Hidden Away (25 page)

 

“Well, Kurt, if you take care of me, I’ll take care of you.”

When he was ready to be alone, I went to the washroom. It was apparently one of the perks of being the elder’s boy. I could use the washroom for more than just a few minutes, but I cleaned up quickly out of habit.

No one said anything as I reentered the dormitory. Climbing into the bunk and over Werner, I curled into Peter, even though Konrad’s threat was still fresh. He held me while I silently cried.

When I had no more tears, I handed him the piece of bread. As he opened his mouth to speak, Peter’s eyes were soft and sorrowful. Before he could say anything, I turned on the opposite side and faced the other man. Closing my eyes, I tried to forget my new version of hell.

Chapter 13

 

Berkeley, California
1952
“W
ELL
,
you’re three sheets to the wind.”

It’s New Year’s Eve, and Charles is back in town, hosting his nearly famous annual party.
“No, I’m not.”
“Oh, please.” He rolls his eyes in dramatic fashion and gives me his most charming expression. “I can tell by your dopey smile, John. You are incredibly schnockered.”
“Shnockered?” I ask. “Did you just make that word up?”
“Maybe, but it’s no different than your FUBAR or your SNAFU or FRED and the like you use when you’re sloshed.”
Knocking back the rest of my whiskey, I try to look at my friend but end up seeing two of him. I pinch my eyes closed and when I open them, Charles is back to being one. I wish I could just be in love with him. The ease of it all seems very appealing, especially in the light of the new complicated relationship I now have with Kurt.
Not knowing why I just thought of Kurt and love as if they were two intertwined things, I shake it off and trace my goatee with my finger. “You look nice, Charles.”

“I always look nice, but thank you, so do you.”

I’m wearing khakis and a black button-down. It’s reminiscent of being in my dress uniform. I’m not entirely sure why I chose it, but I think Charles is putting me on, so I gently push on his arm. He’s a well put together man.

“Why aren’t we together?” I ask.

He blinks, then something in his expression softens. “You have much too much going on up here.” He taps my forehead.

For a second I close my eyes, but pop them back open when the black world begins to spin. “So you like dumb men? I’m an idiot, so….”

“Let’s get some air,” he says as he threads his arm through mine and leads me through the sea of people in his house. I wonder if he knows all these people. He’s so social. I wonder how many of these men he’s slept with, and why it is that in all our years of friendship, we haven’t.

Once we’re in his back yard, surrounded by trees and set apart from his neighbors, I breathe in deep, relishing the cool, fresh air.

“John, you—”

I swing around to face him, stopping his words by kissing him. He’s warm and his lips are soft. Putting my hands on his stomach, fingers curling around his sides, I try to push him back against the house, but he doesn’t allow it to happen.

I step back when he pushes against me lightly. Searching his eyes for something I’m not even sure of, when he says my name, I go at him again.

He continues to resist, so I run my hands through my hair and down my face before turning away. “It doesn’t have to be complicated,” I say.

“But it will be. Everything with you is.” My shoulders slump.

“You’re an incredibly sexy man, and believe me, I’ve thought about this, but I can’t help you the way you need.”

Spinning on my heel, I narrow my eyes at him. “I don’t need
help
, I just wanted to get laid.”

“No. You don’t. That’s what you wanted to do when you first moved here. Now you’re searching for something else, and we both know I’m not it.”

“I’m not looking for anything.”

 

His eyebrow goes up. “Is that so? How’s your German friend?”

I clench my jaw for a moment and want another drink. Too exhausted to go back inside for one, I wander around his tiny porch. It’s not raised. The ground is covered by fitted bricks, and I’m reminded of my father and his backbreaking labor. Charles has taken great care with his chosen plants and outside décor. It’s much more sophisticated than my own.

He clears his throat and I remember his question.

“It’s complicated.”
“I already knew that.”

I fumble around with my smoke, unable to light it properly. Charles stands in front of me and takes my Zippo. He lights my cigarette and then one of his own. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

Walking to the door, I ignore what he’s just said. “I’m getting a drink. Should I make you another Manhattan?”

“You need some sleep, not more to drink.”

My first instinct is to yell at him, and I want to, but I find I lack the energy to muster up enough fury to do it. “I can’t sleep.”

“The dreams?”

I nod but don’t expand. I can’t tell him about the dreams of the camp, the way Kurt has been inserted into them, the way either I kill him or he kills me. I don’t fear how Charles will react; I just fear how weak I’ll be once I admit it. Then there’s the cold, hard fact that some of it isn’t just a dream; some of it is memory.

I went into that camp and killed Germans. I killed them as they surrendered. There was a difference between killing Italians and Germans in battle and slaughtering them as they stood with raised arms and pure fear in their eyes.

“John.”
“I’m going home.”
“You don’t have to leave.”

“I’ll ruin your party. I’ve already taken up too much of your time by—”

 

“That’s nonsense. I don’t care about the party. There’ll be more. I care about—”

“Good night, Charles,” I say as I move through the door and wind my way through the throng of bodies.

I don’t know how I make it home, whether I drove or walked or hitched a ride. All I know is that I’m finally back on my porch with a cigarette in one hand and a tumbler of whiskey in the other. Charles was right; I didn’t need to drink any more. I’ve never drunk this much in my life, but I can’t seem to care that I’m not feeling any better about things with the consumption.

I pass out sometime before dawn and wake up around noon, only after having a horrific dream. My stomach churns from both the nightmare and the excess of alcohol. I’m not right for the rest of the day. I fall asleep again around midnight without the aid of whiskey. A dream sends me flying out of bed around four in the morning.

Out on the porch, I realize I’m out of cigarettes, but will have to wait a few hours until the stores open. Pacing back and forth while listening to The Clovers, I try to make sense of what’s been going on. I haven’t seen Kurt since Christmas, and although I desperately want to go over to his barren apartment just to share space with him, I’ve been hesitating.

The constant movement isn’t helping me sort out my head, so I put on my dress uniform, then stand in front of the mirror looking at myself—or who I used to be. Nothing horrible happened in this uniform. All the blood was shed in my field uniform, but tonight, I’m the man I was. I’m the man who held the rifle and let loose a stream of bullets that took out an unknown number of German soldiers.

Men.
Men with hopes. Men with dreams.
Men with families.

My mind flashes to the bodies of the camp prisoners, and I almost believe myself when I say those Germans deserved it. I almost convince myself that they were in on the whole thing, but I can’t. I know those men were just foot soldiers, sent to the camp to surrender to us. The guards and SS officers had gone, and all that was left were the stragglers from the field. We’d seen some walking defeated long before we reached Dachau.

Somehow I’m holding my sidearm. My finger’s twitchy, but I draw my arm up and aim at myself in the mirror.

I must be losing my mind as I stand here wondering if I’d be able to shoot myself as I’d shot those Germans. Sweat is creeping up on my brow, and I feel as though I’ve run a marathon or hiked a hundred miles uphill on a cold winter night. Finally, I drop my arm and go out to the living room.

The swastika stares at me and my grip on my gun tightens. Kurt said I should burn it.

It isn’t the symbol he thinks it is. It’s the symbol the men of my unit before me wore. It symbolizes their strength and dedication and will to survive.

But it makes Kurt weak and tremble in fear as if Hitler himself is in the room.

Placing my sidearm on the radio, I grab the patch and bury it in the back of my linen closet. I can decide what I’ll do with it another time. A time when my mind isn’t racing with strange thoughts.

When I’m sure the shops are open, I venture out in my dress uniform. I’m not technically allowed to be wearing it since it’s so long after discharge and I’m not attending a military function, but I figure not many people are going to stop me to protest it. I served my time during the war; everyone else can mind their own business.

Back at home, I’m drawn to the whiskey bottle, but I don’t drink it at first. I simply smoke my cigarettes on the porch while I stare at the gun I’ve placed next to the ashtray on the table. The tension in my body is nearly unbearable, and I can’t stay away from the whiskey for long. I only have one drink, and I feel better until I drift off in my chair.

I’m not in the camp, but I’ve got a feeling that my unit’s just left. Everybody’s high on adrenaline as we start pushing. Dachau was a good distraction from the fact that there’s still a war on. There’s still more people to kill in order to liberate Europe.

I’ve lost my drive to punish anyone. I’ve lost the fire in my belly to take the enemy by storm. At this point, they’re weak and most we come across surrender without hesitation. I look at them with their hands in the air, the gaunt look of starved ghosts. They could’ve been in that camp too. Only the uniform is different. Instead of striped fabric, they have the camouflage.

These men are all looking at us the same way as the starving prisoners. Like we are their ticket to three squares a day and freedom. The soldiers are better fed. I can see it in their cold eyes. They still have some meat stretched over their bones instead of just thin skin.

It’s the way one of them is staring at me that sets me off. He’s looking at me, eyes fixed on mine. He’s one of them; one of the assholes who locked up people for being born the wrong ethnicity, thinking the wrong thoughts,
loving
the wrong person. Is that a smirk on his lips? He’s mocking me because he knows. He knows that if the situations were reversed, he’d put me in a camp and drive me insane with hunger.

Or he’d just put a bullet in my head for being a queer.

My breathing has grown heavy, just as my rifle has. I’m aware of its increasing weight, as if it’s reminding me of its presence.

These men aren’t soldiers. There is no honor in serving a regime that deals death to thousands— hell, probably millions upon millions—of people. These things in front of me with their camouflaged coverings and their empty stares aren’t even people. Not humans. Humans could never be a part of something like that camp.

Before I know what I’m doing, my rifle is raised, the stock firm against my shoulder, the barrel aiming itself. If my finger depresses the trigger, the bullet will lodge right between Fritz’s eyes.

Maybe there’s a decision to be made, but it doesn’t feel like it. I already know that I kill him. I already feel the satisfaction in my bones. And after him, I’ll kill the others. They don’t deserve the mercy of being a prisoner of war. Let their bodies be buried in a mass grave or burnt. Let the foul German air be plagued with the even fouler stench of these Nazi pricks.

I can’t catch my breath as I sit up straight in my chair. Rubbing my eyes with one hand, I feel something cold and hard in my other. When I can see straight, I see my M1911 pistol, and I’m a bit scared. There is knocking at the door to my porch, but I ignore it as I disassemble the gun and place the pieces on the side table.

The clip is full.

My hand brushes the nearly empty bottle of whiskey, and I don’t resist the temptation of taking a pull.

I’m thankful when the knocking stops, but it forces me to stand and cross the distance to the door. When I open it, I don’t know whether I should smile or panic.

“Kurt?”
“Good evening, John.”

The pronunciation of my name soothes me, just as it did the first time. The sun is setting, and I wonder where the day has gone. I’m not sure why he’s here, but it’s rude to keep him outside, so I invite him in.

Kurt hesitates for a moment. He has an awkward bundle of something in his arms. When he moves past me, I have an urge to touch him, but don’t. I think he’s going straight into my living room, but he stops by my chairs, his head turned slightly to his left.

When I’m next to him, I can see he’s staring at my weapon. I’m suddenly embarrassed by its presence. “Just out for a walk?” I ask as I scoop up my cigarettes and light one.

He takes a small step away from me, eyes now fixed on my left hand as it flips the box of smokes over and over. Then he nods to the bottle of whiskey. “You should not drink or smoke.”

It’s almost humorous, but nothing Kurt says is funny, so I don’t laugh. “Why?”