Hidden Away (22 page)
I swing my body toward a noise to my right, pointing my M1 in front of me. My finger squeezes the trigger, but when I see another American soldier, I stop myself from depressing it fully.
He’s doubled over, throwing up while prisoners, too weak to walk, sit and watch. My stomach is in knots. The stench of this place is overwhelming and suddenly I’m fighting off the urge to run through the surrounding town and put a bullet through every civilian I come across. They may deny knowing what had been happening behind these walls. Perhaps they didn’t witness anything firsthand, but they had to know. They had to suspect.
When I drop my aim, I let my weapon hang from my hand as I continue through the camp. The striped men all look the same. Gaunt. Hollow. Deathly thin. The only way to tell them apart is by their uniforms. Triangles adorn their breast and the side of their legs. Red and green seem predominant here, but then I see black and pink. This is when I notice the difference. The men with the pink triangles are thinner, more sickly than the others. It is likely they’ve been starved and treated even more harshly.
There is an instant pull within me to help these men, so I go to them and hold out my hand to one who is spread out on the ground. He lacks the energy to lift his arm to accept my aid, so I squat down, light a cigarette and hold it out to him. If I had food, I would give that instead of the smoke, but this is all I have.
His eyes light up, telling me he wants it. But again, he can’t move his arm to take it. I hold it to his lips. The inhale is weak and shallow, but when he has a small bit in his chest, he gives me a smile. “What does this mean?” I ask him in German as I touch his chest.
I become a blank file for a moment. Falling back, I’m in the mud and shit and piss with him. The Nazis did this. They did this to this man for being a homosexual. For being like me.
Jules’s voice brings me back to his sitting room. I’m sweating. My jaw is clenched tight. As I reach for my cigarettes, I realize how badly I’m shaking. He’s looking at me with concern. I stand up and cross to the window.
The Fourniers have a nice place here. It is probably lovely in the summertime. Digging the tips of my fingers into my eyes, I do my best to take deep breaths and remember where I am. I turn to see Jules picking up the book from where it fell to the floor. “I’m sorry, I….” The words hang incomplete between us.
His expression softens when he stands upright again, and he nods toward the doors behind him. “I was just about to check on Kurt when you arrived. Would you care to join me?”
With a sluggish mind, I work through the possible scenarios, and decide that I’d rather just go home and sleep this off. Then I realize there would be no sleep without dreams, and I don’t want to go back to that place of death and horror quite yet. I wipe my brow, straighten my clothing, and grab the cup of coffee from the table.
Once outside, I light another cigarette, inhaling deeply as if the smoke in my chest can fill the empty places within. Although he is giving me space, I am very aware of Professor Fournier’s presence beside me. His gaze makes my flesh tingle. Without notice, I say, “What happened was bad.”
I bow my head and study my feet while feeling childish for saying it. Of course what happened in those camps was bad.
He doesn’t hesitate when he responds, “It was very bad.” After a moment, he says, “What you must understand is that every little ounce of power Kurt had was taken from him. Some of us in the camps could forge a better existence, but not someone like Kurt.”
His eyes seem to implore me, asking me if I truly understand. I don’t, but I remain silent as I snub out the cigarette and follow him up the stairs.
At Kurt’s door, Jules knocks but doesn’t wait for an answer before pushing it open. “Kurt? You have a visitor.”
The little apartment above the garage isn’t what I thought it was going to be, but on the other hand, I don’t see how it could be anything other than what it is. I cannot see Kurt living in any situation other than this. The apartment seems perfect for him with the bare table next to an open pantry and sink. The small kitchen area leads right into what I assume is the living area. There is nothing but two wooden armchairs, a table, and a bookshelf.
I feel like an intruder as I step into the apartment. Has he been sitting there alone for long? For a man who liked music once, there is nothing in the apartment that would indicate it, save a violin resting eye level on the bookshelf. He told me he didn’t play that particular instrument, so it’s an odd thing to find in his home.
As I draw nearer, I see there’s a small washroom to the left and a door to the bedroom. It looks small and barren, just like the rest of the place. From what I can tell, there is only a small bed and a small chest of drawers.
Thinking of my house, with all the trappings of my life, I wonder about this type of existence. Does he really only own a few books, an old violin, and some clothes? This type of life doesn’t seem like much at all.
Then I remember his reaction to my army patch, and Jules’s question about which triangle Kurt wore. This is a man who probably had everything taken from him.
He is wearing short sleeves, and I can see the angry, flat scar on his forearm. Kurt is picking at it, pinching it between his fingers and tugging at the flesh. The older man’s hand moves to still the German’s. They speak quietly. I can’t make out any words, but whatever they are, Jules is successful in stopping the aggravation of the scar. He says one last thing, to which Kurt nods, and then he crosses the room to me. “I’ll be back.”
I open my mouth to speak, but he stops me. “He is agreeable to you being here, just be aware of his state of mind.”
I stand awkwardly once I’m alone with him. I move to the chair but do not sit down because he says, “Nein.”
He rises from the armchair, walks to the kitchen table, and drags a straight-backed chair into the living area. He motions to it before taking his own seat again. The chair isn’t comfortable, and I wonder why I can’t sit on the cushioned one, but say nothing. He is silent as he begins to rub the red flesh of his scar again.
I want to talk about his time in the camps, but at the same time I don’t, so I stumble for something to say. What comes out is, “I’m sorry I upset you earlier. I didn’t know you—”
“You have it in your home,” he says, obviously talking about the swastika. “You keep it in a place of honor, knowing what it represents.”
“It represents my army unit. We risked our lives to go free people from the
other
symbol. Please understand that. I would never have something that represents hate in my house.”
I’m not sure how to convince him of the spiritual meaning behind the symbol, or if I even should. “It meant good luck. The Navajo, Apache, and Hopi Indians stopped using it when Hitler…. Just like the army. It meant something different than what you know.”
I agree but don’t understand my immediate reaction. Destroying something so tied to the history of my unit, my brothers, doesn’t seem like something I should do, and yet, I know in my heart that because he’s asked me to do it, I will. His comfort is somehow now a prime concern of mine.
Since I agreed to do something that makes me uncomfortable, I think it’s only fair that Kurt gives me something in return, so I ask, “Did you wear the pink triangle?”
I wish that tiny kitchen had some liquor in it. “Perhaps you should go.”
“I’d like to stay.”
“Why? You now know what I am. Why would you
want
to stay?” He’s working his scar again, pinching and pulling at it. The action disgusts me, but not because of what he’s doing, so much as
why
he’s doing it.
I hate the shame that’s evident in his voice and in his actions, so I decide here and now he has to know. “Because I’m like you. They would’ve done the same to me.”
Although he looks at me again, he shakes his head as if to deny my words. I’m not sure what to do, or why I would have to prove anything to him, but finally something shifts in his expression. “Be thankful for your good fortune.”
Germany?”
It is a redundant question since we’d spoken about it with Jules, but I answer anyway. “Yes. First in Africa, then Italy. We came up from the south of France,” I say, noticing the small wince and expression of pain on his face. “From France, we pushed into Germany.”
I want to stop him from worrying the scar like Fournier had done, but I stay put for fear of scaring him. “Yes.”
My eyes sting, and it is my turn to break our gaze. Swallowing hard to push down the emotion before I answer, “There are no words for what I saw.”
Had he been at Dachau? I worried that the conversations we’d had about the liberation debate were in particularly poor taste. “Which camp were you in?”
“Mauthausen.” Staring at his forearm, he lowers his voice. “Near Linz, Austria.”
I glance at the violin and remember him telling me his last performance was in Linz. “Did they allow music in the camp?” A choking sound comes from him, but he doesn’t look up at me. I think I see tears, but I’m not sure. When he doesn’t reply, I ask, “How long were you there?”
“I was arrested and placed in the camp in 1942.”
All the camps were liberated by the late spring of 1945, so the impact of how long he was a prisoner hit me with full force. “God.”
“The older inmates told us the average life expectancy of a queer or a Jew in Mauthausen was only a few months. Six at most.”
Chapter 12
Mauthausen, Austria1942
lined up against a wall inside a small square, and I shivered. Night was falling and the air was cold. No one spoke to us, and no one within our ranks muttered a single word. Although it seemed like we were alone, there was no mistaking the feeling of being watched.
We stood there for hours. The darkness enveloped us, and still we were left out in the elements. I didn’t dare look at anything other than the space before me. As my fear grew, it consumed me. My limbs shook as the muscles in my face trembled. Perhaps it was my fear that saved me from succumbing to the cold. It could’ve only been just above freezing. Men down the line, to either side of me, fell. Some to their knees, others flat-out on the ground. I could hear their shallow, raspy breaths. I saw them out of the corners of my eyes. Through my terror, I was relieved that none of those struggling to survive the night was my Peter.
Everything changed in seconds. Suddenly, men in striped uniforms surrounded us. I didn’t know where they came from, but it was obvious they were prisoners. They blew cigarette smoke in our faces as they asked what we had on us.
I heard them telling a new prisoner to my right how they could help him if only he’d trade his pocket watch right now. The way these men told it, the system was easy to understand. We give them valuables now; they give either protection or valuables later. Food. Cigarettes. Better clothing.
Peter and I had nothing to trade. The Gestapo had taken it all before we were shipped out. All I had was my soiled and bloodied clothing, which meant I was useless to these men who sought paper money and gold.
The feeling of worthlessness did not last long. The men in striped uniforms began looking at the line in a particular way after getting as much as they could from us new prisoners. My whole body was quaking still, but the shaking was not just a product of my body trying to survive anymore. Now, it was a result of my increased dread and panic.
The way these men were looking at us made me worry that I needed to fear them, perhaps more than the SS guards with their guns.
They circled me as they singled me out. Although I kept my eyes fixed on their shoes, I could hear them lick their lips. I could feel their breath on my neck, my ear, my cheek. I wanted Peter, but didn’t dare look at him.
Right beside my left ear, a man said, “I should like to have him assigned to my work detail.”
