Hidden Away (19 page)
1942
rehearsals, it was increasingly difficult to visit Peter. However, my uncle couldn’t play warden every day, so his home was a prison with a few rare days of freedom mixed in.
As time went on, he began to concern himself less and less with my whereabouts, most likely because I ensured I was home whenever he was. It left most of the morning and some evenings to venture out. My aunt would give me small tasks to complete, providing me a reason to leave the apartment.
I always found my way to Peter’s. I turned twenty-one in February, but spent my birthday alone. It was a week later when I lay in his bed.
“I can’t wait to see your naked body on the beach,” he said as he ran a hand over the taut skin of my abdomen. Peter’s lips were against my shoulder as his body molded around mine. His leg was hitched up over mine, bringing his pelvis snug against my hip. Even after what we’d just done, I could feel him growing aroused.
His reply was quick as his arms tightened around me. “Of course we are. We’d leave today if it was possible.”
I looked away, letting out a deep breath of discontent. I was an idiot child who’d asked a ridiculous question, and my eyes burned with shame and embarrassment. I hated the feeling. Unfortunately, I was well acquainted with it.
The sunlight pushing through the curtains covering the window was bright. It reminded me that the day was growing late, and soon I’d be back in my prison. I began to count the ripples in the heavy fabric of the curtains.
Shaking me a bit, I felt Peter kiss my cheek before bringing his hand up to my chin and turning my face back toward him. “Don’t go away,” he said. Although the grin remained, his brow was furrowed. “I hate when you do that, Kurt. What did I do to make you—”
“Nothing,” I said. There was no reason to get into any of it. I was still so thankful he found pleasure in me. It was not Peter’s fault I asked inane questions and felt immature compared to him.
Rolling onto my side, I faced him. Our lips were only inches apart. “I’m right here.”
Peter kissed me, then bit down gently on my bottom lip as he pulled back. “Thank God for that.”
With those words, my feeling of shame disappeared. He grabbed me in his strong arms and rolled us over until his weight was completely draped on top of me. I wanted to wear him in this way forever. It was in this apartment, within his arms that I felt the most secure, the most loved I’d ever felt.
An hour later, I finally got up out of his bed and began to dress. He tried to dissuade me, but I did not want to have another fight with my uncle. Each time I did, I could see how it affected my aunt. She had been so kind to me. It seemed like a small concession to make in order to keep the peace within the household.
As Peter stood and pulled on his trousers, I stopped buttoning my shirt. The cords of his long muscles tightened and stretched before releasing. Looking at him was like listening to a piece of music previously unknown to me. I was so absorbed by it. It filled me with fresh thoughts and new hopes and desires.
One day he and I would be free of all our obligations to secrecy. We would go to France and live like Bohemians, surrounded by people who shared our love of each other and of music.
“What?” he asked with a laugh. “What is that look?”
Clearing my throat, I felt myself flush at being caught gawking at him. I wanted to tell him how I felt, but how would he respond? How would I tell him? I’d never said
I love you
to anyone other than my parents. What would he say in return? How would I feel if he didn’t have matching sentiments for me? What would I do if I said it to him, but he was only interested in our physical relationship? Would I be able to survive that?
I looked up when I felt his hands on my shoulders. He’d crossed the room to me. “Kurt?”
It was now or never, and the thought of never expressing how I felt about him seemed like a life sentence in hell. “I love… I love our time together.”
Pressing me back against the window, he put his lips against my neck, his hands moving to the fly of my trousers. The cold seeping through the curtain sent a shiver through me. I wanted to stay in his apartment, but I knew I had to be going. I wrapped my fingers around his wrists and gently tugged his hands away. “Peter!” I laughed.
When I could trust him again, I let go. He slid his hands around the small of my back and brought me into him. “I feel the same about our time together,” Peter whispered, “but more than that, I love
you
.”
relationship grew after we shared our feelings. While it was still a bit stunted by my uncle, I always found time to visit him at least once or twice a week. Always wanting more, but pleased at what I had, I found solace in his arms and in his bed. I lingered in his apartment longer and longer, not wanting to leave.
A part of me did not care what my uncle had to say about my time away from his home. I was old enough to find my own apartment, but without steady work, I lacked the funds to do so.
One evening I was late returning and my uncle’s explosive ire struck fear within me. Unable to visit Peter for over a week, I was so starved for his touch that I stayed too long and returned home well after dinner again. My uncle threatened to kick me out. Silently, I hoped he would. It would force me to be out on my own, but really, I knew it would take me straight to Peter.
“How about I take you to Germany with me?” My tired mind slowly acknowledged my lover’s voice, and for a moment, I felt light as air. Going to Germany with Peter would be grand.
Peter rested his hand on my hip, digging the tips of his fingers gently into my flesh as he pulled me closer. “I’m a wanted man, Kurt. I have to play in Munich at the end of March.”
We’d never spoken of them, so I wasn’t surprised that he widened his eyes and waited for me to elaborate. I didn’t know what to say. Speaking of them was difficult, especially now that my aunt had given me the news that my father was near death. Seeing him again would be a pleasure, even if it was only to say goodbye.
When I didn’t continue, Peter said, “So are a bunch of Nazi pricks who love Mozart, Beethoven, and Wagner.”
His voice was devoid of enjoyment. It was easy to tell how dull he found the whole thing. I worried that having to play the same music over and over again would kill the creative spirit within him.
Laughing, he pulled me back down so I was draped over his chest. He lazily threaded his hands through my hair. “My compositions are atonal. Those pieces are, like most beautiful things, forbidden.”
I hated the despair in his voice. “The ban won’t last forever.” Nestling against his chest as I felt his lips press against the top of my head, I asked, “Would you really take me to Munich with you?”
Peter bucked his chest up, forcing me to brace myself on my arms and look down at him again. “Must you ask?”
Opening my mouth to defend, I found I had no words. I
did
have to ask. It was an entirely new sensation to be wanted.
“I
love
you, Kurt. Of course I’ll take you to Munich with me. We’ll be a travelling act. Violin and piano, weaving our way through the Reich until the war is over and we can retire to France.” Moving up, he kissed me, one hand burying in my hair again to hold me close.
He was sleeping when I left. Kissing him on the forehead, I murmured my love before tracing his lips with my index finger.
Uncle was angry—so angry he wouldn’t speak. It made for a quiet night of high tension. I was stuck in the apartment for the entire next day. That evening during dinner, the air around me was quite stressed. My uncle was silent and my aunt tried to fill the void with chitchat.
Before our dessert of Kaiserschmarr'n and coffee, there was a knock at the front door. It was a shame. The sweet pancake with dried fruit made in one of my uncle’s bakeries was my aunt’s favorite and would be the highlight of my day.
Aunt Anja rose and left the room. A moment later, I heard an unfamiliar male voice. “Kurt Klein, bitte.”
Fear struck me. We rarely had unannounced visitors, and when we did, they were never for me. I looked to my uncle. He sipped his freshly poured coffee as I slowly pushed back my chair.
At the door, a man in uniform stood straight backed while my aunt fidgeted. “Kurt Klein,” he said again as I came into view.
He held out an envelope. I was slow to take it, but when I did, he nodded to my aunt, turned on his heels, and left.
After some time, she took the envelope from me. I heard the rip of the paper, but my eyes stayed fixed on the closed door. My already tensed muscles tightened even more when she read it to me. I was to go to the Headquarters first thing tomorrow.
I could not answer my aunt’s question. I would not know what they wanted until I went to the SS Headquarters. Feeling utterly sick and worried, I retired to my room without any other words passing.
The urge to run to Peter was strong, but unless I was going to drop from my window in secret, I couldn’t see how it was possible.
I couldn’t sleep. The night was long and difficult to get through. Finally, I convinced myself that the SS in Vienna wanted to stage some kind of musical event and perhaps Peter was correct in thinking I was one of the most talented Austria had to offer. They were merely going to invite me to play. Perhaps for someone very important.
Still, my sleep was fitful. When I awoke, I cleaned myself as usual, selected my finest suit, and sat down for the morning meal with my aunt. She was nervous herself, and would not talk to me beyond small words. I barely ate. My stomach was in knots.
When I could delay it no longer, I moved to the door, Aunt Anja close behind. “You’ll return soon?” she asked.
I nodded, but knew after meeting with the SS I would want to take the opportunity to visit my lover and gain comfort in Peter’s strong arms.
Sensing her distress, I pushed a smile onto my face. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Perhaps just an invitation to give a recital.”
I leaned down and kissed her cheek. I turned to the door and didn’t look at her again. My heart was already clenched in terror. I’d never known anyone to be summoned by the SS, but I’d heard they did this quite often. Peter and his friends spoke of homosexual men being taken by the SS and never seen again.
As I walked the streets of my adopted town, I told myself that I wasn’t just a homosexual man. I was a talented German. No one knew I was homosexual. I was never blatant about anything, and until recently, I’d never been homosexual in practice, only in feeling. No one could know my feelings.
When I checked in at the SS Headquarters, I was immediately taken through complex hallways. The large man in uniform kept a short distance from me. He could have been attractive as he was tall and well built, but I never saw his face. I was too taken by the gun on his hip. With every step, his elbow grazed it, and with every brush, the holstered weapon shifted by mere centimeters.
To keep my breathing under control, I thought about Peter. His hands and his mouth, his violin and my piano. I heard his singing voice in my mind, and it calmed me. He liked to sing after making love. Often, I would wake to the soft strains of his melodies. Sometimes they would be songs I knew, but others were entirely comprised of notes he’d just strung together.
The guard stopped and motioned toward an open door. I was meant to go through it, but I just stared at it, unable to convince myself that nothing was wrong. Inside a nest of homosexual-hating SS, standing close to a uniformed man with a gun, staring at a door that led to situations unknown, my knees shook. My throat was dry, and I struggled to swallow against it. I could feel the tears stinging my eyes.
A quick shove to my shoulder propelled me through the doorway. Inside, I stood straight. Without looking, I knew the guard had taken a spot directly behind me, right outside the door. I could only manage short breaths, and feared passing out.
I was in an office kept clean and neat by someone who must have prided himself on order. A balding man worked behind the desk. I didn’t know what I needed to do, so I simply stood there. It seemed like hours before he acknowledged my presence. He looked up. His face was not unkind, and my mind conjured up some fictitious warm image of him somewhere in Bavaria with fat grandchildren on his knee.
The man shuffled a few pieces of paper around, picked one up, scanned it quickly, then let it fall back down to the desk, never looking at me. “You are a degenerate.”
He laughed. “A
good German
in the Ostmark. Interesting.” The man still didn’t look at me. “But you’re queer, no?”
If I’d thought I was frightened last night or walking to this office, I was wrong. At the sound of his voice, accusing me of homosexuality, pure and true terror seized me. It took every ounce of energy I had to keep myself upright.
My voice had gone.
“Who are your lovers?”
I had only one lover, and I would never speak his name in a place like this. I would rather die than bring harm to Peter. I shook my head and kept my eyes pinned to the ground. My already racing heart sped up at the sound of wood scraping against the floor. Footsteps came toward me. Instinctively, I stepped back, but my movement was halted by the guard behind me.