The Butterfly Boy Read online

  The little rodent of a man controls himself, barely, and I think that whatever strings my parents have pulled are seemingly too strong for this bastard to do anything about them. “In any event, I do hope we meet again in more fortunate circumstances, perhaps we can discuss our time at school together?” Rat says all of this as if it might even be true, with a sickly smile playing on his face, but never quite reaching his dead eyes.

  “At your funeral perhaps.” I respond with more sincerity. He opens the door. I push past him and the first thing I see is my lovely mother, it’s only a year since we last saw each other but the time has somehow diminished her, she’s more frail, but when she smiles the room is still lit up. I follow her eyes, which nervously indicate some warning to me, I don’t know what until I turn to my left and see my father. My mouth drops open in shock, he is dressed in the full black uniform of a Gestapo officer. My word is falling apart, my father now a member of the Nazi elite, my mother a Jew. I find myself saying hello as if I am a puppet, my father responds with the words, “Heil Hitler!”

  Chapter One

  Darmstadt, Germany

  1910

  “I simply will not marry you in a church,” said Bertha loudly. “And I will not change my religion for you or your family!” retorted Bertie Hessel, with even more volume. They stood, toe to toe, in the wood paneled drawing room glaring at one another. Someone would have to give in, but whom, thought Bertha. “Why should I always be expected to give in, just because I’m a woman?” “No” he answered carefully and with his usual precision, “Because you’re the woman who loves me.” She melted, her resolve dripping away like hot wax, “What about my parents, they could never even set foot in a church?”

  He looked at her for a long moment before answering, “then they shall not attend our wedding, which will be a pity, but not something we cannot overcome.” He intoned coldly, totally without passion. Her anger returned in a rush, “Then we won’t get married at all!” She shouted at him.

  He looked at her with a mixture of contempt and longing, at times like this she was like a magnificent wild animal, when she was angry her nostrils flared, her heavy bosom heaved and even her coal black hair, currently tied in a granny knot on top of her handsome head, seemed charged with electricity. He didn’t agree with her one iota, but he wanted her more than ever.

  “It is possible that we could marry in a civil ceremony, by the Magistrate in Frankfurt.” He said speculatively. She thought about this compromise but knew it would also result in a set of new problems.

  “If we did that it would make everyone miserable, and why Frankfurt, who comes from Frankfurt, not your people or mine, why not here in Darmstadt, where we’re all from, it’s our town, we’ve done nothing to be ashamed of, after all we do love each other don’t we?” Bertie looked at his woman and smiled, and said the words that were to seal their fate. “It might be the twentieth century but it is a man’s duty to make the important decisions, and I say we will get married by civil ceremony here in Darmstadt next week, and if our parents care for us as much as they say then they will be there to share our joy.”

  Bertha was amazed, this was the longest speech she had ever heard from Bertie, normally so quiet and taciturn, even by the standards of a restrained polite society such as provincial Germany in 1910. She rushed into his arms and kissed him boldly, full on the lips. Her mother’s warnings about men in general and Gentile men in particular, made her pull back when her body’s impulse was to commit the ultimate sin, sex outside marriage. She would never admit this to a single living person, but she had felt something stir in her heart, and her loins when she was kissing her man. Wasn’t this proof of love, particularly as she had felt him harden briefly before she had pulled back.

  “We can wait, it’s only a few more days.” She breathed. His breath was ragged, “Yes we can, and we can wait just a little bit longer.” He agreed. The few days were to seem like forever for the young couple.

  Despite many heated arguments, pleading, shouting and eventually begging, Bertha’s family would have nothing to do with either the wedding or Bertie. On the day of the ceremony Bertha came down the stairs of her affluent family’s mansion to find all the mirrors in the house covered in black cloth, which at first she didn’t understand. Upon entering the drawing room she found her parents and two brothers sitting on a row of low chairs, the men unshaven and wearing their skull caps, ready for prayer, her mother was veiled and weeping. “Daddy, what is it, what’s happened, has someone died in the night?” Bertha asked her father, who didn’t even look up. It was as if she hadn’t spoken. Bertha moved to stand in front of her father, so he couldn’t avoid her, still not fully comprehending the situation, “Papa, why are you doing this?” Receiving no reply she knelt in front of him, with her face inches from his, “You’re sitting Shiva for me aren’t you?” He raised his eyes to meet hers, he was crying, gently rocking back and forth on his low uncomfortable wooden chair.

  “My daughter, Bertha, she passed away today, it was sudden.” He said this in a dull monotone, which did nothing to conceal the sobs in his voice. His daughter stood up, fury briefly replacing her misery on her beautiful face. “Are you all mad, I am here and I am alive, look at me, I am your daughter, the daughter you love and who loves you, how can you mourn me like I’m dead?” She shouted at the man she had always adored and who loved her without question until this moment. “David” she said, turning to her handsome older brother, “Speak to our parents, they’ve gone mad, and you must make them understand!” David looked at his sister, his large eyes swam with tears as he shrugged his shoulders expressively, “What can I say Bertha, what can I do?’

  Bertha turned toward the rest of her family, “Mama, Jonathon, please, stop this madness, you can’t punish me for loving the wrong man!” But her younger brother and mother turned away from her. She softly placed her hands on each of her mother’s cheeks and forced her to meet her direct gaze, “If you let me walk out of that door like this I shall never come back.” She snapped these words like whiplashes across the family. Trying to force them to reconsider, to inflict pain on them like they were doing to her.

  Bertha saw that her words were having no effect so she turned on her heel and strode out of the door. Her father watched her retreating back. “Don’t worry, she will come back one day” Mama said to Father, “How can she come back, she’s dead.” He replied.

  That afternoon, at three in the afternoon, the wedding took place just as Bertie had planned. It was a lonely, cold union witnessed by a pink old woman who usually served as the tea lady and cleaner for the Magistrates. Nevertheless she smiled almost coquettishly as the young couple exchanged their vows. It reminded her of the day, many years before when she had her moment of glory so many years before. Bertie placed the ring on his bride’s finger and the couple kissed almost chastely. After cursory thanks to the Magistrate Bertie collected the marriage certificate and led his young bride out of the baroque building into the crisp autumnal air.

  When, later, Bertha had the chance to look back at the start of her married life, she would often muse that this was the day that the sun ceased to shine in her life. The light went out of her passion like a candle guttering by the cold practical winds of matrimony. Yes, certainly their house was elegant and grand thanks to Bertie’s inheritance from his paternal grandparents but it also never felt warm. She felt the cold creep into her very substance, but there seemed like there was nothing she could do about it. The grounds were extensive and well manicured to a peak of almost unnatural perfection, nevertheless Bertha still enjoyed long walks among the fine trees lining their section of the secluded, narrow river that steered a gentle, curving path through the bottom section of their land and on into the undulating pastureland beyond.

  In other circumstances this might, in fact should have been an ideal start to their married life together, but both soon realized that they had committed an awful m
istake. Being young, headstrong, and above all obstinate people they were determined not to admit failure to each other or, more importantly, to themselves. The shame would have been unbearable. Bertha’s life was lonely and vacuous, her eyes, previously sparkling, vivacious and intelligent had taken on a far away and wandering look. Her appetite vanished; she yearned for the closeness of her family and friends all of whom had abandoned her. Her once voluptuous body became thin, the skin slack and sallow. But Bertha had no one but the mirror to tell her what she looked like, and she had long since abandoned peering at her reflection. Perhaps she wouldn’t have noticed the changes in herself over that first year, as they were so slow and gradual that they might have been imperceptible.

  Bertie now lived an almost entirely separate life. He and Bertha had drifted apart, a small night disturbance due to his having influenza in the second month of their marriage had resulted in him kindly offering to temporarily move into the guest bedroom so that he wouldn’t disturb Bertha’s sleep with his sneezing. That had somehow stretched into a permanent arrangement. When he needed sexual release, which was not too often, he had taken to frequenting a tired but clean old whore in the city centre. He never kissed or caressed the woman, who was unfailingly polite, if a little brisk and antiseptic, but he was able to gain release in her. His work as a petty local government bureaucrat in the administration office for forestry was dull, repetitive and unfulfilling. He found fulfillment, both physical and mental, with the local militia, in which he soon reached officer status. He enjoyed giving orders and found the respect he got most stimulating, and of course, the uniform, he loved dressing up in the uniform. As Bertha spent less time in front of her mirror her husband more than compensated as he preened himself in front of his bedroom mirror in his full dress uniform.

  Chapter Two

  Saarbrucken and Darmstadt

  November 1911

  Bertie and his paramilitary unit were posted in the countryside for a large-scale exercise hard by the French border near a town called Saarbrucken on the River Saar. The day started uneventfully with a perfunctory goodbye kiss on Bertha’s sleeping cheek at 05.00 hours on a Saturday morning.

  The train ride with his men had been quiet, everyone lulled to sleep by the click-clack hypnotic rhythm of the slow train. He reported to the officer in charge of the depot, a bucolic bewhiskered man in his late fifties called Muller. He had an oddly insulting smell of cheap stale whisky on his breath, which was evident as he leaned close to Bertie’s face whilst directing him towards the maneuvers on the nearby river.

  Bertie led his men, who were soon huffing and puffing to the war games. He soon discovered that their assignment was to assist the engineers as they built a temporary pontoon bridge across the narrowest part of the fast flowing river in order that the impatient cavalry section could cross the threatening water. The heavy thump of the blank artillery shells made even the shouted orders hard to hear, and how Bertie longed for such action, such chaos in reality. If he ever had the chance to go at the French he would show them just what his Germany could do. He continued to scream his orders to his men and barely noticed the rain as it beat down harder and faster on him and his men. Soon the men’s footholds on the riverbank became a muddy quagmire despite their antlike scurrying to lay the heavy timbers into the cloying mud. Muller re-appeared at his shoulder, nodding down from the horse he was perched on.

  “This is all a bit realistic don’t you think?” Bertie nodded in agreement, “That is precisely the reason for us undertaking such an exercise.” He responded curtly, not caring or noticing that Muller was disturbed by his abrupt response. Muller thought the man an awful snob and bore, and he wished he were in a tavern drinking something warm. Bertie watched his normally disciplined men rapidly turn into a disorganized muddy rabble unwilling to help the struggling engineers secure the first pontoon to the second which even now was being positioned with great difficulty against the raging frothing tide of water.

  A sergeant on the second barge bellowed to Bertie for his team’s assistance, and although Bertie couldn’t hear the man’s words over the noise of the howling wind he did understand the man’s frantic hand gestures as he signaled for immediate assistance. Bertie was unable to gather more than a small handful of his men, maybe five out of fifty for the urgent task of securing the second floating pontoon to the first. He realized he couldn’t delay as this would result in the engineers working on board being swept away. Bertie led the way, climbing aboard the first pontoon with his small group of men and almost instantly he regretted his decision. The craft was too fragile and delicate for its task and the wooden slats were already cracking and groaning loudly in protest against their securing ropes which snapped dangerously taut to their three safety posts driven into the riverbank. Pointing towards the stricken craft Bertie screamed orders to his now terrified men, never allowing them to see his own fear.

  “Quickly men, catch their line before it’s too late!” Bertie shouted. One of the men, a young Corporal rushed forward, he was a man of limited intelligence but great courage thought Bertie. The younger man reached for the rope in the heaving, tempestuous water, seemingly unaware of the danger as the swirling current heaved the two flat bottomed boats together with a horrific grinding noise, trapping the Corporal between them. He screamed for help as both his hands were trapped for a horrible instant until the contrary, capricious river parted the boats. Bertie was the first man to reach his corporal who was staring in shocked disbelief at his arms that had both been amputated at the elbows with almost surgical precision. “My hands, where are my hands?” he screamed at Bertie. He didn’t know how to answer the frantic young man who was in the first stages of hysteria. Bertie slapped his face hard, “You must keep calm, and do you understand me, calm!” The corporal nodded mutely as Bertie undid his own belt and braces and wrapped them tightly on his junior’s arms, forming a crude but effective tourniquet to stem the heavy pumping flow of arterial blood gushing from both his arms, turning the swirling water red around their feet.

  Bertie turned to another young soldier who was paralyzed in shock by the accident. “Get this man back to the first aid tent immediately!” The soldier managed to gather his wits when confronted with his officer taking charge with such certainty. “At once sir!” he responded instantly. He lifted the Corporal over his shoulder as the man was passing out. Staggering under the load he made his way to shore where several of his mates helped take the load of their friend.

  Bertie’s attention was immediately drawn back to the original problem as the two boats crashed together again. One of his men bravely reached for the rope now thrown by the second boat’s sergeant. The brave man over reached, lost his balance and fell into the water. Although Bertie rushed to help he was too late. By the time he had traversed the small vessel the man had already been swallowed by the roaring torrent of water. Bertie knew that his duty was to jump in after his man and attempt a rescue, but as he looked at the slate grey wall of water he knew that he didn’t have the guts to face his own death on this day. He looked away, as much to see who was watching him as to seek help and saw two of his men staring at him, in that instant an understanding passed between them all, let’s all keep quiet and survive.

  “Come on boys, we’ve got to secure these pontoons before anyone else is hurt. Come on be quick!” Bertie called to the men. They all made their way forward with great care, now visibility was reduced to near zero, the rain whipping almost horizontally into their faces across the river. They were unable to see the sergeant on the other boat when Bertie called to the man. “Throw us that rope Sergeant!” the other man didn’t respond, “Throw us the rope!” Bertie shouted as loudly as he could.

  As if from nowhere the rope flew into view, landing neatly at Bertie’s feet. Bertie immediately grabbed it, and working with his men they hooked it through the steel hoop at the blunt prow of the boat and pulled it taut. Within moments the second boat was securely t
ied to its sister craft. The grateful sergeant and his men jumped quickly onto Bertie’s boat and followed him and his men to the safety of the shore.

  The rest of the day became a happy, glazed memory for Bertie. His bravery was assumed and accepted by all, his initiative went unquestioned, his cowardice unknown except by his two silent accomplices. He would have to deal with that later, but for now, all was good.

  The biggest honour was to be personally congratulated by General Erwin Kessel in his command tent over a liberal, warmed tot of brandy. One drink with the General turned into two, then some more, a lot more in the officer’s mess later. By the time Bertie arrived back at his house in Darmstadt he was very pleasantly drunk, too drunk to find the key hole, so he called out, “Bertha, let me in woman, Bertha let me in, the wandering hero returns to his little woman, it’s Bertie the hero of the river Saar!”

  Within a few moments Bertha opened the door for her husband, she was wearing a flannel nightgown and a dressing gown tightly closed by a chord at her waist. In her hand she held an oil lamp. “Be quiet, you’re drunk, too drunk to even use your key!” He waved aside her protests and pushed her aside as he stumbled in. “Don’t be such a shrew woman.”

  “I’m going to bed, you disgust me when you’re like this.” But before she could take a step he grabbed her roughly by the upper part of her arm. “Don’t you even want to know why I’m drunk?”

  “Let me go, you’re hurting me!” she answered, but instead of complying he shoved her into the drawing room and took the oil lamp from her hand and placed it carefully on the table. He poured them both a large brandy and handed her a glass.

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough Bertie?” she asked.