Hidden Away (20 page)

His hands came to grip my elbows, and he pushed me forward until our bodies were no longer touching. The Gestapo officer had closed the distance between us. When I looked up, he was but a foot away, the neutral expression he’d worn just a moment ago replaced with thinly veiled rage. “You will tell me the names of your lovers.”

Managing to gulp down a breath of air and a little saliva to wet my throat, I shook my head again. “I’m not—”

“You have just come of age, boy. I’m sure it could be proven that these men seduced you. That you were not of sound mind when you allowed yourself to be abused by them. As you know, the law states persons under the age of twenty-one should be treated differently than older perverts. If you only tell me who your lovers are, I can—”

“I have no lovers,” I blurted. I’d meant to remain quiet.

The officer did not like my answer. He stepped closer to me. I would begin to cry before long if I kept my gaze on the man, and I didn’t want to cry here. I paid attention to his boots again.

“You are a pianist.” He paused, then asked in a bored tone, “How much do you like your fingers?”

The question was absurd. It took my confused mind a long moment to process. Just as I realized the threat, he seized the middle finger of my right hand. Twisting, pulling, bending, and breaking, he asked me again who my lovers were. I’d never known a finger could cause such pain. The sickening snap of my thin bone echoed between my ears, and my body went limp.

The guard held me up.

“You are a queer, Kurt Klein. A filthy assfucking queer. You will be taken to a cell now, but your time here will be lessened when you choose to reveal the men with whom you associate.”

The guard took me from the office. I wasn’t sure if I walked or if he dragged me. Numb, I couldn’t feel my feet. My finger throbbed. While my body felt paralyzed, I couldn’t control my mind. It raced with fear and questions.

Would Peter be safe? What will Aunt Anja think? Could my uncle’s networking with Nazi officials get me out of here? Would anyone even know where I was?

The guard tossed me into a small holding cell with two other men, and I collapsed in the corner and was left alone until night had fallen. There was a small window on the other side of the bars. I watched in silence as the sun shifted, then faded. Guards took the other men one by one, dragging one of them by his hair. When I was all alone, cold and scared, a different guard came for me.

I was taken to a room where most of my conscious thought left me. Kicked and beaten, ridiculed and taunted, I absorbed every horrible thing the men gave me. Over and over again I was asked about my lovers.

Gasping for breath, I shook my head. “I have no lovers,” I told them over and over again. My voice was raspy and my words were broken.

Another kick came, doubling me over and stealing the oxygen from my lungs. I began to contemplate throwing out names at random. Franz. Henry. Tomas. None passed my lips, in part because I was so parched and in part because I feared there may actually be a Franz, Henry, and Tomas who would then feel the pain I was now in.

Never presented with any evidence of my homosexuality, I clung to a belief that they could prove nothing. As it turned out, they needed no proof. An officer grabbed me between the legs, using all of his strength to squeeze. The pain dwarfed that of my broken finger and the pain of being beaten. “Give me a name you filthy queer!”

I was able to shake my head in response, but was greeted with ugly words coupled with a twist of the man’s wrist. “Give me a name, or I’ll throw you to the sadists who’ll rip your cock off while fucking you raw.”

I wasn’t sure which rendered me completely unmoving, the threat of what they would do, or the pain he was currently causing, but I was motionless as he assured me of how starved for sexual companionship they were and how a boy such as myself would be to their liking.

“Have you ever been fucked by two men at once? Another one thrusting into your mouth? I’ve seen it happen.”

Weak from torture, I gave up the fight. The threat of being tossed to cruel men was too much, and I gave them a name.

Blood spurted out as I tried to speak. “Leo.” I sucked in stale air. “Leonard Sprague.”

I wept openly now as I hoped the violist took my absence as a sign and went into hiding. But it was a false hope. My uncle had seen to it that my presence at Peter’s was sporadic at best.

“No,” I said. “Not him. I….” I was silenced with a dirty-soled boot on my throat. I couldn’t take back the name. It was already written on the notepad in the officer’s hands.

I prayed for forgiveness and for Leo, who had never done anything to me. I tried to forgive myself as they let me drop to the floor. Despite the betrayal of my friend, I consoled myself with the knowledge that I’d kept Peter safe. I would do anything to keep him safe. As disgusting as I felt about it, Leo’s life was less important than my Peter’s.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, I was only partially aware that my position changed. I’d been thrown back into a cell. Sometime later, it could’ve been days, I was beaten again and asked for more names. This time, I gave them names I’d only heard in passing. All of them mentioned by Peter, Leo, and Diedrich. All of them having left Germany and Austria after the Night of the Long Knives back in 1934 brought a violent focus on homosexuals.

From what I knew, they were all safe in other countries, protected by land and the Allied forces. Unlike poor Leo.

I wanted to die now. I’d caused damage in a moment of weakness. But it wasn’t just one moment of weakness. I’d been weak all my life. I’d sentenced a friend to the same fate as I now suffered.

As days went on, Peter’s safety no longer comforted me.

Transferred from cell to cell and perhaps from building to building, I slid in and out of awareness. I couldn’t even find solace in the fact that they’d stopped beating me. I lay on the floor of my cell, my body aching, hoping they would just give me the pleasure of death.

But it never came.

There was no telling how long I was in custody, but one day I was picked up from the floor. I still hurt from the torture, but was healing. Still throbbing, my fingers were finally able to be bent again. They took me to a secured truck and pushed me into the back. There must have been twenty other men, but I didn’t look at their faces.

It wasn’t until the truck was in motion and the whirl of the wheels and wind muted everything that I allowed myself to look at anything other than my own lap. I scanned the knees of those around me. Most had their hands, bruised and bloodied, resting on them. It was enough to make me drop my gaze again.

Until I heard it.

There was a soft, barely audible melody to my left. Familiar. As I turned my head, my stiff neck causing me pain, the chilly grip of desolation wrapped around me. I was no longer numb. Every emotion I’d squashed down during my time at the SS Headquarters came pounding out. My body reverberated with the pulsing blood within me. Every physical ache and pain paled compared to that in my heart, in my mind, and deep within my soul.

Toward the front of the truck sat Peter.
My
Peter. Battered, bruised, and in a similar condition as me, he sat staring at me, his lips moving in time to the quiet song. If anyone else heard it, they didn’t acknowledge it. As soon as he caught my eyes, the singing ceased. My mouth opened. He was too far away for us to speak. I clamped a hand over my mouth to choke back a sob.

He was the last person I wanted to see. He, not Leo, shared this transport with me. He, not Leo, was now given the same fate as I.

We stared at each other until the truck stopped. When the thick canvas was peeled away, I pulled my gaze from him. I tried to look at him again once the truck rumbled to life, taking us toward destination unknown, but he kept his eyes off me.

Although I was not surprised, it still hurt. I’d betrayed his friend, so his disdain for me was warranted. Still, I longed to be close to him. I wanted to hear his voice and feel his hands on me. When the transport stopped again, guards herded us off the bus. In the shuffle and the walk toward high walls with barbed wire, our positions changed, and I was walking in front of him.

The large stone wall with the iron eagle bearing the symbol of the Nazis grew closer. At the entrance, we were bunched together. I felt Peter at my back, and I fought the urge to sink into him. His lips were at my ear. “You don’t know me.”

The comfort of his voice was overshadowed by his denial of me. I deserved no less, but the wounds cut deeper than anything the SS had inflicted. “Peter, no, I didn’t—”

His voice was hard when he spoke again. “
You don’t know me.
” He shoved my shoulders, propelling me through several men. I nearly fell, but steadied myself against the back of a fellow prisoner.

The man turned around and sneered, pushing me. “Don’t touch me, you filthy queer. I’m not one of you.”

Fresh terror surged in me again. It reminded me once more that I was surrounded by enemies, even if we were all prisoners. It was my first clue that queers were thought of as less human than the criminals whose violent actions harmed innocent people. Perhaps he was one of the men who would’ve killed me as he raped me.

I shivered.

 

Now, I didn’t even have Peter any more. Only feet behind me, he’d cut me off.

 

And I deserved it.

The large gate before us creaked open. I glanced up and saw the barrels of machine guns on the towers aimed at us. My heart thumped harder, and as the men in front of me moved forward, I stayed still. This was a fear like I’d never felt before. The sense of foreboding that flooded me, cementing my feet to the ground, made it clear that soon I’d long for the backhand of my uncle and the kicks and threats of the Gestapo.

Everyone was crowding in. The men in uniform around us shouted. I was being knocked into, but my feet wouldn’t move. Everything seemed to be carried out at half speed. I was aware of the click to my right. As I craned my neck, I could see a guard with his pistol aimed toward me. Then I saw the gunners in the tower singling me out. Those men around me must’ve been aware of it as well because they moved more rapidly, leaving me without shelter.

A stiff shove from behind finally forced my lead feet toward the gate. Soon I was in the crush again. I let out a sigh of relief when I felt Peter behind me. His solid chest pressed against my back, his hands at my waist, whispering voice at my ear. “Kurt Klein, you are my sanity. You do what’s needed to survive. France is waiting for us.”

I sucked in a breath. I wanted to burrow back into him and hide in his protective arms forever. “Now move. Keep your head down,” he said in a stronger voice. He shoved me forward again. The connection was broken and he was lost to me.

Twisting and craning, I no longer saw him behind me, but his words were still pushing me forward.
You are my sanity
.
France is waiting
. He hadn’t abandoned me. His distance was for safety.

Although I desperately wanted to be beside him, I realized now the importance of our separation. No one could know he was my lover. No one could know we cared for each other.

As the guards herded us into the small square, and we lined up facing a wall, I realized my utmost priority was now survival for both Peter and me. My body still trembled with fear, but deep in the pit of my belly I felt the resolve.

Whatever it took, I would ensure we survived this place.

 

Nothing else mattered beyond that.

 

Chapter 11

 

Berkeley, California
1951

M
Y FIRST
instinct is to chase after Kurt, but I am too confused and shocked to do anything more than smoke my Winstons and drink whiskey.

He’d been in a camp. He’d been one of the striped men who continue to haunt my dreams. My stomach churns at the thought of him living in a place like that. Flea-infested, disease-ridden, filthy stink permeating everything around it. While I’d had dreams of him in Dachau as I liberated it, there is something disgusting about
knowing
he walked among the bodies stacked like cordwood—that he could’ve easily
become
one of the corpses.

After a few hours, it occurs to me that I shouldn’t be drinking whiskey. It’s Christmas, and drinking alone is never productive. There is nothing to do beyond sit in the main room and stare at the army patches and weapons that scared the timid German, or sit in the kitchen and stare at the cookies and bag he brought.

I peek inside the bag, finding little gifts for the holiday. Most are trinkets, but the major component is a blank book. The Fourniers must want me to write out my experiences. The gifts make me think of Christmases past, and in turn, of my family, which now is only my aging father. He is probably sitting alone in his armchair, drinking a beer while the radio serves as background noise.

Picking up the telephone, I give the operator the exchange and wait for my father to answer. “Hello?”
“Hey, Pop.”
“John.”
Silence, then, “How are you?”
“It’s cold here,” he answers. A grin pushes at

my lips. My father doesn’t speak of emotions or well-being. “How’s the weather in California?”