Hidden Away (11 page)
The professor gives me a small smile as he nods his hello. I remain quiet, not sure what I should do. Apparently, I’ve scared the German enough, and now that I’m inside his comfort zone, I don’t want to inflict any more damage. The domesticity of the Fournier household confirms what the professor told me the previous night.
Kurt Klein is not a Nazi. A Nazi has no place in a home as cozy and soothing such as this, and I refuse to believe that these kind people would house a monster, especially with a young child. It is obvious they trust him, and it is plain to see that the girl loves him as an uncle.
When Kurt looks up, I do my best to appear friendly and nonthreatening. I ease a grin onto my face and hope it is enough to help him relax. The first thing I notice about Kurt, now that he is out of his work coveralls, and in a warm setting, is how delicate he looks. It isn’t that he looks feeble or frail. He just looks as though a strong wind from the Pacific could knock him over.
His neat dress slacks are a little too big for his frame, but the black cardigan sweater fits nicely, although the bulk of it seems to dwarf him. He looks a bit like a child in his father’s clothing. The cocktail has made me feel better about being here, but the sight of Kurt looking young and slightly fragile hits me in the stomach.
I can see now why Professor Fournier has taken up the duty to protect him. He looks as though he needs it.
“Good evening, Mr. Klein.” I flick my eyes over to the professor and add, “Professor Fournier.”
All attention is on the German once more as he audibly draws in a deep breath of air. His eyes are striking. They are a pale, icy blue, but they do not cut the way one would suppose. In combat, I would come face to face with eyes as blue as those, but Kurt’s do not have the same edge. They are not dull, but they hold no malice in them.
He says something, but it is too quiet for me to hear, so I look to Jules. “He is not used to anyone using his proper last name and would like for you to address him as Kurt.”
“Fair enough,” I say. When no one makes a move, I take another drink and remember my manners. “Mrs. Fournier was kind enough to give me permission to mix a drink. Could I make one for either of you?”
Before they answer, Flori saves us all from more awkwardness. She waltzes between us, a platter of food in her hands, a daughter trailing closely behind. “Mr. Oakes, if you wouldn’t mind pouring the wine.”
As she finishes placing the meal on the table, I pour four glasses of a deep red wine, then bring them to the table. The other men and the girl are already seated. Kurt seems to cower slightly when I place the glass in front of him. I train my gaze on the professor, who seems lost in study of Kurt.
Mrs. Fournier refers to the food as a cassoulet. To me, it seems like a thick stew of sorts. When I tell her how much I’m enjoying it, she smiles at me and says, “It’s one of Kurt’s favorites.”
They do this many times during the meal. Both Professor and Mrs. Fournier mention things about Kurt, as if to draw my attention to him, but it is unnecessary. I can’t take my focus off of him. He never looks up when his name is spoken. He never takes a sip of his wine, and he eats very little.
While I speak or listen to the professor, I examine Kurt. It’s the closest I’ve been to him, and now, I can see all the small lines in his face. He is not old, and cannot be much older than I am, but there are indications of a hard existence on his skin. Apart from the beginnings of small wrinkles on the edges of his eyes and lips, and beyond the small imperfections of the skin that come with age, there are small scars, almost invisible, that adorn his angular jaw.
My own scars are concealed, but if they were visible, I am willing to wager that most people would be too polite to ask about them. Just as I wonder if the scars along Kurt’s jaw are a part of his experiences of war, Jules asks about my own wartime experience.
I finish my wine in an inappropriate gulp. Although my eyes are fixed on Jules, I can see that Kurt is finally looking up. I know looking directly at him will cause him to look away, so I squelch the impulse, but I enjoy the prickly feeling of having his gaze on me. I want him to see I pose no threat to him. I want him to see me—into the heart of me—so that he might willingly allow me to figure him out.
Smiling politely, I answer Jules. “I fear much of it is inappropriate dinner conversation, especially with ladies present.”
“My wife is an educated woman, Mr. Oakes, and Adéle is busy making a masterpiece with her potatoes.”
I glance at the child, who is forming the side dish into an abstract sculpture. “All the same, I can’t talk about Dachau without a cigarette.”
With my words, I hold everyone’s attention except for Adéle’s. Even Mrs. Fournier is staring at me. I worry that I have said something completely inappropriate as no one moves a muscle, but when Jules clears his throat and pushes his chair away from the table, the silence is broken.
“We’ll have coffee in the sitting room,” he says as he stands up. I follow suit. He stops before moving through the French doors. Turning, he fixes his gaze on the German, who is now carefully considering the remains of his dinner on the white china plate. “Please join us, Kurt.”
While he hesitates, Kurt finally pushes back from the table and rises. Jules places a hand on my back, between the blades of my shoulders, silently guiding me into the sitting room as Kurt slowly moves toward us. I settle into an armchair in the corner of the room while the other men sit on opposite ends of the couch.
I wait for Jules to light a cigarette before I do. Kurt looks as uncomfortable as ever, his hands flat on his thighs. He does not smoke, but he accepts a cup of coffee when Flori offers him one. I do as well, feeling pacified by the familiarity of the cigarette and warm beverage. The only thing missing is the cool night.
When the lady exits the room, we sit in silence for a minute or two, until Jules turns to me. “I’m eager to hear about your exploits overseas, John.”
Exploits seems like the wrong word to use, making it seem far grander than what it was. “What would you like to know?”
He presses back into the sofa, not relaxing so much as settling in. “I was a part of the French resistance and find others’ tales of war to be interesting. You mentioned Dachau tonight. Last night, you mentioned liberating a camp. Could you expand upon that experience?”
The way he asked strikes me strange. I can see that Kurt is neither settled nor relaxed. I think perhaps I can detect a slight tremble as he holds his coffee cup, but I can’t hear the cup clinking against the saucer, so I must be mistaken in that.
Jules doesn’t let me get away with such avoidance. “For those who do not have the experience you do, the impression is that there is plenty of which to speak.”
“What would you like to know?” I ask. I follow the professor’s gaze to Kurt, who is still sitting stiffly, looking at the rug.
I snub out my cigarette and immediately light another. Sweat is rising on my brow. There is a hum that emanates somewhere in my chest and fills my head with a vibration that is swiftly becoming intolerable. I don’t think I can do this. I don’t
want
to do this. I want to leave now, but I cannot. This man has offered me a nice meal, and it would be rude to repay his polite kindness with silence.
I start at what is really the end. I don’t speak of seeing the train with the bodies falling out of it, the death contained within. I don’t speak of the SS garrison, or the camp proper. I don’t speak of the firing, the hands in the air, the screaming, the walking skeletons, the stiff corpses, the smell of it all. Instead, I tell of the growing debate on which regiment actually liberated the camp at Dachau.
“There is a bit of a struggle between my division, the 45th division—the Thunderbirds— and the 42nd infantry division. It’s said that they are the ones who liberated Dachau, but the truth is that it was my combat unit that did. The 42nd was there, but they didn’t show up until after. Some of my buddies and I think they’re just trying to steal the glory.” I have to push out the words as they stick in my throat. There was no glory to be had that day, and if there was, my unit and my company forfeited it as soon as the firing began.
Ready to continue, my mouth snaps closed as Kurt finally looks at me, his eyes narrowed. “That is what you and your friends speak of? This is the main conversation you have? Who entered first? Not about the people inside the camp?” His voice is firm and loud. It causes me to tense even further. “It isn’t about the horrors inside the walls? You care about to whom history gives the credit? Do you even remark about the poor souls you
?”
I focus for a moment on the thin lines of Kurt’s face. He looks in need of someone to stroke his cheek and alleviate the troubles that are so apparent in his expression.
Shaking my head, I try to ignore the tickling sense of longing deep within my chest. I may very well be simply projecting my own hidden want of comfort onto this man I don’t know. Still, I feel some kind of connection between us, some kind of kinship based on anxiety and distress.
I push it away as an inappropriate thought. I’ve obviously struck upon some passion of the German. Now that he’s finally spoken, I feel it is my duty to give him an answer. “We don’t speak of them, no.” I pause, taking a long pull from my smoke, letting my eyes fall on my empty coffee cup. When I look back up, I bring my eyes to meet the pale blue staring at me. “But I don’t forget them, either.”
He looks intently at me for ages, his fingers picking at the long, flat scar on his forearm. I shift in my seat, want another drag of my cigarette, but don’t bring it to my lips. His eyes are intense, like they feel in my dream. There is so much housed within them. I begin to squirm a bit, as if he’s challenging me—accusing me.
Perhaps he is. Perhaps he’d like to hurt me, or frighten me the way the professor says I frighten him.
He visibly swallows, then turns his head away from me. While a part of me hates to lose his attention, another part of me is grateful to be out from under the weight of his stare. It feels like a relief when the evening ends and Jules walks me to my truck.
Kurt had nothing more to say, but the few words he did speak leave me uneasy. “I feel like I said something wrong,” I admit to the professor.
He claps me gently on the shoulder, then lets his hand fall away again. “You said nothing wrong.”
“It’s late, John. Thank you for sharing a meal with us. We are all that Kurt has. It’s good for him to see that others are not always out to hurt him.”
It might be the whiskey, the wine, the cigarettes, and the coffee that make my head begin to ache, but I think it is my utter confusion at this whole situation. “What is—”
“I appreciate that you came into my house in kindness, and were gentle with him.” Gentle? Gentle with Kurt? The whole night has my head spinning. I have so many questions and too few answers. “Goodnight, Mr. Oakes,” Jules says with a subtle smile.
As I drive home, there is so much of the awkward evening to consider. There is something right in front of me that I can’t quite figure out. Something about Kurt, about his French “brother.”
I return home to my empty house and stare miserably at my bed and wonder if tonight I’ll be blessed with a dreamless sleep.
Vienna, Austria1941
“D
ON
’
T
be so lifeless, Kurt.”
Looking up, I stilled my fingers and bit the inside of my cheek. Peter stood at the end of the piano, his violin at his side. It only took a moment before I was staring back at the keys. “I’m trying,” I said.
Just playing music for fun had turned into an evening of him being as brilliant as ever and me fumbling around as if it was my first time at a piano.
So easy for him to say. He dripped talent, and I scrambled to soak just a little up in order to disguise my inferiority. I must have let out an involuntary sound of frustration because Peter’s voice was serious. He’d moved closer to me, so his words, his tone, his whole presence seemed much too close. “This is
music
. It should fill your soul until it bubbles out.”
I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes, then dragged them down my face. Many musicians I’d worked with conveyed this same sentiment to me time and time again. I wanted it to be the way it worked for me, but it didn’t seem to be the case. It was the reason why my compositions stayed hidden in my room.
Sighing, I cracked my knuckles and placed my fingers back on the keys. I started over. The song was simple enough; all I had to do was keep focused on it. I knew where the piece went—what would be coming up, when Peter’s violin would come in. It was foolish to think for a moment that I was doing better. Peter interrupted, “Stop
thinking
about playing, and just
play
.”