Just his expressions caused a stir within me. The way his eyelashes brushed the tops of his cheeks made my body tighten. His lips were beautiful as his dark pink tongue swept out to wet them. When he was finished playing, or just sounding the final note of a piece, his eyes would flutter open, like butterflies in the summer. The smile was ever present. It seemed I lived for the little creases it made in his cheeks.
There were times during rehearsal when I had to push myself to look away and focus my eyes on the piano keys. It didn’t help my thoughts, though. Even without looking at the handsome talent before me, my mind kept racing with visions of his hands and elegant fingers. I imagined them curled around my own fingers, his palm flat against mine. I imagined them touching me, tickling my flesh, taunting me into a response.
Yes, the thought of going out with the musicians with whom I was working frightened me a bit. I was already so ill suited for polite society. I could never think of anything to say, so the idea of spending even more time with the attractive Herr Waldenheim seemed like torture. Sweet, beautiful torture. I was not so self-loathing to put that upon myself.
I’d been young when I realized I didn’t have the same feelings for girls as the other boys did. In fact, the feelings they had for the girls were the same feelings I had for the boys I knew. I’d also been fairly young when I realized how others reacted to people like me. My uncle called men who preferred other men horrible names. He verbally applauded the actions of the National Socialists when they strengthened Paragraph 175 of the German Penal Code. They made the law against homosexuals even harsher. Now men couldn’t even hug in public for fear of it being misconstrued as sexual advances.
I had never told anyone of my homosexuality. It was nothing more than feelings anyway. I had never pursued anyone. I’d heard that some men could be cured of it, but I didn’t believe it. Though I had no experience, I knew my mind and heart were unchangeable. I grew up learning to accept it, even though it was hard to do. I accepted that I would always be an outcast and that I would never be able to tell anyone or act on any feelings I had.
I tried to like girls, and had gone out with a few, but just holding their hands felt wrong. So I stopped trying and committed myself to music. Dedication to perfection would be my release and my saving grace.
“No?” Herr Waldenheim’s rich voice drew me back, but I couldn’t quite remember what we’d been discussing.
I remembered now. He’d been extending an invitation and asking if I was afraid. “I really should—”
“Get home? Practice? Work on timing?” He took off his fedora hat, pinching it by the crown with the fingers of his left hand. He stepped toward me. I took a small step back, but was reminded of my position on stage when the backs of my legs hit the piano bench. I forced myself to stand my ground, even as he drew closer.
With the same grin, he said, “Your excuses no longer work for me, Kurt. I shall take it as a great personal insult if you decline again.”
I didn’t know what to do, so I stood still. When he was but inches away from me, I could feel his breath against my cheek and could only focus on his mouth. The beautiful mouth that produced such a seductive sound when he spoke. “Do you follow the works of Michael Tippett?”
My mouth went dry. Was this a trap of some kind? Why was he asking me about these composers? He
had
to know they were forbidden. “Of-of course I know
of
them, but they’re banned, Herr Waldenheim.”
It seemed as though he’d moved even closer, although there was no way he could have. “
Peter
,” he stressed. “I’m
Peter
. And do you know why they’re banned?”
I blinked, swallowed hard, and forced out the words. “They are degenerates, and their music is not fit for the good people of the Reich.”
His smile was sly, but he stepped back. “And what about Oscar Wilde, Kurt? Do you—” “He’s an author, not a musician,” I cut in.
The violinist moved away even more and placed the fedora on his head. “Think about them, and their connection. When I ask you next time if you’d like to join us for a drink, I expect you’ll have a better answer for me.” With that, he turned and quickly descended into the house. He raised his right arm in a wave as he walked away from me. “Goodnight, dear Kurt.”
I stayed for nearly an hour after he departed. When I was at home, alone in my room, I dug out the big book from the very back of my wardrobe. It was a relatively comprehensive list of world musicians. Its publication date was well before 1932. Through quick page turning research, I figured the common link between composers. Putting it together with the slim knowledge I held about the Irish author Oscar Wilde, I realized that Peter Waldenheim was asking me about famous homosexual figures.
What I didn’t understand was if he was asking to get me to incriminate myself, or if it was some kind of subtle way of asking me about my own feelings. Was he trying to proposition me without being obvious? Could he share in my feelings? Could
he
be attracted to me? I could only hope. Despite knowing the risks of my feelings, I couldn’t help but have them.
On Sunday there was no rehearsal, so I spent the day thinking of the possibilities, staying out of my uncle’s way, and perfecting a few pieces.
Monday, the group of us practiced until evening. Herr Weber was quite pleased with our progress, and admittedly, we were coming together nicely. I kept my thoughts diligently on the task at hand. I did not look at the violinist for fear of a poor performance. Distraction, no matter how beautiful, would not help further me.
At the end of our session, the hope began to rise within me. He promised he would ask me again, expecting an answer more to his liking.
But by the time I had stood up, pushed in the bench, closed the cover of the piano, and reached for my hat and coat, Peter Waldenheim had gone. I looked for him again, but all I saw were the retreating backs of the other musicians. Something sweet within me deflated. I pulled the bench out after removing my coat and hat once more. I counted the organ pipes above me, then began to play.
I told myself not to feel the well in the pit of my stomach. It was for the best, and the pain of it was my own fault. Bubbling hope had never served me in my life. It hadn’t taken me back to my parents, and it hadn’t ever yielded results when it came to pleasing my uncle. The only option I had was to refocus on perfection.
I poured everything I had into the keys of the grand piano. Banged on them when I felt like it. Let my frustration seep out of me in the most constructive way I knew. I wanted to feel like I belonged somewhere, and shame on me for letting myself hope that I could ever be accepted. I’d waited too long to agree to an evening out with Herr Waldenheim and the others, and now I was relegated back into my box where everything would stay the same, and nothing inside me could blossom.
The final chord begged for some power, so I gave it voice, letting my fingers jolt the keys, sending fits of sound radiating harshly from my beautiful instrument. I didn’t want it to be beautiful. I wanted it to be ugly and horrible, and utterly unlovable. Like me.
I jumped at the voice. Having thought I was alone and now learning that I had not been, the uneasy peace shattered. I saw Peter standing at the end of the piano. His coat was draped over his bent arm and his hat rested on the stool a foot behind him.
Trying to swallow down the panic that was beginning to engulf me, I looked around for something to give me comfort. I could count the windows at the top of the hall, but his voice kept me from it. “This was more passionate than I’ve heard from you. Why do you keep it only for yourself? Share this passion when others are around.”
Still shocked into silence, I felt as though I was frozen, unable to temper my expression. I must have looked like such a frightened child. All my energy was directed toward pushing down that bit of hope fighting to be free again.
My hands clenched as they rested on my thighs. He moved slowly, as if sensing quicker movements would send me running to the opposite end of the stage. I could feel my short nails digging into the meat of my palm. He sat on the bench next to me.
I looked straight ahead, but knew he was staring right at me. I wanted to tell him that I did like the composers he’d mentioned, even if I had never heard their works.
“In rehearsals, you play as though your life depends on it, not as though you love it.” His voice was softer.
Peter’s warm hands moved to mine, uncurling them. The brush of his knuckles against the tops of my thighs was like a kiss of fire. It spread out from that very small spot to every part of me. It felt as though the fire was squeezing my lungs. I couldn’t breathe.
Without thinking, I complied, choosing Beethoven’s Piano Concerto no. 17, the third movement.
“Now close your eyes,” he whispered, sending shivers up my spine. Again, I complied. After a moment of just playing, he spoke again. This time it felt as though his lips were right next to my ear. “Now smile because you love what it is you are doing.”
“Your uncle sounds dreadful. I don’t like him,” Peter responded. I agreed, but found I couldn’t give voice to it. “You should rebel against him, and laugh all the time. Coming out with us would be a grand start, don’t you think?”
“I like Tchaikovsky,” I blurted out. His face lit up, but he said nothing. After a moment of silence, I remembered myself and added, “That is, if he wasn’t a degenerate and unsuitable for the goodness of the German people.”
I hoped he understood what I was
really
saying. I would never be able to say it myself, but I wanted him to know. I wanted him to understand that if it wasn’t illegal and looked down upon, I would be like Tchaikovsky.
In the same whispered voice he’d used earlier, Peter said, “It’s rumored that Hitler still listens to Tchaikovsky when he’s alone, so how dangerous can his music really be to the values of Germany?”
He spoke again, this time in a full voice. “The others are dancing away as we speak. There’s fun to be had, and I still haven’t seen you smile. Will you join us tonight, Kurt Klein?”
With trembling fingers, I took out my pocket watch. My aunt had given it to me for my last birthday. She said twenty was old enough to have my grandfather’s watch. When I’d received it, I thought about how much money it would fetch and what the money could do for my parents, but I dared not risk it. The love and kindness of my aunt Anja was all I had.
I was then transfixed by the way Peter’s tongue slid out slowly, the tip of it just barely touching the edge of his grin. “You’ve used that excuse before.”
I shook my head, desperately wanting him to understand that while my words denied it, what I really wanted was to be as close to him as possible. I tried to tell him, but all of my words died before leaving my mouth. They sounded stupid in my mind.
“Are you just teasing me, Kurt?” The question was whispered, but it felt as though he yelled it. My body went rigid. There was no game. Just the insecure awkwardness I possessed.
Without waiting for my reply, Peter stood up and backed away from the piano. It felt like I was going to break. He was going to leave me here, all because I’d failed to respond properly. Everything about me was wrong. I could do nothing about it, though. I watched as he buttoned his coat, then walked over to the stool to retrieve his hat and violin.
It was a simple command that I could act upon. The feet of the bench made a loud scraping noise against the wooden floor of the stage as I did.
My heart raced as I complied. My eyes never left him, and he never turned around to look at me. That made it easier for me to do as he wished. There was a tickle low in my belly as I joined him. We did not speak as we walked, and I found that I had no feelings other than utter happiness at being close to him.
In a quarter of an hour’s time, we were at a club. I thought it would be dirtier and hidden away someplace, but it was not. The marquee was lit up, and the outside was teeming with people loitering about. Peter and I strode past them all. Everyone he passed nodded at him as he was obviously popular at this place.
The lobby was equally crowded, but as we stood at the entrance to the main room and I saw hundreds of people dancing, I hesitated. Peter had taken a few steps into the dance hall before he realized I wasn’t beside him.
He placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “Many people will see you here, but please don’t worry. This is an approved club.” He turned and pointed at the band on stage. “Those are Nazi musicians, and the music they play may sound like American swing, but the lyrics they sing are straight from Goebbels.”
My uncle knew all the leaders’ names and made sure I did as well. Joseph Goebbels was Hitler’s right hand man when it came to propaganda.
I looked around. There were men in uniforms, talking with civilians. Some of them even danced a little. My violinist friend squeezed my shoulder again. “See? Nothing to fear. It’s patriotic to come here and support our Fürher.”