Hidden Away (17 page)

Peter nuzzled me. Against my ear, he said, “Don’t be cross with me. I didn’t bring the discussion up.”

I replied, “I’m not cross… just….” I paused to search for a word, then said, “I’m worried.” Pulling me toward him, he scratched my jaw with his stubbly chin. “About what?”

 

His whisper sent a shiver through me. His voice was undeniably arousing.

“The men you’ve been with.”
“They won’t harm us.”

He’d mistaken what I meant, so I cleared my throat, steeled my nerves, and looked him in the eyes. “Perhaps I’m not… I’m not as….”

“Good?” he finished for me. “Nonsense. You’re better.”

I rejected his words with a shake of my head. He shifted, bringing his hands to either side of my head as he twisted in his seat. Swinging his leg over mine, he carefully sat on my thighs. “Kurt Klein,” he said, voice commanding and very much like my uncle’s. “You are a
fantastic
lover.”

My face grew hot.

“That blush drives me wild,” he said in a primal growl. My stomach knotted as he pressed into me. He kissed me hard before flipping our positions. Now sitting on top of him, the anticipation I felt was becoming too much to hold within. I kissed him with matched intensity. One of his hands was on my back, ensuring my closeness, and the other was rubbing me through my trousers.

“And the concert tonight?” Peter’s voice was breathy between kisses. “That was incredibly sexy. I wanted to have you there on the piano in front of them all.”

A tiny bit of fear crept back in. Homosexual acts in front of Nazis? But before it could take a deep hold of me, Peter stood up, bringing me with him. Walking me backward, he said, “I want you on a piano. If it can’t be that one, this old upright will have to do.”

Through use of the bench and the keyboard, he managed to make love to me on it, leaving me out of breath and full of joy. Later, we retired to his bedroom, where he took me again. I fell asleep in his arms, feeling more at peace with my new world than ever.

I
WOKE
as daylight drenched the room. Again, he was up before me, sitting cross-legged on the bed. His eyes were fixed on mine as his lips moved in song. I couldn’t place the tune, but it didn’t matter. His voice created such a stillness within me. It was as it was meant to be, and knowing it made me weep.

He brushed the silent tears away with his thumb. When he was lying next to me again, I burrowed deeper into his arm, breathing in as much of him as I could. We stayed in bed as the day grew long, but reality soon nipped at the corners of my happiness. My uncle would be angry that I hadn’t returned home last night. If I stayed out much longer, there was no telling how he would handle it.

Reluctantly, I left a sleeping Peter warm in the bed, and I cleaned up. I hesitated before leaving the bedroom, but the look of pure serenity on his face kept me from waking him. Once in the main room, I studied the piano. Heat poured through me as I remembered the night. Hands and lips, voices in ecstasy and breathy whispers.

I sat down and began to play.

 

“I’ll have to get that tuned again thanks to you.”

Jumping at the sudden interruption, I turned to Peter with a grin. The desire spreading within me was undeniable. He stood in the archway of the hall, hands pressed to either side, watching me. His naked body was the exact vision of perfection. With clothes, Peter looked thin, but without, he was all sinewy muscles and raised veins. My lust increased as I took in the lines of his body, especially the V shape of his lower torso.

Situating myself to have a more comfortable position in which to admire him, I realized that I was aroused again. He had awakened something fierce within me. I wanted him all the time, and couldn’t bear the thought of leaving this warm little apartment for the cold vast home of my uncle.

He took firm, measured steps to me. When he was near, I placed my hands on his hips and drew him closer. As if it was his mouth, I kissed his abdomen, dipping my tongue into his navel. His hands buried in my hair, I heard Peter moan.

I let him distract me for the rest of the day. It was only when the sun began to set again that I returned to my uncle’s apartment.

As soon as I stepped through the doorway, I wished I was back at Peter’s. I shut the door behind me and heard metal clang from the direction of the kitchen. Before I got to my room, my uncle stomped out into the sitting room, halting me with his loud voice.

“You!”

Trying to summon up every positive feeling created when I was with Peter, I stopped my feet and waited for my uncle. He would try to reduce me to nothing more than a scared child, but he would not succeed this evening. My twenty-first birthday was only a few months away, and I was no longer the frightened nine-year-old I once was. He could do nothing to me beyond use empty words to make hollow threats.

I would not let him win this time.

“Do you think you can come and go as you please? You are a
guest
in my house and you have nearly worn out your welcome!” He was close to me now. The stench of his breath and the vitriol of his words curdled the contents of my stomach.

Politeness was the best route. I said, “I apologize. The others and I were swept up in celebration.”

 

His expression was of cool scrutiny. “You and the others?”

To keep my nerves about me, I forced a smile. “The other musicians. We went out dancing with some ladies we—”

“Why would you do something like that, Kurt?
Ladies
do not interest you. You are a degenerate.”

I swallowed hard against the rising bile. Leave it to my uncle to kill all the happiness inside of me. “No,” I denied.

“Please. Your lies are worse than your supposed musical
talent
,” he spat the word. I glanced behind him and saw my aunt pressed against the archway to the dining room. Her eyes were fixed on me. I couldn’t read her expression, but she wasn’t coming to my aid as she sometimes had in the past. My uncle continued, “I saw you watching him all night, your precious Peter Waldenheim. You may think me stupid, but I see it all. You are dangerous and you don’t give a damn about the shame you bring to us.”

Shaking my head, I started, “No, I—”

Even closer now, his voice was louder than ever. “This is how you repay me for everything I’ve done for you. Do I need to remind you that you would
have
nothing and
be
nothing without me? You are an ungrateful pillow-biter and from this moment on, you will remember your place within the family!”

I took a step backward in an attempt to get away from him and closer to my room. Degenerate and pillow-biter were both disparaging terms that let me know exactly how he felt about me, and that he
knew
exactly what I was. Instead of engaging in a conversation about my apparently obvious homosexuality, I chose to highlight the honor I brought to my uncle’s name. “My performance was regarded as brilliant. I was told so by many distinguished guests last night. I’ve only ever tried to—”

“Do you think your
friend
will tolerate your clumsy idiocy for long? He’s using you for his own pleasure, but he’ll dismiss you just like your parents.”

No matter how hard I tried to recall the happiness I knew with my parents and the happiness I knew with Peter, my uncle stole them. With tears in my eyes, I was excused to my room to think about the direction of my life. I desperately wanted to run to Peter, but the only way back outside was through my uncle.

Chapter 9

 

Berkeley, California
1951

C
HRISTMAS
has been a confusing time of year ever since I joined the military. While there was usually some way of marking the day—singing, packages from home, religious services—it was difficult to get into the spirit of it. If you were lucky enough to be looking at gifts from home or listening to the seasonal music of your youth, there was always the chance you’d have to abandon the packages or see one of the singers’ chests blow out from a bullet.

I spent that first Christmas after I got out of the army with Pop, but there was little joy to be had in that visit. We were happy to see each other, but the first thing we did when I got into town was visit my mother’s grave. The earth was still mounded up in front of her headstone, a frozen rose arrangement covering the etched year of her birth. We said nothing. I’d wanted to be alone, but my father never walked away. He just stood there looking down.

Ever since, the holiday has ceased to be anything more than just another day. Today is December twenty-fifth and I am alone. Charles has gone home. There is no one else in my life with whom to share the day. As I drink my coffee on my porch, I realize it’s better this way. I had another dream and woke up early. I wouldn’t be suitable for company anyway.

Still, the idea of having someone tickles my brain. Even if it was someone to have for a short time, like Dominic. But someone to be here for longer than a few hours seems even more appealing than a one-night roll in the hay, as Charles calls it. What I told my friend that night in the bar about not wanting to bring someone else into my mess is still accurate, but a bit of a lie at the same time.

I cannot deny how nice it would be to have someone to wrap my arms around, to make me feel human when all I can see is a monster in the mirror, someone to mute the sounds of war that still echo in my mind. My mother was right. It is a difficult life. If only I could just find comfort and desire in the arms of a woman. There are plenty of them out there, many of whom swoon at the mere thought of a veteran looking for love.

But I can’t be in love with a female, and I refuse to lie to myself that perhaps I ever could. Still, going out to the bar with Charles won’t help me find the man for whom I’m searching. He doesn’t exist in testosterone-filled places such as that bar. I need a quiet man. One who can understand simple human emotions. One who does not try to overpower or lessen those emotions by talking loudly or by use of physical bravado.

My thoughts are as dark and bleak as last night’s dream. I can still smell the carnage and hear the yells and screams of pain. I can still feel the pit in my stomach, and see myself looking for another victim. As if shooting one more German would take away the horrors the striped men suffered. As if killing another one would close the silent wound that had opened.

I can’t help but wonder if I had someone right now, would I let myself weep?

A knock startles me out of my reflections. Blinking, I bring my eyes into focus. The cigarette between my fingers is nothing but ashes, and my coffee is cold. The sun is shining brightly, but I don’t remember it being so high. In fact, it was dark just a moment ago.

Glancing at my watch, I realize it is past eleven. I stand up and drag a hand down my ragged face, hoping that whoever it is at my door will not mind my unkempt appearance. I did not shave yesterday, and I am still wearing the straight khaki pants and undershirt I’d pulled on after my dream. They were the same garments I’d worn yesterday, so as I look down at my body, I realize how livedin they look.

A step toward the door is all I can manage before stopping completely. The small movement brings my visitor into sight, and I am shocked to see Kurt standing on the steps of my porch. For a moment, I just look at him, but then he catches my eyes with his own through the screened window.

I cannot explain this feeling in my chest. It is a tightening around a thousand winged creatures inside, fluttering in something like anticipation. Kurt Klein is at my door. He has come to visit.

Remembering myself, I clear my throat and open the door. “Good morning.” My voice is husky, so I clear my throat again.

He looks down at my feet, but gives me a small nod. I interpret it as his form of salutation. Kurt is holding a paperboard box by a string in one hand and a small bag in the other. He looks so uncomfortable that the feeling immediately transfers to me. Shifting my weight, I realize I will have to lead this exchange.

“Please come in,” I say, stepping to the side.

When he takes a small step in, I seize the opportunity to grab another smoke. It’ll help calm me, and I hope the distance will give him the peace he needs.

“This is,” I say before lighting up. I inhale and then blow out the smoke immediately before continuing, “nice.”

My words are ridiculous. What a thing to say.
This is nice
? I don’t even know why he is here, and beyond that, could I
not
think of better words?

He says something, but I can’t catch it, so I ask him to repeat it. “The Fourniers sent me,” he says louder.

“Well, I’m pleased to see you.” It’s out of my mouth before I can think about it.
Looking a little scared and confused, he hesitates to respond, but then he says, “Thank you. I hope you are well.”
He is not looking into my eyes, but staring at my torso. I have to admit, I begin to hope he likes what he sees; however, when I peek back down at myself, I realize my pants are undone. I’d pulled them on in haste. Embarrassed, I clear my throat once more, hoping he’ll bring his eyes back up as I quickly button and zip my pants.
“Merry Christmas.”
Again, he gives me a short nod of acknowledgment, but does not return the holiday greeting. Instead his quiet voice sounds even quieter as he says, “I enjoy walking.” It seems such an odd thing to say that I cannot think of how to respond. After a moment he says, “They have given me instructions to give these to you.”
I let my eyes travel to his hands. He holds out the box and the bag to me. Fearing that if I simply take them, he’ll leave, I say, “Thank you. That’s very thoughtful,” as I move toward the house. I grab my cold coffee and open the door. “Please come in.”
I can hear the shaky breath he takes and worry he’ll decline my offer, but Kurt surprises me and steps into the foyer of my home. Leading him straight to the kitchen, I wonder if he keeps his gaze on the floor or if he’s looking around.
My Atomic coffeemaker is well used but produces a good cup of joe. I leave him standing behind me as I fill it with water, replace the steam knob, and measure the coffee. Placing it on the burner, I turn on the gas. It takes only a short time before I’m leaning back against the counter, steaming cup in my hands.
Kurt is still standing in the doorway, bag and box in hand. His back is straight, his neck bowed. He doesn’t say anything about having to wait, nor does he mention my failure as a host to offer him a beverage. It bothers me that he remains silent.
“Would you care for coffee, Kurt?”
Finally, he looks up. Our eyes meet only for a moment before he turns his to the stove. “That would be kind. Thank you, Herr Oakes.”
“John,” I remind him as I get another cup down from the cupboard and pour the coffee into it.
“Yohn,” he whispers. The soft German pronunciation of my name brings a smile to my lips.
“Milk or sugar?” I ask before handing him the cup. Kurt shakes his head. I am a son of the Depression and drink my coffee black. There is a tickle of excitement that he does as well. His childhood couldn’t have been much better than mine. The Depression had spread around the world, with Germany feeling quite the pinch because of war reparations.
As I hold the cup to him, I wait. His hands are still full of packages. He looks to me, unsure. “You may put them on the table, Kurt.”
He finally sets his burdens down on the table I never use. When I hand him his coffee, my fingertips brush against his. I wish I could write poetry because I could fill books with the rush I feel at the simple touch.
Pulling his hands away from mine, careful not to spill the coffee, he takes a small step back. I start thinking about all the ways I could find out if he was like me. Some men prefer bold actions or direct questions, but I am sure neither would suit him. However, I’m not sure how he will respond to subtle cues. He doesn’t look at me much, so body language and eye contact are out.
It is inappropriate to think of him like that anyway. While we sip our coffees, I am still concerned about his silence. I purposely behaved poorly and he accepted it.
He is a confusing man.
“So, Kurt, what brings you by?”
I seem to have startled him. Snapping to attention, he moves back to the table and opens the box. “Frau Fournier made tea cookies and asked me to deliver some to you.”
My world feels surreal. The German, who up until recently I thought was a Nazi, is delivering me homemade cookies.
As he stares at the painted tiles behind the stove, his mouth is moving. I strain to hear him. It sounds as though he’s counting. His lips still for a few seconds before he looks straight into my eyes and says, “My uncle was a baker.” The words seem like they come to him unbidden. “I was never good at it.”
Kurt’s words are awkward, but they draw me to him. Stepping closer, I reach out for a cookie. I’m not hungry, but through a mouthful, I smile. “Please tell Flori thank you. They are delicious.”
He steps away, bringing his hands to his head and then back down quickly. The same action as before. Suddenly, he repeats the action. I can no longer help it. I have to ask. “Why do you do that?”