Hidden Away (13 page)

I was lost inside his deep blue eyes. It felt as though I was flying. Time seemed to stop, but I wasn’t frozen. I was energized. Bringing my fingers to the keys, I kept my gaze on him. I didn’t want to stop looking at him, so I played a simple Mozart piece, never taking my eyes from him. It was mere notes strung together, but it could’ve been a symphony for all I cared about it.

His lips moved, but only a whisper could be heard. Involuntarily, I leaned closer to him in an attempt to make out his words.

They were more than words. They were a poem. Lyrics. His voice carried the tune, and the tune penetrated me. I could feel his soft song drench me. My skin soaked it up, my blood carried it to every part of my body, my cells used it for energy, and it was transformed into life within me.

“You sing too?” was my whispered question. “Is there anything you
can’t
do?”

Peter stayed silent for a few moments, and then he answered, “I have a hard time making you smile.”

“I smile on the inside,” I replied.

 

“In silence.” He placed one hand on my thigh. “Where the world can’t see.”

I could’ve stared at him forever, but he looked to the keys, then placed his fingers on them. He began to play the piece I’d been playing. Mozart’s Piano Concerto no. 27. At first, it was simple, just as Mozart had intended; then he allowed the complexities of it to shine through. I sat in awe, impressed at the very personification of talent.

“You can do everything,” I said.

Peter kept up the music, but shrugged. “I was born this way.” He bent toward me, nudging me with his shoulder. “Play with me, Kurt Klein. You were born for this too.”

We played until the piece ended, then we continued. I knew it was growing late, and I knew I needed to return home. Just as I was turning to tell my friend this, Peter leaned toward me. He pressed his lips to mine. His hands moved to my body, one cupping my face, the other on the outside of my thigh.

The sensations were incredible. It felt like the applause after a fantastic recital. It was like the feel of a hot bath after a good meal. I wished it could’ve lasted a whole lifetime, and yet when it ended, I wasn’t sad. My heart and mind soared from the lingering touch. I exhaled, the breath hitching in the middle. I leaned forward in search of more, but it was his thumb against my lips I felt instead.

“Look at me,” he said, and I complied. He didn’t move, and I didn’t dare to. Instead, his eyes danced, twinkling like the sun on water. Finally, he brought his face to mine and gave me another delightful caress of his lips.

When he pulled back, his breath tickled my face. His hand was still on my cheek. “Look at you blush.”

Embarrassed, I lowered my eyes. He tilted my head back up. “No, don’t hide,” he said. “I like it.”

Happiness burst inside of me. Nothing mattered to me beyond Peter’s eyes, lips, and this place. I felt so right here. His hands on my skin made me no longer feel like an outsider. They made me feel a part of something.
He
made me feel like I belonged.

“Oh, my,” he said. My attention snapped into focus, but then softened when he asked, “Is that a smile, Kurt?” My temperature rose. “It’s wonderful.”

My instincts told me to look away, but my heart told me to keep my eyes on him as I said, “You’re wonderful.”

I stayed for another half hour. No more kissing happened, but he kept touching me. I walked home on a cloud. Not even my uncle’s scrutiny brought me down. I answered his question, giving him the information he sought, then retired to my room, where I pondered the energizing touch of another human being, and the hope that now resided inside my heart.

The next morning, I couldn’t wait for rehearsals to start. My uncle was gone from the apartment early, checking on his bakery near Saint Stephen’s Cathedral, so the morning felt light and free.

Once I got to the Musikverein, I couldn’t take my eyes off of Peter. My lips tingled every time I thought of our kiss. I had to work hard to keep my playing up to standard, but I did it. For his part, Peter didn’t look at me much. When he did, it was quick. Still, I could see the very edges of his mouth turn up. A glance at Leo revealed the violist knew what was going on. He never missed a note, even though he kept his eyes constant on the two of us. Once when I looked over at him, his eyes connected with mine. Leo’s smirk was enough to tell me he saw through our careful distance.

The others seemed unaware.

After our session had ended, Marcel and Steffen hurried to the night club, while Leo, Peter, and I walked much slower. I thought we’d go in, but before we could, the same ladies as the night before strolled over to us. With one on his arm, and the other woman on mine, Peter led us straight back to his place.

Alcohol was poured; cigarettes were smoked by all except me. My stomach did a somersault each time Peter looked in my direction. I was eager for the others to leave because I wanted another chance to feel his lips against mine, to be able to experience more of him. The layer of fright was still there, covering the larger desire to give myself over to him, but I had more confidence this evening. Perhaps it wasn’t confidence, exactly. Perhaps it was more like
need
. I would be twentyone in a few short months, and there was so much I hadn’t been allowed to experience.

I wanted the sensations to wash over me again. They were sensations only Peter could create.

Two hours passed in his spacious apartment before the women left via the secret passage. A shiver of anticipation ran through me. We were almost alone.

While Leo and Peter chatted, I imagined myself being touched by Peter’s elegant, long fingers. Just his fingertips against the skin of my cheek would set the tone of our time together. My eyes would close as I felt his index finger run down the slope of my nose. He would let them dance over my throat, then down across my collar bone. I would have to bite my lip in order to contain the involuntary laughter they would produce as they glided down the sides of my torso. Peter would dip one of his fingers into my navel while the others just barely touched the taut skin of my abdomen. From there, it was only a bit lower until—

“Have you not heard much of it?”

I blinked. Leo was looking at me, obviously directing his previous question to me. Mentally shaking out of my fantasy, I trained my eyes on Leo and focused my thoughts on the present. “Heard what?”

There was a laugh in his voice—as if my confusion was amusing—when he said, “The music banned by the National Socialist Party.”

I looked to Peter, whose eyes twinkled at me. He licked his lips, then brought the short glass filled with amber liquid to them.

“No,” I answered. “They don’t teach them in —”

“Obviously,” Leo interrupted, which earned him an annoyed look from Peter. “I suspect it was Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert. Am I correct? Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert. Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert.”

Peter laughed. “Don’t forget Wagner.” Leo rolled his eyes in an exaggerated fashion. “Boring!”

Peter took my attention when he stood up and moved to the gramophone in the corner. He took a record from its sleeve and put it in place. “This is what the Nazis won’t let us play,” he said quietly.

He stood there swirling his alcohol in the glass as music softly filled the air. It began with a low piano, and then such hauntingly beautiful strings came in. The music was soothing for a short moment until the true nature of the piece was revealed. The underlying intensity forced me to sit up straight in my chair and contemplate the music.

“Who wrote this?” I asked.
Leo answered. “Gustav Mahler.”
Peter’s eyes were still closed as he listened.

The music floated inside the apartment, but questions floated inside my mind. “Why would anyone ban something as beautiful as this?”

It was at my spoken question that Peter’s eyes opened. “He’s a Jew.”
We were silent until the movement was over. I felt as though I shouldn’t speak, as though I didn’t dare move. Leo lit another cigarette as Peter changed the record.
“This is Mendelssohn,” he said as he placed the needle down onto the dark record. “Also a Jew. His family rejected the religion, but he had a love of his heritage, and so, he is a forbidden composer. This is his violin concerto.”
Again, we listened in silence, but I watched as Peter picked up his violin, leaving his bow rest against the empty case. He mimicked playing, acting as though the sound was coming from him. It was fascinating to watch. I wished he was actually playing the beautiful music.
When the concerto ended, he took a deep breath and laid the violin down. “How I long to be in England where I could play all the masters!” With his eyes connected to mine, he smiled. “No, France. I would sun myself naked on the beaches of the Mediterranean Sea every day, then play all of the banned music at night before making love to whomever I please.”
My breath caught. The thought of making love caused an incredible stir within me. I looked away, first to my hands resting in my lap, and then to Leo.
Peter said, “It’s late. You best get going, my friend.”
I looked up, worried that he was asking me to leave, but he was looking at Leo.
I said goodnight to the other man, but was too distracted to listen to his parting words. When we were alone, I watched with searing nerves in my belly as Peter replaced his violin in its case. “Come,” he said.
I followed him into the bedroom, my legs buckling along the way. He moved to the large oak wardrobe and knelt, pulled up a loose floorboard, then fitted the violin case down into the hollow space below. After he’d replaced the wood, he turned to me. “For safe keeping.”
Peter rose and crossed the distance between us. Just as I had imagined earlier, his fingers trailed over my cheek. “You would love France,” he whispered. It took me a moment to connect his words to the desire he expressed earlier. “France would love you.”
Letting out a breath, I gave him a smile, yet couldn’t find the voice or the words to speak. Everything inside of me vibrated with the intense hum his proximity created within me. I wanted to tell him I would run to France right now. I wanted to tell him that when we had the chance, I would go there with him to lie on the beach all day and make music and love in the evening.

The chance of telling him any of that was gone the moment he put his lips on mine. His chest pressed against my chest as his hand curved gently against the back of my neck. I stumbled, but found support against the wall. All the while, he never stopped kissing me.

He moved his free hand over my arms, down to my belly. As he lowered his touch more, I found I was unable to think straight. The feeling of his warm palm cupping me in the most private of places drove me wild. I had no time to think about my fears or inhibitions. When he pulled his mouth from mine, my chest rose up, trying to regain the pressure of his.

“Now that we’ve conquered your first kiss the other night,” he began as he lowered himself to his knees before me.

I rolled my eyes up toward the ceiling. Peter on his knees, his hands unbuttoning my trousers, was too much to look at. Just like with the kiss, I was awash in a sea of sensations.

Nothing else mattered but the feelings shaped by the gorgeous man before me.

 

Chapter 7

 

Berkeley, California
1951

T
HE
bar is packed far more than it is when school is in session. It feels like wall to wall people, but perhaps that’s just my anxiety making it seem that way. I don’t want to be here, but Charles has been harassing me to meet him. It will probably be the last time I see him before he takes the thirteen hour trip to see his folks in Seattle for Christmas.

I am sitting at the bar, my fingers wrapped around a beer. I’ve drunk almost all of it and smoked a number of cigarettes waiting for my friend. Motion to my right triggers a response. Sitting up straight, hoping it’s just Charles, I’m on guard. The dreams haven’t let up. They’re causing me some increased paranoia during the day now. When I turn my head, I’m disappointed that it’s not my friend.

Sizing him up quickly, I realize the man wears a charming smile and seems nonthreatening.

I twirl the beer in my hand. The bar is hot; the nearness of so many bodies makes it even hotter. The moist air makes the bottle of beer condensate. Just like the bottle, I sweat. There were many days and nights like this when I was overseas. Not exactly like this one. Very few days were spent leisurely enjoying a beer, but the feel of it was the same.

It is more that the cool air of the outside, hidden by the body heat of the bar, recalls many times when I was cold, the air temperature was colder, but my body was in motion. I’d work up a sweat, but it felt like it was freezing on my forehead. The end result was feeling even colder.

It was chilly the day we took the camp. A late snow had fallen, but there wasn’t much accumulated. Immediately after entering, my heart pounded, and I began to sweat. I was hot and cold, sweating, yet freezing.

There is commotion everywhere, and so much noise.
Bam!
I look up, gasping for breath, moving one hand to my chest to make sure there are no bullet holes. When the panic subsides and my vision clears, I see the bartender standing in front of me. The sound had been the clang of the glass bottle of beer he’d just sat in front of me.
“I didn’t order that,” I tell him.
The bartender grins. “No, he did.”
I follow the nod of his head to the man next to me, still smiling that charming smile. My mouth suddenly goes dry, so I slam the rest of my warm beer, then take a gulp of the ice cold new one.
“’Ello.” The man’s voice is deep. I try to get a hold of the situation as I study him. He has a bigger build than I do. His hair is a light brown and his eyes are dark green. “Name’s Dominic,” he says in an Irish lilt. “But I prefer my friends to call me Dom.”
I let out the breath I’d been unconsciously holding and grab my pack of smokes. With shaking hands, I bring a cigarette to my mouth, but can’t get my Zippo to produce a flame. Before I can let out a curse word, he strikes a match.
I’m annoyed by the obviousness of his actions, but I light my cigarette off the match anyway. As I take a deep inhale of the thick, velvety smoke, I tug at the short hairs of my goatee.
“And you are?” he asks.
“John.”
I try not to look at him as I’m not in the mood for the pick-up game. Going home with someone sounds nice, but I’ve been on edge. Even if I take this man, who is incredibly good-looking, home with me, I’d hate to fall asleep with him only to wake up puking and covered in sweat.
“Army?”
I sit up straighter and narrow my eyes at him. How does he know that? Who the hell is this guy?
Dominic must see my thoughts in my eyes or my expression because he answers the question I didn’t ask out loud. “Your jacket. American military.”
His answer relieves me slightly as I look down at my worn, drab green field jacket. Carefully keeping the cigarette off of the fabric, I finger the hole down by the cuff that started off as a snag from barbed wire. I could get lost in the memories of the wire—the prick of the barb, the cold metal, the vision of people hanging from it, the thought of them having grown confused in the smoke and noise of battle. I almost let myself go into the memory, but I don’t.
Neither confirming nor denying Dominic’s statement, I take a drag.
He goes on. “I was a Royal Marine Commando. We landed on the beaches of Normandy with some of your lads.”
The 45th didn’t take part in Normandy. We came ashore at St. Maxime in Southern France. We joined up about a month later with some of the boys who took Normandy.
“You were….” I begin, but trail off when I realize I don’t want to talk about the war right now. While I am usually always interested in others’ experiences, especially in something as decisive as Normandy, I feel too drained right now to put effort into it.
It’s comforting enough to know he is, or
was
, in the military too. He’ll understand my silence.
As I take a swig of the beer, I let myself have a brief fantasy about taking Dominic home. I don’t know what he likes, or if we are even compatible, but I figure we’d work it out. I think about feeling his skin against mine. The touch of his tongue. The sound he would make. How fantastic he would feel.
Then all of the sudden, serious blue eyes overtake my thoughts. I can hear the angry passion in Kurt’s voice as he grills me about the liberation debate.