Butterfly Boy

Tony Klinger

Description

The Butterfly Boy takes the reader on a dramatic, sweeping journey through two World Wars in Germany and races on around the globe throughout that tumultuous century. The Butterfly Boy is the story of Arnie, who as a small boy loses the use of his arms through polio, yet conquers this to grow up to be the "greatest mouth painter in the world." Born in a sleepy German town Arnie rises to become one of Hitler's favourite artistes despite his handicap and his Jewish mother. Arnie risks his like to undertake covert activities for the allies and the Christian resistance movement. Arnie matures into a great handsome bull of a man, who, despite not having the use of his arms still manages to be a great womanizer and hell raiser. The conflict between Arnie and his childhood nemesis, now senior Nazi officer, Ratwerller, is a battle to the death that slashes through their lives like a sharpened razor. They stop at nothing to seek the destruction of one another. After the war Arnie, The Butterfly Boy builds the Mouth Painting Charity around the world from which he makes tens of millions of dollars whilst destroying anyone that stands in his way. But it is his own waywardness and his unresolved past that haunts him. This is the story of an extraordinary man, taking an extraordinary journey during extraordinary times. You will love and fear for Arnie, and be hypnotized by him.

Sujets

• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 25 février 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781782346838
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
THE BUTTERFLY BOY
Tony Klinger



Publisher Information
Published in 2013
by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2013 Tony Klinger
The right of Tony Klinger to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.



Acknowledgements
I would like to take this opportunity to thank the many people who have helped me whilst I was writing this book. As you know books don’t spring forward out of a vacuum. This story is no different. It was inspired by the real struggles of the heroic and outstanding people who every day has to fight to overcome their disabilities.
On a personal level I couldn’t have written this book without the constant encouragement over so many years of my darling wife, Avril, who has stood behind me when necessary and always at my side whether or not I have deserved such love and support, as have Georgia, her husband Matt, Sarah, my daughter and Daniel my son and his wife Doctor Sarah. You’ve all waited so long and patiently for me to be the writing man I was supposed to be.
In my short professional life as a novelist you need all the help and guidance you can get and again I have been singularly blessed. Therefore I want to publicly thank the lady who is my excellent and ever encouraging literary agent, editor and friend, Jenny Stanley-Clarke.
Without this reading like an award acceptance speech I also want to pay tribute to my remarkable parents who are both long since together in the after life. Lily and Michael Klinger were truly wonderful people and he was one of our finest film producers.
Many years ago, when I was seventeen my then agent, the late and lamented Greg Smith, told me I should be a novelist but I persisted with my career as a film maker. To prove his point he took one of my story outlines and procured an offer for me to write that story as my first book. I rather arrogantly and very stupidly turned down the very generous offer. I have enjoyed a successful and productive career making films and in academia but oh how right Greg was since I now know that I was meant to be a story teller. I live to write but life if full of mysterious circles and right now I am preparing that story as a film and as the book I should have written so long ago.



Dedication
To all my family, friends and those that made this book possible. I love and thank you and appreciate your enormous patience and trust in me.
In the land of the blind, the one eyed man is king. Or put more beautifully and, I think hopefully, as the French poet Paul Claudel wrote: “For the flight of a single butterfly the entire sky is needed.”
Tony Klinger
Northampton, England, 2013



Prologue
Nuremberg, Germany
1935
I’m not normally a pessimist but my situation is very bad, even by my standards. I am in a green walled interrogation room deep in the bowels of the Nuremberg Gestapo Headquarters. It is a lonely, intimidating place when you’ve been sitting, tied by tight ropes to a solitary wooden chair for what seems like an eternity. The room is damp, cold and I am very scared.
Forgive me, I should introduce myself, my name is Arnulf Hessel, but I’ve always been known as Arnie. When I’m frightened I draw up a mental inventory, pros and cons. I am scared so I am doing this now. I find this makes me see my life clearly, even if it doesn’t solve my problems it does serve to take my mind off them for a little while. On the plus side is my age, I am 23, and I’m as fit as a butcher’s dog. I have always been bigger than most men, not far short of 2 meters, or nearly 6’ 6” in the other, English measure. This has always been an advantage for me, with both men and women. I wish I were in a warm bed with a hot woman right now. Back to the list, my eyes are blue and my hair is what I shall call dirty blonde, although my loving mother has always insisted it is the color of corn. Above these surface pluses I list my love of painting, and this love dominates my life, becoming a bit of an obsession, as I have grown better at it with time and patience.
As I look around at the depressing, claustrophobic little room I find more negative thoughts crowding my mind unbidden. Of course I do admit that I can be a bit obstinate sometimes, OK, all the time. Some see strongly held beliefs as a virtue but on this evil night I am forced to admit this trait has landed me on this chair in this terrifying room. Being of mixed parentage I normally insist is an advantage but on this particular night I will admit that having a Jewish mother, however loving and kind, and a Christian father, who I don’t really understand, is not a good thing for your health in Hitler’s glorious Third Reich.
I can hear footsteps approaching in the corridor and I can’t help but tense up in my chair. The heavy fall of booted feet on unforgiving concrete jars my nerves like a series of alarm bells. The noise ceases as they reach the door of my cell and a key is turned in the heavy lock of the metal door. I compose myself, trying to wipe the fear from my face, but you can’t control the sweat that pops unbidden onto your brow, this mute traitor to my self-control.
Two men enter the room, one, Ratwerller, is dressed in a civilian suit, and he is thin, and reminds me of a hairless white rat, his head and face are pointed, unnaturally smooth and feral, but it is his eyes that I shall always remember, they are black lifeless pools, magnified horribly by metal framed spectacles. He is Rat, because that is how I can best describe him, preceding his bigger, fatter, uniformed colleague. Rat and I were renewing our long since moribund school connection. We had never been friends.
“Hello Arnie, you do remember me, don’t you, we were friends at school?” the Rat asks me in what passes for his most pleasant tone, a high-pitched whine with a slight lisp. I instantly remember why I have never liked this man; in fact he has always repulsed me. “Call me what you want, you always did.” I reply, perhaps too influenced by all the American tough guy gangster movies I watch. I am about to learn that in today’s Germany such talk has a price.
“Naughty boy!” Rat hisses, he signals to his colleague who I shall call Fat Face who walks around my chair twice. I feel the hair on the back of my neck rise as he goes out of sight behind me. I am expecting something bad to happen when he is out of sight but there’s nothing I can do except to tense myself waiting for the inevitable impact. Fat Face looks at me as he circles in front of me as if I am a particularly ugly specimen in a laboratory, a charming smile plays on his porcine face, which makes him look like an over ripe cherub. Fat Face stops pacing when he gets behind me for the third time whilst Rat walks in tiny mincing steps to the door where he stops and turns. “Teach our young friend some manners will you.” he calls over his shoulder as he leaves the room. Fat Face begins to hum an unconvincing classic tune as he smiles and cracks his knuckles one by one out of my field of vision. “Wagner?” I ask, “Yes, Wagner’s Ring Cycle,” he responds, “It is a long composition” he adds with some conviction. “You have a nice voice” I tell him honestly, “Thank you.” He answers, as he punches me hard, twice, in the kidneys. I try to cut off the howl of pain I feel, trying to stem it to stop him getting too much satisfaction. Just as I think I am managing the pain and the situation Fat Face slams his fist into my right ear, making my hearing go flat and the sounds in the room echo, my eyes are swimming with unbidden tears, now he hits me in the left ear, systematically jarring me so that the pain reverberates through my body, robbing me of coherent thought. Fat Face is still humming his tune in his pleasant voice, but now it is sounding a little strange because of my ears. I can feel the blood from them drip down onto my neck. He is still smiling as he walks in front of me to continue his work. He removes his the jacket and shirt of his uniform and pauses, he has a barrel chest, full of matted hair and sweating muscle. He follows my eyes to his torso and flexes his biceps.
“I have to keep in shape for this job.” I nod my head; he is built like a powerful gorilla. He clearly enjoys his job, as his tongue licks at his sweating top lip as he starts to sing the Ride of The Valkyrie and he hits me with all his might in my stomach. I am unable to move because of the ropes holding me to the chair so I find myself straining into a fetal position. Now his humming and singing is beginning to really annoy me as Fat Face hits me squarely on my chin with an uppercut punch of such power that I hear my neck bones creak as my head snap back. “Stop!” I call, “Please stop!” I plead, Fat Face holds up his right forefinger for me to be silent. I smile in the hope he will accept my plea and stop hitting me. “I’ve learned my lesson, I will be polite, sir, I promise.” I don’t care if he knows I am a coward but I can’t take much more of this beating without permanent damage. I hate pain, especially my own pain, and always have. Fat Face smiles, but there is no warmth reaching those cold eyes. He looks at his knuckles as if examining works of art and spotting some torn skin puts the damaged part of his hand inches from my mo