The Pink Triangle

When he looked back upon the events years later, he remembered that it started with snowfall.

He remembered how the snowflakes had danced through the air, alighting on the branches of trees and painting their boughs a glittering silver. How the courtyard lay under a blanket of pure white, cold and serene as the lines of soldiers marched to and fro. Their large black boots stomped down on the drifts of snow, obliterating them into icy fragments that clung to the legs of their trousers. Each polished boot fell in time and each time they did, it felt like an ultimatum. We are superior to you, proclaimed those big black boots. We are superior and we will stamp you out.

At the other side of the courtyard, a group of civilians huddled together, trying desperately to keep warm. Some were dressed in their street clothes, others in pyjamas and heavy dressing gowns. One unfortunate soul stood in thin undergarments; his bony arms his only shelter from the bitter winter chill. A large scarlet boot-print stood out on the pale skin of his stomach. This was the first victim of the boots.

And where was he? He had been but a boy- twenty two years old and still wet behind the ears. Although he supposed he did not feel like a boy back then. No, he thought of himself as a young Bohemian in the unassuming guise of a clerk. Willing to live modestly for his art, but not to starve. After all, he could not create if he was dead.

He remembered now- he had let himself be pushed to the back, taking refuge behind the motley crowd. He did not care to listen to the hisses and whispers that travelled from ear to ear. Each time they spoke, the words blurred and the message distorted. It was obvious they were pretending. Not one of them knew the real reason as to why they had been rounded up like stray dogs. Not one of them could rationalise why they had been dragged out of their bed and into the street, or why they had been escorted from their office by a grim-faced Gestapo officer. Germany had descended into an age of censorship and the common man had no choice but to remain ignorant. And however much they muttered to each other, it would never make up for such a lack of knowledge.

That boy- the boy he once was- leant against a concrete wall, his frozen hands shoved deep in his pockets. He was a wisp of a boy, one with impressive height but still skinny as a rake. Every part of his body ended in an angle. His elbows were too pointed and bruised easily, while his legs looked so brittle that he often marvelled why they did not collapse underneath him. Under his thin crumpled shirt, large ugly grooves lurked under his collarbone and in between his ribs. Skeleton man, he called his reflection, turning away from the mirror as he dressed. All bones and no flesh. Hot prickles of shame plagued him every time he caught sight of his emaciated form. A fine German man was suppose to be strong and well-built, with calves as thick as tree-trunks and a chest like a beer barrel. In comparison, his waifish appearance was laughable and almost certainly signified some sort of genetic deficiency.

However, facially he supposed he was sound. His cheekbones, although they stuck out too far, were high and well formed. His eyes at the very least could be described as unique. They were a dark yellowish-hazel- the same colour as his Mother’s, or so his father proclaimed. Ferdi, he would boom from his seat by the fire, with a heartiness Ferdinand would grow to associate with his childhood nickname, Ferdi, my boy, I have only seen one other with such strange eyes in this land, and that was your dear mother. Maybe God left me a part of her in you, eh?

Ferdinand had never had the chance to look upon his Mother. The event of his birth was bittersweet- while he had burst into the world with a clatter of scalpels and forceps; she had quietly slipped out of it. His father loved him dearly, of course, and never showed any resentment towards his only son. But every year there was one day where his Father succumbed to grief. It was the anniversary of Ferdinand’s birth, and his Mother’s death.

Ferdi, he whispered solemnly on the dusk of Ferdinand’s thirteenth, you are changing. You are becoming a man, my boy and your Mother and I- we had this saying, that a man is only as good as the words he writes. That a true man knows the pen is mightier than the sword, so it goes without saying that his pen must be twice as glorious as any weapon. The old German paused, taking a speckled blue handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbing at his heavily lined eyes. Wordlessly, he reached for a navy blue box on a low wooden table and handed it to his son. His large brown hands trembled- whether from his age, or nervousness, Ferdinand could not tell. Your Mother and I bought this for you three weeks before you were born, Ferdi. How happy she was- I remember how she glowed, with her big mink coat wrapped around her swollen belly. She got the pen engraved… She said she wanted to make sure if you ever lost it, it would always come back to you.. Well, go on, Ferdi. Take a look.

Ferdinand cracked open the box slowly, hardly daring to let a breathe escape from his narrow chest. He felt like an explorer coming across the treasures of a lost tomb. Slowly, he slid the lid off and placed it on the table. Nestled in a bed of blue velvet was the finest silver fountain pen he had ever laid eyes upon. Even in the dim light it seemed to shine out iridescently to him, urging him to pick it up and place its nib to paper. And on the side engraved in the most delicate of cursive, was his name. Ferdinand Shriver.

The pen quickly became one of his most prized possessions, which was why as soon as the Gestapo had shown up on the doorstep of his office, he had hurriedly shoved it down his left sock. It sat there now, digging into his ankle every time he wriggled his foot. He wanted so much to retrieve it and feel its comforting weight between his fingers. But it was too risky. He had seen numerous men in the crowd having their watches ripped off by officers- those with fine gold neck chains ran the risk of being strangled; such was the urgency of the soldiers’ greed.

Ferdinand noticed the feet of the men in front shuffling backwards, and looked up. A young Gestapo officer was pacing in front of the crowd, his heels clipping together smartly with every step. He stuck out a leather-gloved hand and roughly pushed back the ragged edges of the crowd.

“Line up!” he barked, rubbing his hand furiously against the hem of his jacket. He spat on the lapel of a straggler, jabbing at him with the butt of his gun. His clear grey eyes were completely devoid of compassion- instead, hatred glinted coldly in the very depths of his dark pupils. “Get into line! Now!”

The officer looked like he had been carved out of marble. His white-blonde hair was plastered to his skull, enhancing his hawkish features. Under his sharply pressed uniform his muscles bulged and rippled alarming. Save for his clothes, he was colourless- a menacing wraith of a man. Ferdinand quickly wedged himself between the shoulders of two men, dropping his eyes to the ground to avoid the officer’s stern gaze. This, he knew, was someone not to be trifled with.

“He would benefit from a little light relaxation, no?” said a voice from Ferdinand’s left. Ferdinand swivelled his neck, peering over his raised shoulder. He could just see a shock of unruly auburn hair curling over the collar of a navy blue blazer.

“Do you not agree? He would have such better- how you say- people skills, if he took the time to smell the roses,” the boy to his left continued, confident that he held Ferdinand’s attention. He turned his face towards Ferdinand, brushing a clump of curls away from his forehead. He smiled; each tooth as white and perfect as a pearl button. “Oh, forgive me, I am so rude. My name is Antoine Bonhomme.”

A French name. He was French, most likely a student completing studies abroad. It explained his oddly spoken German, though it was not an unpleasant oddness. Not at all. The accent had a rich, smooth quality to it like dark, spiced chocolate dripping off a lacquered wooden spoon. It made his insides radiated with sudden warmth- not dissimilar to the sensation of swallowing a drop of brandy. After a moment Ferdinand realised Antoine was looking up at him expectantly- no doubt waiting for him to also reveal his name. He felt his face grow warm with embarrassment.

“I’m Ferdi- Uh, Ferdinand. Ferdinand Shriver,” he replied, uncomfortably aware of his flushing cheeks. Antoine’s smile grew wider, almost splitting his small foxy face in two.

“Ferdi! How delightful!” he cried, clasping his hands together. Each digit was small and perfectly formed, just like the hands of a child. Ahead in the line, the Gestapo officer twirled around. His grey eyes narrowed as he scanned the faces of the terrified citizens. To Ferdinand’s horror, Antoine continued to chatter merrily, ignorant of the danger that increased with each word.

“Well, I think we shall be quite good companions, Ferdi- are you still a student? I am a student. A student of music! My parents sent to me to a German conservatory to further my studies. One day, I am hoping to play a concerto of my own composition in front of tens and thousands of people! Can’t you just imagine it, Ferdi? Rows upon rows of them, sitting in velvet seats just to watch me play! I cannot think of anything I would rather do-“

The Gestapo officer had made his way down the line and was loaming over the diminutive French boy , his fingers tapping impatiently on the barrel of his gun.

“- and to think, it was I who was blessed with such a gift! A wondrous gift! It is impossible for me to picture a life without music- without creation! Oh, pardon, I forget that not all creatives are musicians. There are artists, writers- but I know it would not be the same for me. You see, I was born to compose, Ferdi. I know it in my heart-“

“Antoine!” Ferdinand hissed. He didn’t dare break his gaze away from the officer, whose jaw was set in a cold, ruthless smile. The smile, he thought, of a steel trap about to clamp shut around someone’s ankle.

“-it is like air to me, Ferdi! If I couldn’t do it, I think I would die! I remember days when I had run out of paper and couldn’t purchase more- I started drawing staves on the very walls in thick black ink! My land-lady was furious! Though I soon sweetened her with an advance on three months’ worth of rent! You know, Ferdi, you should come visit me- in fact, I insist it! I can run down to the delicatessen and pick up some little cakes and we can spend the whole afternoon discussing-“

“That,” the Gestapo officer growled, “is quite enough.”

Antoine merely looked at the soldier, an affronted expression on his face. His reaction was more suited to a guest at a party being interrupted in the middle of an anecdote. The blasé nature of his reaction chilled Ferdinand to the very depths of his bones. Did he not understand? Could he not feel the tension in the air- tension so thick it was almost suffocating? But no-it was clear from his expression. The French boy did not understand. He was too innocent.

Too innocent to realise that the man in front of him could take his life without remorse- like swatting a fly.

“Pardon, sir. I was just in the middle of a conversation-“ he began, tilting his head slightly to the side. A leather-clad fist connected with his jaw. There was a sickening crack and Antoine collapsed to the ground. He rolled over in the snow, flecks of white all over the back of his blazer. He clutched at the side of his face, his complexion suddenly ashen. He gazed up at the officer with an expression of utter bewilderment.

“Why did you do that?” he cried out. His only reply was a brutal kick to the stomach. Antoine fell forward, retching and gasping for air. Flecks of yellow bile flecked onto the snow- dangerously closed to the Gestapo’s polished black boot. The officer saw this and snarled in disgust.

“French swine!” he hissed, placing his heel on the back of Antoine’s neck. He leant forward and Antoine shrieked in pain. The officer shifted the weight of his boot and Antoine’s screams turned into gurgles- his windpipe was being crushed between the sole of the shoe and the ground. Ferdinand stared as the French boy struggled; transfixed by the pure brutality he was witnessing. What he was looking upon was a determination to kill- a kind of viciousness he had only ever stumbled across in the pages of newspapers. It was all too easy to read about women being battered to death or children smothered- to peruse the grim columns of newsprint without any greater understanding. But this- this was different.

This was real.

“Stop!”

Before he could stop himself, Ferdinand lurched towards the soldier, grabbing him by the shoulders of his jacket. For a moment, the whole world seemed to slow. His ears were filled with a dull roar, broken up only by the beat of his heart. He watched as his fingers tightened around the material of the soldier’s uniform. The muscles in his arms contracted and he pulled- harder than he ever pulled in his life. Suddenly, motion returned to the world. The soldier teetered, caught off balance. Ferdinand yanked again, this time with more force.

“Stop! He can’t breathe! He can’t breathe!”

The soldier fell back. His foot slipped off Antoine’s neck and skidded across the ground. The little French boy lay prone in the snow, his auburn curls plastered to the back of his neck. For one terrifying moment Ferdinand feared he was too late. Antoine’s body looked lifeless- one small hand lay unfurled at his side like a wilted lily. But after a moment his shoulders shuddered and from his mouth came a loud, hacking cough. Ferdinand dropped to his knees and helped lift the French boy into a sitting position. He was heavier than expected. Underneath his blazer he was stocky and blessed with well-formed muscles. Ferdinand supposed his physique was gained from a diet of rich university food and hours spent carting around heavy instruments.

The small French boy leant back against his chest, the top of his head barely touching Ferdinand’s collar bone. A red welt was already appearing on the nape of his neck. Occasionally his breath would catch in his throat and through his jacket, Ferdinand could feel his heart hammering. He was not the jovial creature he had been prior to his beating. Antoine had metamorphosed into a shivering, whimpering bundle of nerves, clinging to Ferdinand like an infant clings to its mother’s breast. Maybe he was in shock. In that case, he would need to get to somewhere warm, and soon. A cup of tea would be ideal- but of course, what kind of self-respecting Gestapo officer would offer a prisoner tea? Because, Ferdinand realised, that was what they all were. Prisoners. And this treatment- this violent, brutal treatment- was just a way for the Gestapo to put them in their place.

“Can you stand?” he asked Antoine after a few moments. He felt uneasy about remaining on the ground for so long, like he was singling himself out as a target for abuse. It was a miracle in itself that the hawk-faced Gestapo officer had neglected to give him a solid beating for his earlier insubordination. Perhaps he was biding his time.

“Oui, I think so, if you help me,” Antoine mumbled. His eyes still had a strange glassiness to them. Slowly, he eased himself onto his knees- and promptly fell backwards, straight into Ferdinand’s arms.

“I’m sorry, friend,” the French boy said softly, his large blue eyes only just visible under his messy fringe. Ferdinand felt a twinge go through his heart. Antoine had the expression of a wounded dog- faithful and with unyielding trust for his master. He closed his eyes for a moment, thick black lashes resting on the tops of his smooth cheeks. “I seem to be feeling a touch weak. Let me try again.”

“In line! In line!” came a shout from the opposite end of the courtyard. Ferdinand glanced upwards. Three soldiers were surveying the group of men, one with a dark wooden box tucked under his arm. They stopped at each man, taking their left arm and pressing something to their shoulder. If someone struggled, they were subdued with a blow to the stomach. The officers did not like having their time wasted.

“Come on,” he muttered to Antoine. “I’ll lift you. Ready?”

He wrapped his arms around Antoine’s chest and heaved him upright, his legs trembling as he supported their joint weight. It was difficult to balance- he could feel Antoine slipping against the silk lining of his blazer. He didn’t dare let go of the French boy least he fall forward and damage himself even more. Finally Antoine managed to steady himself, and asked quietly that Ferdinand let him go. Ferdinand dropped his arms and stepped to the side, letting Antoine stand next to him in the space he had newly created. It was just in time. The three soldiers with the box had almost reached their section of the line, and the self-satisfied smirks on their faces were undeniable.

“Name?” an officer asked curtly, a wooden clipboard balanced on his palm. Here was another Arian, another example of German perfection. Underneath his cap his hair was a fine golden blond and slightly curled at the ends, and his eyes were the deep rich blue of the ocean. At this moment his expression was stern, but around his eyes and mouth were traces of past smiles. He looked like the sort of man that went home every day to the smell of roasting meat and the tinkling laughter of his children. Ferdinand knew the type. A typical family man with the job of a monster.

“Ferdinand Shriver,” Ferdinand replied. He let his eyes wander over the faces of the other two men. They were both unremarkable- almost clones of each other, with their slicked back hair and smart green uniforms. They were the kind of men Ferdinand saw at clubs he frequented, the ones that always lurked in the darkest corners with a glass filled with ice... and left in the early hours with a man on their arm.

These clubs were no secret in Germany. Or at least, they never used to be. It was considered perfectly natural for a young gentleman to spend an evening in such a place, consorting with other like-minded gentlemen. They were places for speaking ones’ mind, for debating politics and religion, for sharing views on art, poetry and occasionally drinks. And if after a delightful evening, two strangers decided they wanted to continue their conversations in a more private setting... So be it.

Ferdinand could remember his very first visit to such a place. It was an idea suggested by his Bohemian friends one day, after they had noticed Ferdinand’s utter disinterest in public drinking houses. Three women had approached him that particular night and he had ignored all of them. Even when one had trailed her fingernails over the nape of his neck, he had merely continued to stare into the base of his glass. This did not pass by unnoticed. At the end of the night, one of his friends sidled up to him- a scruffy lad in a large grey overcoat that had a habit of tucking cigarettes behind his ear. He handed Ferdinand a small card, and whispered that if Ferdinand was what he thought he was, he would find more excitement in a place like this. After Ferdinand pocketed the card, he made himself scarce and Ferdinand returned home.

It took him more than a week to pluck up the courage to visit such a place. Every evening he paced in front of his mirror, haphazardly tossing jackets and shirts around the room. He promised himself that if he could find the right combination of garments, he would depart for the club at once. Each night he found himself a little closer to the right blend of clothing, of shades and materials. But every time he went to put on his hat, he swore vehemently and tore off his outfit, tossing it onto his growing pile of rejected items. Nothing felt right.

Then one night, out of sheer exasperation, he gave up. He knew he was making excuses not to go. Truthfully, he was frightened of what he might discover. Love was a side of human nature he had never found much interest in... At least, not until someone had pointed out his utter disinterest in the women around him. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps his affections did belong to other gentlemen. And so what if they did? Germany was not like the rest of the world. A man could seek male company in Berlin without fearing for his freedom.

The club looked unassuming from the outside. It was a plain, sturdy wooden and plaster building- one of the few that had survived the turmoil of the Great War. At the door stood a slim gentleman in a brown velvet suit. He saw Ferdinand and nodded knowingly, holding the door open for him. Inside was a different world altogether. The foyer of the building was bathed in a soft reddish glow. Dim gas lamps lined the side of the staircase. From upstairs came the sound of laughter and champagne corks popping. Hesitantly Ferdinand climbed the stairs and stepped through into the bar. Around him floated aromas of aftershave and cigar smoke. The place was furnished with red leather seats and squashy sofas, and on the right side of the room was a bar carved from fine ebony. In every section of the room men’s voices could be heard. Ferdinand remembered clinging to the door frame, dazed by the wondrous sight before him. For the first time in years he felt a sense of belonging.

“Ah, Herr Shriver,” the officer said, his pen flicking over his clipboard. Ferdinand forced himself to focus and met the man’s eyes. “Yes, the pink for you. Hold out your arm.”

“My left?”

“Jawohl. Quickly. We do not have time to waste.”

Ferdinand obeyed the order and stuck out his arm. The soldier turned to his comrades and beckoned for the box to be brought closer. He rummaged around inside it, finally pulling out a triangle of pink fabric. He roughly slapped it onto the sleeve of Ferdinand’s coat with a satisfied grunt. Ferdinand regarded it with confusion.

“Why did you give me this?”

The officer snorted. “You don’t know, do you? Not many of you seem to. Maybe if you did, half of you wouldn’t be here. Did you not hear about what our Hitler Youth did to the Institute of Sex Research? The Fuehrer doesn’t take kindly to threats to his Master Race. The only thing saved from the burning was the lists of homosexuals in Germany. And that, Herr Shriver, is why you have a pink triangle. You have been arrested for engaging in degenerate homosexual activities and will be sent shortly to a labour camp for rehabilitation. Good day, Herr Shriver.”

On that final note, the officers tramped away to disperse more badges. Ferdinand stood frozen, staring at the pink material fixed to his coat sleeve. His brain felt like it had turned into a slow, sludgy soup. It couldn’t be true. Surely his country had not changed that drastically. Germany was meant to be a safe haven for men like him. But now they were being persecuted? How could someone be persecuted for something they could not help? He had never asked for these thoughts, these feelings. They had just occurred as naturally as a flower sprouting from soft soil. It was who he was, his identity. He could not be condemned for that, surely. And yet here he was- being taken to a prison camp. His whole world felt like it had been inverted.

“You too, huh?” a soft voice spoke beside him. Ferdinand felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down. Antoine was clutching his cuff, his left shoulder thrust towards him. A pink triangle dangled from his blazer. Antoine dipped his head bashfully, the corners of his lips quirked up in a small smile. “I was hoping you might be.”

He took Ferdinand’s hand between his and squeezed it gently. “Do not worry mon ami. It is all a misunderstanding. We shall be released soon enough, and perhaps then we can have our talk in my apartment. Until then, I am sure we will be capable of looking after each other, yes?”

Ferdinand could only nod in return. He did not trust himself to speak. Not yet. He watched numbly as the hawk-faced soldier returned, dragging a wooden box behind him. He hopped on top of it with surprising gracefulness, a silver megaphone clutched in his right hand.

“All prisoners will proceed to the west exit of the courtyard!” he shouted into the device. “You will line
up and be sorted into trucks that will take you to the Labour Camp! Any stragglers will be dealt with severely!”

Immediately the line of men began to move forward. Those who had witnessed Antoine’s beating had no desire to be “dealt” with. Ferdinand was quickly swept up by the crowd. They buffeted him along until he reached the West gate, where the line suddenly halted. Ten large black trucks were lined up in the lane, all emblazoned with the symbol of the Secret Service. At the head of the line was an elderly officer. He peered down his spectacles at the men before him, searching for the symbols on their shoulders. Once he had identified them, a group of officers came to sort them into a truck. They were not very gentle. From the looks of things, the officers were throwing men in on top of each other, with no regard for the prisoners’ comfort or safety. Ferdinand spun around, frantically searching the crowd for Antoine’s small face. In all the commotion of the journey he had accidentally let Antoine’s hand slip from his own. When minutes passed and he still could not see the French boy’s face, he became filled with anxiety. The thought of being alone in the back of one of those trucks terrified him.

A shout came from the front of the crowd. Ferdinand had been spotted. Within seconds he was surrounded by a selection of Gestapo officers- all well-built and grim-faced. One of them grabbed his arms and yanked them behind his back, while the others pressed up against his shoulders. Together they roughly pushed him over to the back of a truck, before suddenly hoisting him into the air. Ferdinand heard three counts and suddenly no hands supported him. He felt the air rushed past his ears as he fell back into the truck, landing against a section of the wall with a loud crash. Around him men stirred and groaned, obviously recovering from their own rough journeys. Ferdinand huddled against the wall, petrified by the darkness surrounding him. Where were they headed? And where was Antoine?

Time passed and more and more men were shoved into the truck. The space became a sea of bodies; a claustrophobic carpet of arms and legs. Ferdinand supposed he was luckier than most. He had managed to crawl into a corner, and at least had room to move his head and to breathe. He pitied those who were pinned on the very bottom. It was all too likely some would suffocate before the conclusion of their journey. He hoped wherever Antoine was, he had space to breathe.

That was when he heard it. A noise in the darkness- only a little more than a groan. It called out to him, seeking him among the pile of bodies. “Ferdi? Ferdi? Are you in here?”

“Antoine?” Ferdinand croaked. He could not bring himself to believe it. He supposed it was possible for the boy to have been sorted into the same truck, but he sounded so close! Tentatively he reached out, brushing his hand along the wall of legs in front of him. “Antoine, I’m here! Where are you?”

“To your right, I think,” came the reply. “Hold on- I think I can wriggle towards you. Excuse me, gentlemen... Merci, merci- oh, pardon!”

Ferdinand fell someone fall heavily across his legs and yelped.

“Sorry, Ferdi. That was clumsy of me,” Antoine whispered, giggling quietly. “Could you lift your arm? It will make this a bit easier on the both of us, as well as the gentlemen around us.”

Ferdinand did as he was requested and the French boy slithered into the nook under his arm, leaning his head against Ferdinand’s shoulder. For a moment Ferdinand debated shrugging away from Antoine, as he was not entirely comfortable with this sudden display of affection. But he soon weakened- after all, he was headed to a strange place, surrounded by men he did not know. It was a comfort to have someone beside him.

“Where do you think we’re headed, Antoine?” he asked. He felt the French boy shrug.

“I do not know. A work camp of some sort. It could be anywhere. I am not frightened, though. You see, I am confident this unpleasantness will be cleared up in a matter of weeks. And when it is, I will make sure that brute of an officer suffers the consequences of his actions. Just you wait!”

Ferdinand was surprised by Antoine’s optimism. He had gathered the boy was of a sunnier disposition than most, but this was bordering on naivety. He could not bring himself to argue, though. As much as he hated to admit it, a part of him hoped that Ferdinand was correct and all would be well soon enough. Besides, he was tired. The stress of the day had worn him out completely. He let his head droop forward, using the French boy as a support.

“Wake me when we arrive, Antoine?” he murmured sleepily. Antoine laughed quietly.

“Only if I am also awake, Ferdi my friend.”

In a matter of minutes the two were fast asleep, using each others’ shoulders as makeshift pillows. They slept among the mess of bodies, gently rocked by the motion of the truck travelling along a long dirt road.

It was the last truly peaceful sleep they would have for a long time.