Hidden Away (27 page)

When I reach for the bottle again, Charles leans forward, covering my hand with his own. There is a silent struggle, but I let him win. He takes the whiskey and pours just a little in my glass, then puts the bottle on the floor by his feet.

“Who thinks you’re like the Nazis?”

“Kurt Klein. He does this thing with his fucking head, and I think it’s completely ridiculous because first off, he doesn’t have a fucking hat, and second I’m not threatening him or telling him I’m his fucking superior.”

“I don’t understand. Can I have that gun?”

His words make me smile. “What are
you
going to do with a gun?” A chuckle erupts from my throat, but it should be a choking sob. I knock back the amber liquid, then place the glass on the table. “If I give it to you, what are you going to do with it?”

“Put it far away from you. You’re drunk.” “Do I scare you?”
“No. You worry me.”
I can see it all over him. His concern is

evident in how he’s sitting, how his eyes never leave my face, how his fingers are tightened around the thin fabric of his trousers. I take a breath and my head swims. Pulling the magazine from the M1911 and then locking the slide back, I begin to disassemble it. One by one, I lay the pieces out on the table.

When my hands are empty, Charles stands and takes one of them. He tugs me up and I let him lead me into the house. In my bedroom, he unbuttons my shirt and slips it from my shoulders and does the same for my pants. If I was less intoxicated, it might have made me hard as if the undressing is going to lead to sex, but in my current state, all I can manage to do is stare at him.

After he slips me into bed and pulls the covers up tight, he runs his hand through my hair. “You’re not a Nazi, and you’re not responsible for killing them during the war.”

“I don’t want to dream.”
“You have to sleep. You’ll feel better.”

“It would have been better if I was killed in action. My father could’ve had a gold star in his window instead of a queer son who can’t sleep.”

“Don’t say that. The world is a better place with you in it.” He pauses and stands up straight. “I think you should go see Matheson. Maybe he can help since he’s been through some of this.” “They killed men like us, you know.”

“Get some sleep, John.”
I take a deep breath and close my eyes.

The nightmare of me in an SS uniform and Kurt in his striped clothes awakens me in a cold sweat.

I find Charles out on the sofa, the light of midmorning causing him restless sleep. “What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you don’t kill yourself,” he says as he sits up and rubs his eyes.

 

“What?”

He rises to his full length and arches his back. “Exactly what I said. You were in quite a state last night. Do you remember how much you had to drink?”

“I don’t remember drinking at all.”
“That can’t be good.”
Wanting a cigarette, I move out to the porch

and find the parts of my sidearm laid out in perfect rows. There is an empty bottle of whiskey on the table and a nearly full one on the floor. I struggle to find some piece of the previous night, but only come up with fuzzy visions of Kurt.

“You kept saying someone thought you were a Nazi.” Charles is leaning on the door jamb as I turn around. “I assume you meant your German friend, the cleaning boy.”

“Kurt.”

 

“Yes, Kurt. I take it a lot has happened since I left for the holiday?”

I go past him, but he puts his hands on my arms and forces me to make eye contact. “I thought you were going to do something horrible last night.”

“I wasn’t—”

 

“I’ve never seen you that way. It was frightening.”

The vision of Kurt doing his hats off, hats on motion floods my mind. I remember now that I made the connection between his tic and being scared of me. I must’ve gone a bit off the deep end after that. “I’m fine.”

“Clearly, you’re not.”

I put my hands on his hips, twirling him out of the way. He trails behind me as I begin to make coffee.

“Shell shock is real, John. I’ve talked to—” “Don’t talk to people about me. You know nothing about it.”

 

He lays a hand on my forearm, stilling my movements at the stove. “I know you.”

 

“Do you?”

 

“You should talk to someone about all this, John. Last night I thought you were—”

 

“But I didn’t. Whatever you thought I was going to do, I didn’t. I’m fine.”

It takes another two hours before I get rid of my friend. Bits and pieces of the previous night come back to me as I clean myself and my house. Reverently, I replace the M1911 parts in their place with my other memorabilia, and stare at the space where the old insignia used to be.

Kurt was in the camps. I know what went on in them; at least, I know the devastation I walked in on at Dachau. When my mind and belly are less queasy, I take a quick trip in my truck, and wait after knocking on the door.

The anxiety I felt on the ride over lessens as soon as I see him. I’m instantly aware of the urge to smile. The joy I feel at just the sight of him is a bit unsettling, but my relief outweighs it.

“I want to apologize for last night. I was drunk, and I’m not sure how badly I embarrassed myself.”

He looks down at his bare feet. “You were a gracious host, John.”

 

My whole body slacks a little. I want him to say my name again and again. “May I come in?” “Of course. Would you like tea?”

A kettle is sitting on top of a hot plate in his kitchen. In the living room, a steaming tea cup rests on the floor by one of his chairs. Remembering his reaction to my attempt of sitting in the opposite chair, I pick up one in the kitchen and set it down close to his. Neither of us sits.

“Do you ever feel like you’re stuck in the past?”

 

“Yes.”

“Like history is the present but no one else sees it?” I resist the urge to turn and face him. “The farther the war is in my past, the more it consumes me here in the present. Does that make sense?” My hands curl around the rung of the wooden chair. I stare at my white knuckles. “I did some very bad things.”

A floorboard creaks behind me. “Very bad things are done in war.”

 

“But mine were….”

 

“You saved people’s lives and gave them freedom.”

 

Finally, I turn. “At what price?”

“There is no sum of the cost of war for freedom. You will never be able to tally the price you paid, but the prisoners’ lives you save had no value until you gave it back to them. Had you not given all you had, more would have been nothing but ash.”

I dig the fingers of my hand into my eyes to stop the burning threat of tears. “I killed men who weren’t—”

“You did what you needed to do to stop the evil and madness from spreading.”

“But what I did was evil. How can I feel justified when I did exactly what I was supposed to be fighting against?” Tugging at the hairs on my chin, I attempt a smile to break the discomfort. “I don’t blame you for being scared of me.”

“I’m not scared; I’m unused to being around anyone but the Fourniers. Even at work I keep to myself because it is easier that way. You are a good man. I know this, but it has been a long time since I’ve let myself know any kind of man.”

Grateful that he is allowing himself to know me, I stay silent, but move toward the bookshelf. I extend my hand to run a finger down the curved wood of the violin, but stop when I hear, “Nein!”

Kurt rushes at me, curling his fingers around mine and pulling my hand away. “This is Peter’s.”

I twist my fingers so that I don’t lose contact. I intertwine them with his, and my stomach jumps in reaction to holding his hand. His shaky breath reminds me of how delicate he is. I don’t want to break him, but I want to touch him.

Bringing my hand up, I trace a small scar close to his hairline with my index finger. I do it again when his eyes close. Touching him is much more satisfying than touching the stringed instrument to my left.

When our eyes are locked, I ask, “Who is Peter?” even though I know he’s answered that before.

His fingers squeeze mine as he looks at the violin. “He was my lover, and I miss him.”

Gently pulling him away from the shelf, I let go of his hand in front of his chair. When he’s seated, I pick up his tea cup and hand it to him.

“Is the other chair his too?”

Kurt’s eyes find the dusty chair. “Sometimes I can hear him sing to me. I like to imagine him there.”

“What happened to him?”

 

Shaking his head, Kurt says, “Very bad things.”

 

Chapter 14

 

Mauthausen, Austria
1942

I
T TOOK
some time for my fingers to get used to the keys and bass buttons, and the weight of the accordion seemed to pull my body forward unnaturally. It was hard for me now to believe that when I was a small child I was able to hold myself up with this instrument strapped to me.

Konrad was true to his word, finding me a better work detail, but instead of a clerk of some kind, he secured me a position within the camp orchestra, which in reality was no more than a band. Members were to sleep in a private barrack just for them, but for obvious reasons, Konrad saw to it that I remained in his.

It was better that way for me as well. Peter was still assigned to the quarry, and I did not wish to sleep anywhere but in his bunk.

I could hear them coming before I saw them. Peter’s work detail passed by our small practice square every day. He did not have the luxury of glancing up at me, but I could watch him walk the entire way. Usually I was grateful for another glimpse of him, but today I wish I hadn’t.

His work foreman bellowed at him, clubbing him with a stiff rubber hose. My lover absorbed the blow to the chest easily, but cried out when another one came to the small of his back. He fell to his knees, hands and arms, brown from mud, holding him up. I willed him to stand up. He needed to rise, but he hesitated as he struggled to regain his breath.

The foreman hit him across the shoulders. “You filthy ass-fucker!”
The other pink triangles around him kept walking. I fought to stay where I was. I would expose us and be beaten for it if I ran to him. After what seemed like hours, Peter stood, shoulders slumped forward as he began to walk again.

“This is where you come in,” Günter said, drawing me back to the circle of musicians. I had to find a way of getting Peter into the orchestra.

I began to play, but only for a few more minutes. The passing of Peter’s work detail meant evening roll call would be soon. Once I put the instrument away, I ran through the camp, eager to check on my lover. Where once I would have been scared to walk by myself, Konrad’s protection seemed to extend everywhere I went. Very few people looked at me, even fewer spoke to me, and no one dared touch me.

Time in the camp was very heavily monitored and controlled. Once I got back into the barracks, I would only have five minutes at most to relieve myself and visit with Peter. After roll call and our evening meal, there would be personal time for the others, but mine would belong to Konrad. He seemed to enjoy keeping me occupied until lights out.

When I neared our bunk, I saw Peter’s hunched body. He was holding himself up with one arm while the other cradled his abdomen. I had to be careful as I slid in next to him. I never knew when Konrad was watching. “Are you in pain?”

He immediately stood up straight. “I’m fine.” “I saw.”

Peter gritted his teeth together, wincing as he arched his back.
“Why were you beaten?” I asked.

He leveled his eyes at me. “Because I’m a queer.”

 

“Come on, you Schwuchtels!” Konrad bellowed.

I didn’t look. Instead I placed a discreet hand on the large bruise on Peter’s back. He flinched away, giving me a sharp look before pulling on his tunic. “Be careful. Your
lover’s
watching.”

Peter had never been harsh with me before. His words stung, and I took my hand away from him.

“Line up before I get hit again.”
“Peter, I—”

“I’m fine. Now let’s go before he decides to investigate.”

There was so much I wanted to say to him as we marched, but most of it was forgotten in the square. This evening’s roll call took several hours longer as we all had to watch a prisoner punished on the horse.

It was excruciating to watch. The horse was nothing more than a slatted wooden bench. The guards secured the prisoner, stretching his torso over it. His knees remained on the ground and tied to interior posts, just as his wrists were. He was completely silent as one of the officers read the charges.

Stealing food.

The prisoner screamed as the leather whip lashed him fifteen times. I could see his flesh split even from this distance, and each time the creak of the whip sounded, I jumped. Peter stood beside me. Between the shouting of the SS and the cries of the prisoner I heard Peter’s voice, singing a quiet song. It was the only thing that helped me through.

Once it was over, we were made to march by the flogged man as a warning to us all. Those who attempted not to look were beaten with clubs, so I made sure to get an eyeful. Back in the barrack, I spent my meal time with Konrad, who gave me extra soup and bread before we had sex.

Personal time was limited due to the length of roll call, so as soon as he was finished, Konrad sent me on my way. After cleaning up, I returned to my bunk, fitting in between Peter and Werner.