The Pink Triangle

Months passed. Rest only ever came at nightfall. The days were long and each hour seemed to stretch and warp until every second felt eternal. In the camp, time could not be trusted. It played tricks on the mind. Many a man had lost their wits by letting their thoughts be ensnared by time. The best thing to do was ignore it completely, and hope to God that the end of the day would come quickly.

Ferdinand flopped onto a pile of sacking, wincing as the muscles in his legs twitched and burned. Every part of his body was afflicted with a persistent soreness. Someone had said to him on the very first day of labour that it was not the first day, but the second day that was the worst. Ferdinand disagreed. He knew now that the third was worse than the second, and fourth worse than the third. Every day the pain increased. The trick was knowing how to survive it.

Every prisoner was expected to sustain themselves on one small meal a day, if they were lucky. A common punishment in the camp was to be denied food and water. The severity of the punishment depended on the badge on a person’s arm. If they had a pink triangle, they would receive a beating instead of their meal. It was not unusual to walk around camp and spot many young men with shattered noses and broken teeth. Out of all the prisoners, those wearing pink triangles were despised the most. Even the other prisoners singled them out for abuse.

Ferdinand lay back, unable to concentrate on anything but the throbbing ache in his limbs. The work was destroying his health. What little body fat he still had was rapidly melting away. Often he’d see black spots dance in front of his eyes while he worked, or his head would suddenly feel drained of blood. He had to fight to stay conscious, for to pass out was a danger in itself. Too many times he had seen fallen workers taken away and never returned. Some optimists in the camp put forward the notion that they had been hospitalised, but Ferdinand was not that naive. He knew of the pile of corpses behind the camp that was growing larger every day. Every man, woman and child in this camp was here to be worked to death. It was nothing more than a badly disguised extermination.

Through the gates stumbled a tiny figure, clutching at itself with thin limbs and wailing pitifully. Ferdinand forced himself to sit up and look closer. It was Antoine who was crying out so loudly- searching for him, no doubt. The poor boy did not realise that his cries were provoking disgust in his fellow prisoners- far from having tolerance for moments of weakness, they saw it as a way to single out fresh targets. Someone in front of Ferdinand jeered loudly and pegged a rock-hard lump of bread at the little French boy. It hit him on the side of the head and bounced off, falling into the hands of a ravenous elderly woman. Antoine ignored the shouts of abuse and pressed on, staggering through the sea of bodies and blankets. Finally he found Ferdinand’s patch of sacking and collapsed beside him.

“... Ferdi... Ferdi!” he sobbed, his fingers clutching at Ferdinand’s ragged shirt. His hands had changed since they had come to the camp. They were no longer the soft, elegant fingers of a master musician. Dirt had coloured his nails an earthy brown and yellowed calluses formed in hard lumps all over his hands. The two shortest digits on his left hand were twisted and gnarled- they had been snapped mercilessly under the sole of a Nazi boot a few weeks before. Before that event Antoine could still talk of music with a gleam of hope in his eye. Now, he seldom spoke at all.

“Sh, Antoine. Shh. I’m here,” Ferdinand whispered. He attempted to draw the French boy into his arms, but stopped suddenly. As soon as his hand had touched Antoine’s back, Antoine had winced in pain. He felt his heart sink. “What did they do to you?”

Antoine blinked tears of pain out of his eyes. “Another experiment, Ferdi! T-t-the doctor came for me and dr-dr-dragged me out of work camp and-“

“Turn around,” Ferdinand instructed firmly. He saw Antoine’s undamaged hand tremble and grasped it tightly. “Please, Antoine... Let me see.”

The French boy looked up at him, his once glimmering blue eyes dulled with pain. Wordlessly he let go of Ferdinand’s hand and turned around. The back of his shirt was soaked through with dark blood. The freshest was at the centre- it was a bright crimson that made Ferdinand’s stomach flip in disgust. Around the edges it was a crusty brown like a frame of bark. Ferdinand began to peel the shirt off Antoine’s back, murmuring apologies every time the French boy winced or stiffened. Underneath the shirt was an ugly, gaping wound, only just held together by a line of crude black stitches. Around the edges the blood had dried black and formed scabs- these stuck to the shirt and caused bits of skin to rip away from the flesh. Already new areas of trauma were starting to bleed.

“ They cut you open,” Ferdinand murmured, his eyes suddenly clouded with tears. Antoine laughed shakily.

“Oh yes, they cut me- right down my spine. Told me that they wanted see what a swish looks like on the inside. I suppose I was lucky they didn’t flip me over on the table and gut me like a fish!”

His wild laughter quickly changed back to sobs. Ferdinand stroked his arm softly, wishing he could be more of a comfort. But right now he needed to take care of Antoine’s wound, before infection set in. Already he had been forced to nurse his companion through several fevers, and he knew the boy’s immune system was weak. If the wound became gangrenous, he was dead. Luckily Ferdinand had managed to bribe a guard for a small bottle of antiseptic lotion. He had spent days hunting for dropped cigarettes to pay for the medicine. But it was worth it to safeguard Antoine’s health. Ferdinand was determined that they would both survive this.

“This might sting a little,” he said quietly, fishing the bottle out from under the sack. He uncorked it and splashed a small amount on the wound, biting his lip as Antoine shrieked in surprise. “It’s medicine, Antoine, so your wound doesn’t get infected. I don’t want you to die on me.”

Antoine’s shoulders slumped. He took a low, shuddering breath.

“Maybe I’d prefer to die, Ferdi.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Ferdinand said sharply. “You’re going to live through this- you and me both. And when we get out, we’ll finish your tour of Europe together, and you can play in the grandest concert halls while I sit and sketch the audience. And after we finish your tour, we’ll go see your parents in France, maybe find a nice apartment in Paris and spend all day lounging about talking about art. Isn’t that what you want, Antoine?”

“It was, once,” Antoine sighed. The camp had aged him. No longer was his face soft and childlike- instead, it was all harsh angles and sunken hollows. His auburn hair was matted and his fringe completely obscured his eyes. To his parents, he would be unrecognisable. “But I doubt I’ll ever play again, Ferdi. Not with my hand like this. I guess that is something else the soldiers have taken from me, huh? They weren’t content with my freedom. They had to take my music too.”

“Hush,” Ferdinand whispered. He shuffled around until he faced the French boy, raising a hand to the side of his jaw. Gently, he tilted Antoine’s head upwards until he could see his tired eyes. “We’ll fix your hand, even if it costs all the money we have. I promise you that. Just don’t lose hope. Don’t say you want to die.”

A single tear rolled down Antoine’s cheek. “But I’m so tired, Ferdi. I’m tired, I’m in pain and every day, I starve. Why can’t I wish for death?”

“Because I need you here,” Ferdinand said quietly. “I need you to keep me going. I need you so I’m not alone.”

He lifted his hand and smoothed Antoine’s hair away from his forehead. He placed a kiss on the smooth white flesh hidden there, before pressing Antoine’s face to his chest. He sat there silently as the boy wept, his tears damp against his skin. He wanted so much to take away Antoine’s pain, even if it meant suffering for him. For he had fallen in love with the frail creature sobbing in his arms, and it was a love that had more strength than any love he had ever known... and on some level, he knew it was destroying him.

“Antoine,” he said, once the worst of the sobs had passed. “Do you remember what you tried to teach me a few nights ago?”

Antoine snuffled heavily into the side of his shirt. His arms were wrapped tightly around Ferdinand’s waist. “No. What was it?”

Ferdinand chuckled quietly. “I believe you were trying to teach me how to say ‘I love you’ in French, but I annoyed you by not saying it correctly. I would love to try again, if you are willing.”

Antoine paused for a moment. He lifted his head away from Ferdinand’s chest and gave him a tentative smile.

“Je t'aime,” he said finally. “You say je t'aime if you want to say ‘I love you.’”

“Thank you,” Ferdinand said. He paused for a moment. “Antoine, je t'aime.”

“Moi aussi, je t'aime,” Antoine replied softly, snuggling against Ferdinand’s chest. “I love you too.”