what a dangerous little bastard he is? You have to send men after him.”

  “What do you want me to do stick a broom up my ass so I can sweep the floor as I’m looking? We’re chasing a nation of dangerous little men, he ain’t any worse than a whole pile of the bastards, believe me.”

  I couldn’t maintain my anger with him, I found myself smiling, and realized that Ratwerller would have to wait for another day. “At least there is one upside to all this, that creep Ratty or whatever his name is, he won’t dare show his face round here again, and that means he won’t bother anyone around here again.”

  “I hope you’re right. Hank, can you do me one more favor?”

  “Sure thing, name it,” he said, “I want to go home.”

  It wasn’t long and Hank, good as his word, had arranged for the American military machine to crank up and transport me back to my home. As the jeep dropped me by the front door of our old Darmstadt Hessel family home I could see it was still shuttered and appeared to be in one piece, if sadly neglected. It looked forlorn somehow. The driver took the key from under the ornate flowerpot to the left of the front doors where we’d left it and opened the house. He stood aside as if it would be inappropriate for him to enter my home before me. He stood awkwardly to one side as I entered. I smiled in his direction, “It’s all right, you don’t have to worry about me, I can look after myself,” I assured him, and hoped it was true as he said goodbye and left me alone with my memories.

  After a while it wasn’t so bad. I had been able to enlist domestic help from local women only too pleased to be earning something again. I found myself compelled to be in my studio, painting without stop. Compelled to commit to canvas everything I had seen. The scenes I painted were nightmares that occupied my mind, sleeping or awake, I was obsessed with these images, and knew that it was something I had to paint until I could paint no more. Every dead body, every walking skeleton, the chimneys, the pleading eyes, all of it, all had to inhabit my canvases to bear witness forever.

  Day followed day for me in a blur that turned into weeks and months as this series of paintings flowed from my brush as if painted by someone who had control over my body.

  Eventually the weather started to turn and old habits took over and I found myself continuing my work in the Rose Garden, where I had always found solace painting since I was a boy. It was one day, whilst I was painting one of those terrible camp scenes that I felt a presence behind me. I was nervous but there was nothing I could do to defend myself against the intruder, I slowly turned to face the stranger. As I did so he spoke, “I don’t think it will sell very well this Christmas Arnie.” It was Helmut, my old friend had returned to life!

  He was gaunt and dressed in rags, but it was Helmut, threw the dirt and his beard you could still recognize him. He was smiling and as happy as me. He rushed over and hugged me and we both wept unashamedly. We pulled back after a while and looked at one another.

  “I looked for you, I tried so hard, but no one knew where you’d got to, you’re OK?” I asked, “Eventually I learned to bend with the wind old friend, it was a tough lesson.”

  “It’s wonderful to see you Hynie. That bastard Ratwerller, he told me you were killed in the bombing.”

  “Since when did you believe a single word that the Rat said? I heard about Kathrin in town. I’m sorry, you’d grown to love her, yes?”

  “Yes,” I replied simply, it was the truth; I had grown to care for her very deeply, not in some passionate way, but with a caring and tende
r emotion that can be just as compelling and perhaps longer lasting. “Yes, I loved her but now she’s gone, I’m alone with you my old friend, just like the old days, two boys together, it will be great.”

  I said it, but neither of us felt like those innocent boys any longer. “What about Marlene and your boys, where are they?”

  “She’s helping the boys grow up in the only place where this poison won’t touch them and the men they’ll become.”

  He didn’t ask me any more about this for the moment, waiting for me to continue my explanation as I nodded towards the painting, “How could we ever explain any of this to them?”

  “How do you feel about Marlene now?” He recognized my silence as his excuse to change the subject, “Well time is a great healer, so they say.”

  “Fancy a drink?” I asked, and he smiled his assent and we walked back to the house, “I could drink the entire Rhine if it was made with whisky and beer!”

  Over the next hours we tested our drinking capacity to the limit. Eventually we were amiably chatting the kind of semi-inebriated nonsense reserved for such times.

  “You know, to be honest, you don’t look too bad considering what you’ve been through. What camps were you in?”

  “I was in a transit camp, or was it a prisoner of war camp, and then a de-Nazification thing, and then I was here. I don’t bloody know do I. What do you mean?”

  “That lying bastard Ratwerller said you were in the cellar of the building when it went bang, said you were buried there, said you had to be dead, lying little Rat, how comes God doesn’t kill the little shit and do the world a favor, if there’s a bloody God how does he let that Rat get away with what he’s done?”

  “Let’s have another drink, fuck the little shit Rat, he’ll get his, eventually the world moves in mysterious ways, and it all gets leveled out, and he’ll get his.”

  “Do you think so, do you really think so?” I asked, and that was the last thing I remember of our drunken reunion.

  Chapter Twenty

  New York, USA

  July 1956

  We were sitting outside an elegant art gallery opposite Central Park West. The display window contained an oversize self-portrait of me in it. Self-promotion had never embarrassed me but New York took it to extremes that I enjoyed hugely. There was a sign by the painting that read, “Tonite the Gallery On The Park is proud to present the first American Gala Exhibition of the Works of Arnulf Hessel.”

  A long black limousine swept up to the curb as I enjoyed the summer warmth on my face. Helmut jumped out of the back seat of the long vehicle, “Well,” he said, “What do you think?”

  “I still don’t see the point of all of this.” I nodded toward the gallery, I admit in retrospect, being somewhat tetchy, perhaps I was just tired. “We’ve discussed this a thousand time Arnie, you need an up market image. You need critical acceptance in America if we’re ever going to break this market big time.”

  I shrugged, “I don’t know what’s so special about America, their art is shit, and this country is shit. Everything here is so complicated.” It was a cry from my heart; I had enjoyed life so much more when it was simple. We entered the building with Helmut fussing about like a mother hen, hugely excited by the whole American experience.

  The Gallery interior was one of polish and moneyed restraint, We walked into the middle of a row between my American mouthpiece, Hank, now thicker set and suited in the best that Saville Row could offer, and an elegant younger woman. They both turned to face us as we entered. “Hello you two. Meet Susie Robarts, and don’t let her southern country girl accent fool you, she’s harder than nails.” I looked at the woman and imagined what it would feel like to know her more intimately. I wished I was more mature, but my penis had no conscience, and it was with my penis that I thought. Susie and I exchanged smiles, and there was a moment when I realized Susie and I could be more than business associates. I caught Hank and Helmut exchange weary and knowing looks, “Do you like our gallery mister Hessel?”

  “Call me Arnie, please,” I looked around the gallery and noticed the exquisite and beautiful décor, “Well what do you think, we just did the facelift.”

  I tried to be polite, “It’s very nice, indeed it’s more than pleasant.” But I thought that it was like her, a bit uptight, too much hidden, not enough revealed, you need a little taster to anticipate the culmination with more relish.

  Susie wasn’t happy with my response, “That’s a bit worse than telling me its unique, do you like it or don’t you?” She was very intense when she was angry, I couldn’t help notice that her titian hair was her real color, her natural alabaster white skin was now reddening as her anger deepened. I loved her passion. Both of us lost sight of the fact that Hank and Helmut had wondered off, knowing that anything they had to say at this moment would be ignored by both of us. I also noticed that the little part of her cleavage visible above her one open blouse button blushed as only a red haired woman can. It was very appealing and I wanted to see more of the woman concealed under her buttoned down appearance. I was sure there was a tigress smoldering just below her controlled surface.

  “What do you want me to say Susie, that it is awful?”

  She nodded her head in agreement, but was unable to stop herself pointing her finger at me in accusation, to punctuate her words, “If you think its awful then tell me its awful!”

  “But I don’t think it’s awful, it just isn’t what I would have done with it.”

  “Oh,” she said, “What would the great artiste have done with it?”

  I smiled to try and lighten her mood, “Less.”

  This made her think for a moment, and she looked around, and then nodded. “Why are you so angry?” she asked, and I thought about her question and understood why she asked it, I had become a grouchy middle-aged man without noticing it. My edges had been chipped, rubbed and burnished until they no longer existed and what was left was a ball of anger and frustration. I saw all this reflected in the eyes of this young, perceptive woman who had seen right through my hard carapace to where I was still soft and vulnerable, and I liked her for that. We both saw through each other, and it was refreshing.

  “You know what your New York clients want, I have no idea, I only know what appeals to me.”

  “Oh,” she said, a smile playing at the corner of her glossy crimson lipstick mouth, “and do you see anything that appeals to you?” the double entendre was obvious, but none the less appealing; I returned the smile, “I don’t like exhibitions; the nerves make me physically sick; do you know anywhere else to go and spend time more creatively?”

  She knew what I meant, but she wasn’t going to make it that easy for me, “You have to be kidding, you’ve had exhibitions all over Europe and South America already.”

  “And I’ve been sick an awful lot lately.”

  “I’m trying to keep this conversation above the belt, let’s keep this professional, at least in the gallery, tell me what you think about the exhibition I’ve mounted for your work?”

  “You have adorable eyes.” I answered, and it was true, they were stunning, the fleck of another, deeper color highlighted the green, in her now angry eyes, “Why do men like you put women down that way?”

  I’d paid her a compliment and couldn’t understand what I’d done to make her angry, “But your eyes are beautiful, and I, as an artiste and a man want to tell you I had noticed and appreciated them, and I could add your skin is perfect, you would make a wonderful model for me to capture on canvas.”

  Her irritation was now almost uncontainable, “My exhibition must be truly tragic if you want even comment on it.”

  “And your lips are like petals that just need water to make them bear fruit.” I was enjoying myself, and she was trying hard to deal with me on two levels, “And you just happen to have some water available to do the job right?”<
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  “I want to kiss you, everywhere, but first I want to trace your body with my tongue, tasting you, my tongue being my fingers, but much more sensitive.”

  I saw the flush in her cheek, and I knew my sensual thoughts were beginning to register with her imagination, “I’ve heard some good pick up lines in my time, but you must think I’m a real sucker.”

  “Because I want to share myself with you?” I asked with feigned innocence, “What is it, do you have a bet on with your friends over there, whoever lays the chick wins a free dinner?” she asked.

  “Do you dislike my work that much?” I responded, throwing her momentarily off balance with my change of tack, “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re the curator here lady, you arranged this exhibition of my work, you’re supposed to be an expert, and you don’t understand that I’m about passion, and commitment. Do you really believe I would compromise these beliefs with something as sordid as you are suggesting?”

  Susie was contrite, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to put you down, but you have to admit you do come on pretty strong, and we hardly know one another.”

  “I’m an artiste, is it wrong for me to express my honest passion, is it wrong, can it be wrong, when two people meet under especially intimate circumstances, to find release for our fleeting, but nevertheless true and intense needs and loves of each other. I want us to know one another, to experience everything, to have and to let go, to take every opportunity to live life to the full, to create memories that we will share forever, just you and me?”

  She giggled almost coquettishly, something this sophisticated woman probably hadn’t done since she was fifteen years old, “Stop it, this is embarrassing,” she said, but her eyes said carry on, I’m enjoying this flirtation, I leaned towards her so that only she could hear my whisper, “I want to be inside you, I want you to feel me, to share our rhythm, and I want you to know what a special experience it is to share love with a man who can only use his mouth and his manhood.” She didn’t pull away, and I know I had her; all that remained was to reel her in without panicking her. “Is this something you always do you naughty man?” she whispered back to me. I smiled and so did she, “Follow me,” she instructed and I did so, willingly. I was mesmerized by the sway of her wonderful posterior as she sashayed down the wide corridor, I had no eyes for anything but her derriere, what a lovely ass that woman had. She swept into her private office and after I had followed her in she closed and locked the door.

 

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