Hidden Away (42 page)
1965
years ago I would have never believed that I would voluntarily come back to Europe, but things change. What once was a source of pain and absolute confusion is now so deeply etched in memory that to revisit places brings soothing comfort. A lot of guys I know have taken or are planning their own personal pilgrimages. Many went or will go alone, some with their wives, a few with their children.
I’m here with Kurt. In the fourteen years I’ve known him, he’s managed to push himself beyond what he thought were his limits. He’s done this for me, and has helped usher me past my own carefully constructed walls built to lessen the pain of my memories.
The idea came to me gradually, but it was when Kurt broke the glass he’d been holding that I sprung into action. He had been reading the paper when he went still. The glass of orange juice slipped from his right hand, but the paper remained clutched in his left.
Of course I was concerned, so I gathered him in my arms and pulled him tight to me. He wouldn’t look at me, so I removed the paper and read the article. It was about a man, twenty-four years old, who had played at one of the concert halls on campus the previous week.
I studied him, then looked at the photograph of the young violinist named Benjamin Frei. The article said he was from Berlin. We’d spoken about Peter Waldenheim enough for me to know his hometown without asking. “It’s not Peter.”
After that, I hired a private investigator to track down Mr. Frei, and the revelation that he was the nephew of Kurt’s old lover was the deciding factor on taking this trip.
Benjamin Frei was playing in the Golden Hall, which, from Kurt’s stories, was where he met Peter for the first time.
I turn to Kurt and give him a smile, wishing I could touch his cheek. Homosexuality is still illegal here in Austria, but even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be able to display our love publicly. He is still very protective. The wounds of the past are still present, and I know his caution will never waver.
“Please stop. There is nothing
queer
about you or Peter. People like us aren’t odd or strange, so stop using that word.”
“What if he’s always wondered about his uncle? What if the truth has been kept from him? What if he simply wants to know that he got his musical talent from his mother’s brother? Wouldn’t you want something as special as what you’re going to give him?”
Without anything further, I follow him backstage. When we are close to the young man, Kurt clears his throat, and when Benjamin turns around, Kurt is frozen in place. It doesn’t last for long though.
My understanding of German has gotten even better over the years, so I am able to keep up with the conversation when it starts.
“My mother said he died in a camp.” “He did.”
I think he’s asking if Kurt and Peter were lovers, but I’m not sure. Kurt answers, “Very well.” He holds up the case in his hands. “This was his. I have brought it for you.”
“Yes. He loved it. In the evenings he would hide it under a floorboard in his apartment.” I hate the tears that well in Kurt’s eyes as he recalls this fact, but I know they’re necessary. “He would place it in the spot as if it was the most precious item in the world, and before he covered it, he wished it goodnight as if it was a human.”
“I do the same thing at night with mine,” Ben says. “I don’t hide it, but I run my hand over it and express my gratitude that it is with me.”
This brings a smile to Kurt’s face. I suspect it is this young man’s reverence that compels Kurt to continue. “When I was released from the camp, I thought about the violin and wondered if it was still secure in its hiding place. As soon as I was healthy enough, I went to the apartment. The same neighbors occupied the place next to his, and I was able to get in. I lifted the floorboard, and it was like I freed Peter along with the violin.”
Kurt takes a step back, as if finally letting go of the cherished instrument. “He told me once that music fills you, warms you, and loves you like you’ve never been before.”
With another step back, Kurt is next to me. “It will always be special to me, but it is time to free myself from the weight of the past. Peter spoke of music, but I have found something else. I think he would like it to make music again.”
“You look so very much like him,” Kurt says, unable to hide the emotion in his voice. “I wish you continued success, and that you may complete the career he began long ago.”
As we walk away, neither speaks. There will be more difficult moments on this journey and in our lives together, but I am filled with confidence that we will be able to meet each challenge headon, as warriors and lovers.
Dachau, Germany1965
though I can’t believe I’m so near to the gates of a camp again, I walk toward it without hesitation. I would never come here on my own, but John needs to be here. He needs to find solace from the demons that haunt him, and find forgiveness for the sins he feels he committed so many years ago. He writes and writes to free himself, first in the blank book Jules and Flori gifted him years ago, then on any paper he could find. While he finds comfort in his written story of distant lands and surrendering soldiers, it has not completely healed him. Perhaps revisiting this place will do it.
He has supported me through many painful moments, such as the one in Vienna when I gave Peter’s beloved violin to his nephew. My body actually ached when I handed it to him, but just as I freed the violin from its prison beneath the floor, by giving the instrument to Peter’s heir, I freed myself from the guilt and sorrow of losing my lover to the concentration camp.
Through his nephew’s long, nimble fingers, the violin will sing again, and Peter’s music will be alive once more.
Now, on this leg of our journey, it is time for me to support John. While I still have nightmares about what happened inside Mauthausen, he still wakes up from time to time in a cold sweat, sick from the dreams of Dachau.
The trains to the old SS garrison have stopped running, but when we reach where John said the boxcar of dead prisoners had been, I can tell he is right back in 1945, seeing the faces of those poor, poor people.
John has not had a drop of whiskey in nine years, but the way he’s shaking leaves no question about whether he would drink now if it was in front of him.
This journey to the epicenter of our joint sorrow and pain was his idea. The psychologist at the Veterans Affairs hospital has worked with John for so long—attempting to show him there is only one way out of the darkness. It doesn’t come from finding love, or embracing the past. It comes from forgiveness.
This is the last step in John’s long road to forgiving himself.
I touch his shoulder, then nod toward the camp. “It’s time.”
“I can’t,” he says.
“If I can, you can.”
“You didn’t kill any—”
I know why he doesn’t finish his statement, because he’s remembered that I have killed, just under different circumstances. “John, you are strong. You can do this.” Glancing behind me, I see the surrounding walls, and while they give me chills, I say, “There is nothing inside there that you haven’t already faced. It is empty.”
“No, it’s not empty. You know that.”
I nod. I can already feel the ghosts. “But perhaps inside you’ll find the peace you need.”
“I’ve already found the peace I need,” he says, giving me a smile to let me know he means me. He always finds ways to tell me how he feels.
“That may be, but you need to close the wound you gave yourself here.” I tap his chest, then point back to the walls. When he doesn’t move, I turn back toward the road. “Let’s go.”
To be honest, a large part of me is happy not to go any closer. While it isn’t my camp, I know what happened in there. I’ve been willing to go for John, but if I had my choice, all of these places would be bombed until there was nothing left but chunks of rock. Then, all of the rubble would be hammered down into a fine powder, leaving no physical memory of such inhumanity.
I stop, turn around, and give him a sympathetic look. “If we’re not going in, we’ll have more time in Munich. I’d like to see my home again, and since you don’t seem as though you can do this—”
The stiff resolve I hear in his voice pushes up the corners of my mouth. John loves challenges, especially issued by me. He only stopped drinking because I mentioned that perhaps he
couldn’t
stop.
With slow, measured steps, I move to him, wishing this was the type of society in which I could simply hold his hand. His eyes lock with mine, and I’m struck with just how deep my feelings are for him. Everything around us fades until we are the only beings in the world. We’re no longer standing at the dormant gates of Hell. We’re standing at the brink of forever, ready to take that last step together.
“I’ve seen you cry like a baby before.” “What if the dreams start again?”
“Then I’ll wake you up,” I say.
“What if this makes me start drinking again?” “I’ll take the bottle from your hands.” “What if—”
“What if you never do this,” I interrupt, “and the faces of those men haunt you for the rest of your days?”
John looks down at his feet, then over to the gate. We begin to walk, side by side, and when we’re under the stone archway, staring at the iron gate with the small door in the middle, my muscles tighten, and I hear him take in a deep breath.
As we step through the doorway, so close our shoulders are pressed together, I get the sense that we both understand this brief sojourn into the past is the only avenue to the future.
We move to the side, letting anyone behind us pass. After a minute, I feel him take my left hand in his right. Although I am still not comfortable with these types of public affection, I accept it. There are other veterans here, clutching the hands of other men, family members, war brothers, sons. Nothing about us sets us apart today.
Soon we’ll embark on our exploration, and I hope that in confronting that day, it brings John the freedom he needs, but for now—for this moment— we are content to stand together, hands linked, no longer hidden away.
stories of the men who wore the pink triangle are all but lost. While there are a few accounts of what these men suffered at the hands of the Nazis, most men understandably did not identify themselves after release. Homosexuality continued to be a crime after the fall of the Nazi regime, and many men weren’t released after the camps were closed. They were sent to prison to finish out their punishment for their “crimes.”
I have tried to be as historically accurate and sensitive as possible. As a lifelong lover of history and the holder of a shiny history degree, it was important for me to research this topic as much as possible. What I found was not a wealth of stories, but rather a wealth of respect for these men who suffered so much. Unfortunately, these men are barely mentioned in history classes all over the world, even inside the walls of the former camps.
When I was fifteen years old, I visited Dachau with a group of students. The normally rambunctious group instantly grew quiet as we stepped through the gates which read “Arbeit macht frei” (Work makes you free). There is just a different kind of energy within those walls.
We were shown the horrible film in which skeletal men walked, worked, and suffered. Then we were led through the camp. The film mentioned homosexuals and Jehovah’s Witnesses among the political prisoners (Jewish prisoners were not predominant at Dachau), but other than that, the thought that the Holocaust included more than just Jews was lost on me.
It is a great shame that we don’t teach the history of all people—not to diminish the history of others, but to make sure we always remember what hatred can do to us all.
I hope I have done these men some form of justice within the pages of this novel. I took great effort not to sensationalize or exploit the sensitive topics; however, the brutality of Kurt’s situation needed to be shown in order to fully grasp the depths of his despair.
