Part two

1946

The war had been over a year. Mercifully I had survived. There was plenty of gaps in the line up where the less fortunate had perished. The ship back had been lighter than the journey out, in number of men, at least, but not in spirit. That was dour, suffocating. It was a silent journey, men staring into the distance or at their feet. Anywhere but each other. I was one of the lucky ones, even though it didn't really feel like it.
It was bittersweet, the Hero's welcome , the euphoria of victory and the coming home excited chatter, then the crushing depression of returning to bombed out cities, the hollow look in people's eyes, the gaunt expression of five years of struggle. The brief euphoric rapture of winning couldn't erase the lines of worry on faces, nor the lines in the shops as rationing continued and the country tried to reconcile the uncomfortable present against the even more uncertain future.

I returned to aunt Mimi's house, a sprawling country house that had managed to avoid the bombing raids. Having lost my parents in my childhood she was the surrogate family I neither sought nor needed. It was done through gritted teeth and a spat determination of duty and I soon decamped to the old gardeners quarters, a run down two up, two down on the edge of her estate. It looked out onto her grand opulent house and gardens, with a lake beyond. A living testimony that I was on the periphery, an unwanted addendum to her life. It was fine by me, my piano was there so I could lose myself in Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin, the perfect hiding place that drowned out the memories of the war, and her inane twittering.
Despite the soothing genius of the composers my mind often drifted back, a mad melee of memories. Guns, shouting, blood and destruction as my division pushed forward mixed with my afternoon with Klaus. I could recall his body in detail, and often found myself reliving the meeting I had with him, bring jolted out of my reverie mid sonata, or at the bank, with a client who's boring insurance claim had allowed my mind to wander. He even intruded my thoughts at orchestra practise. I had been playing harpsichord with my local amateur orchestra since returning from war, but even when trying to concentrate on an intricate part of the piece I'd have momentary flashes of him in my mind.

As my division had pushed forward through Belgium and towards Germany the resistance had ebbed and flowed, almost non existent in one village, then a caustic barrage of returned artillery the next. The number of dead Germans we encountered lying in ditches and at sides of roads increased as we pushed on, the grotesque nature of war mirrored by the distorted and damaged bodies all around. I couldn't help myself though, as we passed each body, I checked it for a shock of blond hair, those almond eyes, the clear perfect skin. I let out an unconsciously held breath as each dead soldier proved not be to Klaus.

The bitterness towards the enemy only increased as we pursued them back towards Germany, the wanton destruction, the scorched earth, the dead innocent villagers, the pillaging and the damage to homes, people and their souls. It didn't get any better when we returned home, the news about the concentration camps, the bitterness at the destruction of our homes, the grief of loss, not just property but family members, the loss of hope, the loss of futures. The Germans were demonised, the narrative driven by the victors, portraying the allies as servants of God, the Germans an incarnation of evil. I was torn as I felt it too, the horror of the newsreels, the blue and white ragged clothing, the emaciation, the barbed wire and the chimneys. But I had the memory of Klaus, the absurdity of how we'd met, the laying down of guns, the big white smile, the reclining on the bank, feet crossed at his ankles, trading German and English names for birds, clouds and the like. One didn't chime with the other, I knew both realities to be true.

With this as the backdrop, the government decided to use the Prisoners of War as a tool to not only help rebuild the country but also the cultural bridges. Just as the German people needed a recalibration and reeducation, so did the Allies of sorts. We, as a nation had to rationalise the Germans as people and reset the inter country relationships. Without that we had no hope. We would be doomed to a cycle of wars and disharmony.
So this is why I found myself sat in the village hall for a Christmas carol concert with performances from POW's stationed in our area in barracks. They were moved in, a band of fifty or sixty who stripped of their insignia, and their uniform looked just like you and I. Bomb sites were cleared, gardens replanted, factories restored with their labour. It was obvious they were treated well, they looked fed, as happy as they could be in these circumstances. We were aware that our government was treating them better, more humanly, than they had treated their captives. Within that, the next conundrum, the will for revenge tempered against the will to show them we were better, more righteous.
The locals were suspicious, outrightly hostile, sometimes curious, rarely forgiving, but we kept calm and carried on, just like we had been advised and slowly you would see them stopping to chat to the Germans, trust building but everyone still very much on guard.

So here we were, crammed in, oil lanterns festooned around the hall. The power was still off and there was a mighty crack in the side wall. But it was deemed safe and the Christmas tree, gaily decorated in tinsel and baubles did its best to hide it. The warmth of all the bodies huddled together raised the temperature and muted laughter and talking filled the air, while bored children kicked the backs of the chair in front as their interest waned. The makeshift curtain was reeled back to reveal two rows of POW's. The back row stood on a sports bench so they could see over the heads of the first row.

A piano broke through the murmurs as 'Stille Nacht' struck up, the tune so familiar, Silent Night, the words not. It was beautiful as the mix of bass baritone, baritone, tenors and countertenors combined, weaving the song into a beautiful aural picture. Closing my eyes I picked up the tessitura and the timbres of the voices, delighting at the poise and control from men not two years ago were portrayed as feral animals marauding across Europe.
The hymn finished and the room broke to applause, my eyes reopened and took in the smiling faces of the prisoners. I scanned both rows, their warmth emanating out, reaching to old foes. It was then I saw the shock of blond hair.

********************

"Good grief! Klaus!" I cried, but trying to keep my voice down reaching out for him, the firmness of this shoulder confirming I wasn't dreaming.

He looked even more handsome, a year older, a year more mature. His eyes still sparkled, the grin was there, the shock of hair still at angles, but there was something amiss. It was like looking at a beautiful picture but feeling something was not quite right, out of kilter. It may have been the war, the capture, the crushing defeat. It was hard to say, but something put me a little on edge, even though it was splendid to see he was here and in one piece.

He had made his way from the stage after the final carol and was stood at the side, to the right of the tree as the audience either filed out or took some time to speak to the choir master, the officers in charge of the prisoners and in some rare cases, the prisoners themselves

"Hallo Eric! How are you?" He said carefully tripping over a few words but intelligible enough.

"I'm, I'm good" I spluttered, "you speak English now?"

Klaus raised his hand, flat palm down then moved it side to side in a see saw motion, "zum," he said "I have learnt since I been here". He beamed at his success.

"How long have you been here, when did you get captured!" I was speaking fast, and I could see his sergeant eyeing us both with interest. I forced my self to calm down. "I am so pleased you made it"

"Made it? Made what?" He asked. Incredulous

"No I meant, you made it out of France. You're alive!"

"Of course" he laughed, "ya I'm alive"

"So how did you get here?"

Klaus grinned. "I went back. Back to swim and I was caught. By English. They take me to camp and I stay there for while then come here". The accent was thick, but easily understandable.

My mind reeled, he had gone back to the pool, to swim again, and instead of me, he was caught by a fellow soldier of my section, and held as a prisoner! It was hard to believe but here he was, standing right here. I could feel my emotions welling up. Just out of relief, there was no future for us for so many reasons. He's German, he's a prisoner, and he has a sweetheart back in Germany. I knew I was lusting after him, my attraction to men had been firmly shut away, but Klaus had let it out. I was momentarily back at the pool, naked with him.

The staff member who had noticed our interaction with interest was moving towards us, his interest piqued that two men, unknown to each other and on opposing sides of the war were deep in conversation. I could feel his questioning gaze, and took a small step back, away from Klaus.


"Look I must let you get back to your group, it's marvellous to see you again" I said as cheerily as I could muster.

I saw his face darken slightly, "You go now?"

"Yes, yes, I must," I said, fighting back the growing lump in my throat. I turned and walked away, the eyes of the guard following my retreat.


******************

Days passed, I didn't see him. Why would I, he existed in very different areas. It may as well be a different country, or time zone. I was in the bank, or at home, or at orchestra practise. He was out in fields, or up to his knees in rubble trying to put back together something that his countrymen had destroyed. I was finishing up in the scullery, scrubbing a cooking pot that had seen better days, when I heard a rap on the door. I dried my hands as I walked to the door.

****

"So you see, we thought it best to place prisoners with people in the community with common interests, you know, a common shared hobby or skill so they could integrate better" the sergeant said, helmet off, and held in his hands as he stood on the threshold of the gardeners house which I now called my home.
"He's a singer and also plays piano. You can of course say no, it's entirely your decision. The government are keen to build trust in the Germans and placing them in the community is a chance to do that. The person we have in mind is around your age. His name is Klaus. Have a think over the next few days and I'll drop in again and see how you feel"


***************


The days between that visit and Klaus's arrival stretched interminably. Swinging from nervous hope to downright catastrophic thoughts I readied and prepared a room for him. Not for one second did I think there could or would be romance, it was more the thought of spending time with him, a man I found intoxicating. Seeing him so carefree and nude at the pool, for some reason I felt a deep affection. He could have killed me on the spot, I was an enemy and defenceless. No one would have blamed him for following out his duties. God knows, the newsreels showed the Germans were zealous rule obeyers.
Instead he had spared me, and in a strange way, bonded in the shallows of the mud. Now, he was on his way to stay here, right under my roof, temporarily at least. I made up a bed, the spare sheets were a touch rough and threadbare but I imagined better than he had on the front or in the prisoner camp. The meagre rations were bolstered by a supplement for taking him in, but the few chunks of bread and scrape of butter with some decidedly straggly looking beef would have to do. I could bolster it out with vegetables. The estate provided enough for most of the street during the war.

As I flitted around, the door rapped. My heart lurched and I took a few steadying breaths and opened the door. The same officer from the concert was standing there, Klaus to his right. It was an effort to remain stoic, addressing the officer rather than Klaus, discussing the terms, the regulations as if he wasn't there, ignoring the German as the transaction and terms of my home becoming his domicile were confirmed and signed.
Eventually the officer was confident we had completed the necessary bureaucracy and bade us a farewell, tipping his fingers to his hat as he marched away, the file of paperwork swinging from his hand, the forms for my temporary adoption safe within.

"Come in! Come in!" I breezily said, heart rate a little rapid.

Klaus smiled, the same grin as at the pool and stepped in, over the threshold step and into mine, and his, temporary home. Just like at the concert, an unease washed over me. The grin was the same but it didn't seem as real, or as natural. I pushed my doubts aside. I took his small kit bag and showed him to his room. Seeming happy at his quarters he took his bag from my hands and rifled through it, producing a small foil wrapped chocolate bar. A gift given to him by his captors to offer up as a thank you gift. I took it gratefully, the rare commodity it was and ushered him and the chocolate back downstairs to the scullery.

"Tea?" I asked filling the kettle and placing it on the stove.

"Ya" he said and we stood in an awkward silence as the kettle came to the boil, whistling loudly. I grabbed a cloth to protect my hands and poured the water over the leaves. Now the whistle from the kettle had subsided the silence was too loud, broken only by the chink of spoon on china as I stirred the pot. We stood in silence as the tea brewed. I poured two cups, stirring in evaporated milk. Out the corner of my eye I could see him looking at me. He suddenly seemed a little nervous, on edge.

"I'll show you around" I chirped, eager to do something, anything. Having two rooms downstairs, the scullery and the parlour with the two bedrooms upstairs there wasn't much to show around, unless you counted the outside lavatory of course. Aunt Mimi lived in modern luxury just along the drive but I preferred these inadequate conditions if it meant independence. Anyway it beat the battlefields of France any day. I took both cups.

We walked to the front room, a dour poorly upholstered armchair and chaise lounge set, the oak table between it and the radiogram in its cabinet on the far wall. Klaus's eyes widened as he took in the upright piano next to it. Practically running to it, he placed his hands on the cover and lifted, revealing the ivory and black keys. He swivelled to face me, eyes sparkling with joy and wonderment.

With a voice coarse with longing, "May I play? Please"

I smiled, with the ice broken between us, "Why, of course!" I gestured to the stool beneath the keys and Klaus pulled it out and sat before the keyboard. He gently placed his fingers on the keys and seemed to falter, dredging his memory of what or how to play. I could sympathise. Getting back from the war it didn't seem as natural, the lack of practise drying the lubrication around my memory of how to play. The war had dimmed the joy of music, at least temporarily.

Gently he started, timid at first, testing out his memory, flexing and waning as the mechanics of his motion reignited and the abilities returned.

"Shostakovich" I breathed, and he briefly turned, smiled, before returning back to the keys, confidence returning slowly, "Piano concerto number two" I whispered, drawn by the music to the stool, where I stood at Klaus's side, swept away. His touch was perfect, providing an accent and beauty to the piece that was so much more intense than I could muster. Eventually it stopped, the final notes decaying as he lifted his hands from the keys.

"I had no idea Klaus" I said, in awe, "that was beautiful."

He smiled back. "Thank you"

***

We ate and retired to our bedrooms, separated by the thin wall. I led, staring up into the darkness, hearing his bed springs, squeak and cry as he turned. I heard him use his chamber pot before I drifted off, the next thing I knew, gentle sunlight was nudging me back to consciousness. I found Klaus in the scullery in frayed shirt and trousers, filling the kettle before his first day at work whilst under my tenure. I had a day at the bank to look forward to.
Breakfast was scant. The conversation more natural as we discussed Chopin, Mozart, Holst, Rachmaninov. His knowledge was deep and intellectual knowing much more of the mechanics of music than I.

We settled comfortably in a routine. Both working during the day, the evenings spent playing music, listening to the radio or improving Klaus's English with sessions so much more structured than 'cloud' 'bird'. He would sketch, rough pictures, pencil on paper. Items from the room, a lamp, an ornament, or sometimes things from memory, rolling German mountains, or traditionally dressed folk. He had a talent, his personality shone through on each sketch.

Twice a week the massive tin bath would be brought in from the outside lavatory where it normally resides hung up on a hook on the wall. We'd fill it with pan after pan of hot water, the level slowly rising as the bath, sat in the middle of the scullery floor filled. I yearned to watch Klaus's bathe, the urge to see his immaculate body again insistent and strong. The events at the pool had been unplanned, off the cuff and seemed innocent, childlike almost , but the thought of loitering in the hope of a repeat performance seemed incongruous. After all I had responsibilities. He was my guest. I had to keep it proper.

So, the night when he called me to him when he was bathing was both welcomed and off putting.

"Eric! I have left my towel in my room. Can you bring it, please?"

Looking up from the newspaper, my heart took a lurch. "Of course" I called, folding the paper, my mind leaping around as I headed up to his room to fetch the towel he had folded on his bed.
Not sure whether to knock or just walk in, I dithered at the door before deciding it was my house, and I'd seen him unencumbered by clothing before so ventured in.

The bath was just long enough to sit upright in, with feet and legs underwater or to lie back as long as one folded one's knees up slightly so they poked from the water.

Klaus's had adopted the former and sat facing me as I entered, feet and legs fully submerged the water just higher than his navel. Marvelling at the sight I meandered my eyes over him as I walked over, the towel in my outstretched hand. He made no attempt to cover himself. "Danke" he said and I placed it on a stool next to him. My eyes flicking over his body.

Just under his armpit running around towards his back, and out of sight I caught the glimpse of a red mark, a line, raised, angry. Having seen his body for an extended time back in the war I was adamant this was a new mark. Reaching over I touched his shoulder, wet and soft, and eased him forward. He resisted at first but relented, leaning forward, the movement rippling the water out.

In streaks across his back ran four angry raised welts. I gasped and couldn't help myself from reaching out my fingers brushing them gently. There was no flinch, no jolt from the German so they must have healed sufficiently but these were not war wounds, they were too recent. Tracing the length I saw the spread of the scar, widening out in the centre, tapered at the ends.

My voice was low, it sounded hoarse in my mouth, "These are whip marks Klaus. Who whipped you?"

Remaining silent, he reached down into the water and grasped the soap, raising a lather between his palms. Eventually "Hauptmann, in the camp. How you say? Captain"

"Your own captain?" I whispered, incredulous, "why?"

"Miriam, they found out"

Totally confused now, I press, "Miriam, your wife? Found out what?"

Klaus pushed his hands back in the water, the lather floating away towards the sides of the bath. His body revealed itself again, but I was temporarily immune to those charms, given the turn of events.

"I loved her. She's not my wife. I pretend for her, she pretend for me"

"Klaus, you've lost me" I said gently. I had moved his towel, sitting on the stool, his towel now on my lap.

Resuming lathering up soap, for no reason other than keeping his hands busy, I kept quiet, even though soap was in short supply, and I could see it diminishing. He needed time to order his thoughts especially if he had to translate them into English.

"I had letter. From Germany. Miriam died in a bomb raid" he said. I could see his eyes start to fill, his lip quivering as he fought back his emotions. He took a deep breath and I reached out to hold his shoulder.

"They found her paper in her possessions."

I stayed silent, not jumping in.

"She liked women and the book she wrote in showed that. I had told her to burn them to hide. You had to keep secrets in Germany. Destroy things that could get trouble"

Tears were flowing down, running tracks down his face. He wiped them away with the ball of his hand. He sobbed, and I kneaded his shoulder trying to comfort.

"But why whip you? I don't understand" I whispered.

"The book said she was happy with Anke and she hoped I would find the right man, in time". He looked up at me, the eyes that were so kind earlier now sorrow filled. "We pretended to be together. I loved her, but not in the way a man should love a woman. It was easy pretend to say we together. We were left alone in Germany if we pretend. Now they know I lied, Haulptman, he knows"

"Oh Klaus" I say, tears pricking my own eyes, "I'm so sorry". Miriam's diary had condemned Klaus to retribution. Homosexuality was, just like in Britain a crime, but German punishment could be far worse. I shuddered, if this had to come light when he was in Germany, the whipping could have been substituted for a firing squad or at best a lobotomy. Being a prisoner here in England when the letter arrived may have saved his life even if it meant a beating.

The dam burst and it flooded out, the pain of losing the girl he had loved as a sister, the mutual camouflage, each protecting the other. He sobbed for her, for Anke, for himself, for the pain of being whipped by his own men. For the war, for the death of millions, for being trapped in another country. The defeat. The shame. The humiliation. For the whole damn bloody mess. He sobbed.

Reaching out. "Hold me Eric. Please"

I stand, his towel dropping from my lap to the floor. The stool clattering over as I stand. I step into the bath fully clothed without thinking. My shoes instantly filling, the warm alien feeling. The sobbing man drew his knees up to allow me room and I kneel in the water, soaking my trousers, not caring. This heartbroken man my sole concern. He shifts position, also kneeling now, his bare knee against my clothed one, as water drips from his torso. Opening my arms he comes to me and I wrap him in my embrace. My shirt wet from his body, he wraps his arms around my back. I smell fresh soap in his hair. Burying his face in my chest his blond hair tickles my chin. My embrace tightens. I feel his strong arms contract too, bonding us together. I rock him gently as the water cools. His sobs grow weaker, less wracking and intense as the wave of emotion diminishes. I press my nose into his hair breathing him in, kissing the top of his head, as I murmur everything would work itself out.


************

"Eric, are you asleep?" The whisper through the door, hushed.

"No not at all," I said, sitting up in bed. Neither of us had slept that night, the shock of Klaus's confession of his sexuality dwarfed by the events that that culminated in him telling me his story. We had both spent most of the right listening to the other toss and turn, pumping pillows to get comfortable, the lack of rest more to do with his turmoil than lack of physical comfort.

With a creak the door swung open, the moonlight through the window appearing to make Klaus's skin ghostly, the shock of blond hair picked out against the depth of black that hung shrouding the rest of the room. He padded over, barefoot, in only his under garments. I swung the bed clothes back, welcoming him in. Once beside me I covered us both back up with the sheets. The smell of soap and clean skin filled me again. He swivelled onto his side and I instinctively raised an arm, inviting him in, my chest a less comfortable but warmer pillow. He burrowed in, his hair ticking the skin on my shoulder. He swung his arm over me, across my chest, holding me close, the warmest and most alien embrace I had ever felt. All this had been a natural reaction, given without thought, but now he had accepted my invitation it felt strange, actually holding a man this close, this intimately.

I had dreamt of holding another man at some point, if I could find someone I could trust to not betray my wicked thoughts, or compound the fear of retributions, prosecution or at best, instigate the ridicule of my peers. Someone who could keep my secrets as I would theirs. Now it was actually here, but with a circumstance that surrounded it so sad, so distressing I was unsure whether it was the correct thing to do. I lay still. My right arm curled around his shoulders, supporting him, enveloping him, holding him close. I rubbed his arm gently.

Eventually, the silence broken, "Eric, I don't want to go back to Deutschland"

"I know, I know" I said rubbing the top of his shoulder gently, "I don't want you to either"

He sniffed, "I won't be safe, not now, with them knowing I like men". He moved his hand back up from my chest, rubbing his eyes. I could feel a wet warmth on the top of my chest. He was crying again.

"It'll be different now, you'll see" I whispered into the dark, "you'll have a new government. It will get better" I said, not really believing it. In England, being like us was met with beatings, and imprisonment, both punishments often metered out by the police themselves. Losing my job at the bank was a real possibility as was my place in the orchestra. There were one or two of us at the orchestra who were like myself. The unspoken words, the small gestures, the glances passed on the code we were as one, but seldom progressed move than a small nod of acknowledgment. Germany would be no different, perhaps worse.

Klaus and I would be separated soon, he would move back to barracks, or onto another town, even back to Germany. The government had already published their plans of repatriation of prisoners. For me this was a double punishment, losing the man who I had bonded with completely but also seeing him returned to a devastated unsure country. God knows what would happen to him. I gripped him tighter, and he responded.

"Eric?" Unsure, questioning.

"Yes?"

"What we are doing, it is." He struggled for an English word, nothing an exact translation of his German, "is not right, no?"

"But it feels so right," I said, burying my nose in his hair again, breathing in his scent.

"Ya"

"The world is a mess, things that were normal have now been blown apart. Nothing is stable now, not us, not this country, or yours. Everything that was sensible, structural was been blown away, for the past five years there have been no rules to play by" my fingers stoked his arm, " All I know is that any moment this may end, and that scares me more"

Lifting his head from my chest, he looked up at me in the darkness. Leaning forward I sought his lips, brushing them against mine. The first time I had kissed anyone, man or woman. My head swam with emotions, a nagging doubt of shame, a rush of intense desire, an embarrassment I was so unskilled in what I was doing, and a yearning to rush further in. Klaus's lifted his hand, cupping my head, caressing my hair with his hand, cradling me, pulling me onto him. I relented, opening my mouth to allow his tongue entry. Running his hand through my hair, then tracing the contours of my face he headed down, his hand seeking out my neck, my chest, as his kissing grew more passionate. He found his way, down across my belly and into the front of my undergarments. I met his hand, solid and erect. He moaned softly and gently removed my under shorts.

We made love. Eventually the sun started to rise, casting its new dawns glow into the bedroom, its rays lighting the wall and then us. Eventually it was our turn to descend into darkness, to rest. We did, as one.