Risking a glance up, I saw one prisoner who wore a green triangle. He stood back from the others, but his cold blue eyes never left me.
Just before I broke and let the tears slide out of the corners of my eyes, the inmates disappeared, fading back into the night. Alone, we stood at attention until first light. The guard who greeted us held two steins. Without a word, he picked two men and threw the contents of the cups onto them. He left promptly.
I didn’t understand what had happened until hours later. The sun was up, but it didn’t help warm us. The men who’d been unfortunate enough to be drenched lay dead.
Gratefully, it was only another few hours of staring at dead men before we were allowed to use our bodies again.
We had to strip in the square, leaving everything in a pile as we marched naked into the basement of a barrack. It was stark and freezing.
“Arms up,” someone ordered. Prisoners used razors on every part of my body until I was hairless. Huge chunks of skin and flesh peeled away in addition to my hair. Next, they herded us with blood pouring from new wounds into the showers. The water wasn’t warm. It was barely above freezing.
The floor swirled with blood, and dirt, and water. My mind became blank as I stared at the gore. I only moved because others were pushing me forward. I didn’t know where Peter was, but I hoped he was nearby as I stood in line to speak with SS at a table.
“Kurt.” An elbow to my gut forced the other half of my name out. “Kurt Klein,” I grunted, doubled over.
“Queer,” he said, reading from the paper in his hands. He pointed to his right, indicating I was to move along the table and collect my uniform. Just as I’d passed him, a sharp pain erupted in my lower back. He’d elbowed me from behind. I fell to my knees, one hand on the edge of the table to keep me from completely sprawling on the floor.
I swallowed hard as I pulled myself up, not wanting any more blows. I took trousers with a pink triangle on the side of one leg. They were too short. My ankles were bare. The shirt I was given had a large pink triangle sewn onto the breast. The shirt was two sizes too big, just like the shoes I received. At the end of the table, another prisoner fixed a bracelet around my wrist, with the number 82571.
I was light-headed and stuck inside a dream world, unable to escape, but as someone pushed me up the stairs and back outside, I smiled. My new number contained my Peter’s birthday. The twenty-fifth of July. And if I took the eight and moved it to the back, it was his birth year. It was a good sign to be marked with a number that represented so much. It was a confirmation of belonging to Peter, even in a place like this. I could only hope his bore my birthday.
A shove to the ground brought me back to the cold reality of my situation. I hadn’t been moving fast enough. I saw the boot come at me and covered my face with my arms. It was only my will to see Peter and to survive this place that pushed me to stand back up.
When I looked down the line, I recognized no one from the previous night. We were all bald, white as bone. It was risky, but I took extra time scanning the faces. I needed to find him.
Finally, my eyes found his deep blue ones. My heart leapt, and I almost smiled, but he shook his head, reminding me once again of our situation. They mustn’t know he was my lover. I must protect him and myself.
As we marched past a larger square on the other side of a fence, I saw other prisoners, some lying flat on the ground at the end of the rows of standing men. All were nothing more than skeletons. My whole body was tense with the violence of moments before and from anticipation that I was in for the same fate as those men standing in line.
The barrack was small and cramped. There were two wings with a water closet between them. There was a prison functionary inside. He was an inmate who helped our captors police us, and he told us there was a day room, but we were never to be in it. The room belonged to him. The only other room was our living quarters.
Bunk beds lined the walls with a row down the middle as well. I began to think we were to be herded everywhere we went.
All of us, still dazed from the disinfecting process, did as commanded. Peter was five men down from me. I wanted to hustle over to him, but I remained in my spot as the kapo came striding down our ranks.
“You are in quarantine. I am responsible for this barrack. You will learn the rules here. Those of you who don’t speak the mother tongue will learn quickly.”
I tightened my muscles as he came close to me. He was a man to be feared. His voice echoed inside my head, causing it to ache. “Hats off when a superior approaches!”
I thought he meant the guards or officers, so my hands stayed at my sides. Fingers wrapped around my throat. He pushed me back against the wooden slats of the bed. “Inside the barrack, your superior is
me
.” He squeezed. “Hats
off
!”
When he let me go, I quickly pulled my hat from my head. The kapo stepped back, and I moved into line. Still staring at me, he yelled, “Outside the barrack, it’s hats off to the SS! Inside, you’re mine.”
He wore a green triangle. I would later learn this meant he was a criminal. In fact, I would learn from another kapo that he was a child molester.
The first day, we dug holes near our barrack until mealtime. We drank brown liquid. It wasn’t dark enough to be coffee and tasted too foul to be tea. Each of us got a piece of bread no bigger than my thumb and a small bowl of clear soup. It tasted like old socks and was no more than a few spoonfuls.
I missed my aunt’s meals. Though food was rationed, my aunt and uncle always provided me more than most families could have.
After eating, we refilled the holes and patted the mounds down flat with our hands. I wound up next to Peter as we trudged to the large square for roll call. My quarantine barrack was the last to arrive. As we passed the rows of men beyond the fence, I saw that those lying on the ground were not resting. They were not too ill to stand. They were dead.
An officer surveyed us as we lined up in straight rows. I pulled my hat quickly from my head and looked at the ground. My ribs and back still ached from the morning.
I could breathe again when the officer passed. Peter and I lifted our hats onto our heads. The SS man turned back, so we pulled them off again. He pushed out his lips and narrowed his eyes. I knew he was waiting for one of us to make a mistake.
I started to shake, but when I looked up again, I saw he was not looking at me. He was staring at the pink triangle on Peter’s jacket. My legs trembled. Peter kept his eyes on the man’s feet. I couldn’t look directly, but I could see what was happening.
The officer stepped closer to my lover. Peter’s body was tense. Even through the wind whipping past me, I could hear him swallow hard.
I prayed that Peter would not respond. I could hear him in my mind, his flippant voice saying,
No, but I’d quite like to fuck yours.
To my relief, Peter said nothing, but when he doubled over in pain, it was as if the officer had kicked me instead. It seemed as if the man would stand in front of Peter forever, but finally, he moved on. I replaced my hat and watched through my periphery as Peter struggled to do the same.
Distracted and still partially dazed, I couldn’t pay attention to what was happening in the square, only that we’d stood there for what could’ve been hours. The rain came, freezing us. Another officer came by. We took off our hats.
A man three feet away did not. The sound startled me out of my stupor. We watched as the bullet lodged deep into the poor man’s skull. First, his body dropped to his knees, then fell forward.
My stomach lurched. My skin crawled. My mind raced with how to get out of this place.
But in the quiet after the death, I heard Peter’s breath. It was like the songs he used to sing. The rhythm of his breath reminded me that my only concern was keeping both of us alive.
I straightened my back, turned my neck forward, and lowered my gaze until all I could see was the dirt and mud. Whenever I saw SS boots, I took my hat off, then replaced it. Over and over and over.
Finally, when the night had grown dark, we were allowed to go back to the barrack. There were so many of us. We had to remove our shoes before entering, and only had a minute each in the wash closet, then as the livestock we apparently were, the kapo drove us into the one room.
There were two other men in my bunk. Peter lay in the bed next to mine. If I stretched out my legs, I could touch the crown of his head with the tips of my toes. I was not the only man who broke down that first night. Hating to do it, but needing to cry, I let the tears seep from my eyes as quietly as I could.
I heard sniffles from all over the room. The kapo was in his dayroom, so I did not fear his punishment for weeping. I wanted to stop, but couldn’t until I felt something encircle the big toe of my right foot. I knew it was Peter without looking. There would be no arms to wrap around me here. This—his hand holding onto my toe— was the only comfort I’d receive, so I relished it.
Imagining us in his apartment, his body molded to mine, I began to pull myself together. Unlike some of these men, I had Peter, and even though we couldn’t be together as I wanted to be, he was still here with me. Although my body ached from the beatings I took, my tired mind buzzed with numbness until I finally dropped off into slumber.
Day two was like day one, except no disinfection. That was replaced with morning roll call in the square. Prisoners carried out their dead and laid them out beside their ranks. Everyone was to be counted. To occupy my mind while this took place, I counted as well. There were ten openings above the gate between two watchtowers. I counted at least ten barrels of machine guns pointed at the square before I grew scared of being caught looking.
Bowing my head again, I started to count the shoes to either side of me. I got to twenty-six on my right before giving up and counting to fifteen on my left.
Day three was different from day two in that the ugly kapo screamed at me, “Stand still, you filthy pillow-biter!”
So I did. I stood perfectly still outside the quarantine barrack, watching as most of the other men dug holes in the morning and refilled them in the afternoon.
Day four was the same, as was day five. It felt like my body was dying to move, but when it was time for our midday “meal,” I had to fight with it to get it to work correctly. My legs were stiff, and my back ached. My shoulders felt stuck in place as I stumbled to life. It was the same in the evening with roll call.
Each day was so similar to the previous one that I lost count. One evening after standing in place all day next to a few of my fellow prisoners, I couldn’t help but stare at Peter as we ate our evening meal. I’d watched him all day, his bent body hunched over the never-ending holes to either shovel or fill in depending on the time.
At first, everyone slurped their clear soup and wolfed down the small chunk of bread, but now we all took our time. I was so hungry that it hurt to eat, so I nibbled the bread and only brought the smallest amount of liquid to my dry, cracked lips. As I did so, Peter looked at me as if to say,
I want to touch you
.
Swallowing hard at the thought, I cast my eyes down for just a moment. It would be so pleasant to feel his fingers grazing my skin. My flesh rose in goose pimples in response. Raising my eyes again, I connected them with his and hoped to say through them,
How can you have energy for that after digging for so many hours?
His jaw tightened as his eyes blazed.
Yes, you are, and I should like to embrace my sanity, thank you very much.
Our connection was lost. I drew my attention to the banging sounds in the far side of the barrack. Our kapo’s mood was obviously sour. He came stomping down the aisle, tossing everyone’s bowl, spilling their soup. I glanced back at Peter. He nodded to me, telling me to finish before the kapo arrived, so I slurped it up. My stomach tightened as the now-cold liquid hit it.
When the bowl was knocked out of my hands, I doubled over, wrapping my arms around my torso. I never thought I’d be so hungry that soup would cause my stomach to rebel. Sweat rolled down my face as I hoped the kapo would go to the other side and harass those men, but I was a noticeable target.
The floorboard squeaked. I flinched, but when I looked up, all I could see were Peter’s eyes across the room. The bowl flew upward from his hands, splashing him with the little bit of broth left in it. He never took his gaze from me.
After a while, my internal organs calmed down. My mind relaxed as I slipped into bed, my toe held by my lover. It was the only physical connection we’d had in so long, yet it was enough to remind me each night how much I loved him, and how thankful I was to have him near me.
Days were horrible inside the camp, but they were almost all the same with small deviations, so they went by in rapid succession. I didn’t know how long it’d been since arriving, but as I watched Peter absorb a blow from a guard at evening roll call, I realized almost all of the violence I’d witnessed since entering the camp had been directed toward those of us with the pink triangle. I had seen others, red and black triangles, hit and kicked, but not with the same voracity or furor reserved for us queers.
Inside the quarantine barrack was no safer than outside for us. The other prisoners did not take kindly to sharing space with the 175ers. They, the barrack elder, and the lower room elders beat us for no reason. It seemed as though we had to fear everyone.
Like every evening after roll call, I tried to stay out of everyone’s way, but a prisoner with a green triangle—a criminal named Ulrich—took my scrap of bread and threw tonight’s muddy-looking soup in my face. He grabbed his groin. “If you’re hungry, I have something you can eat.”