The Pink Triangle

Eventually the year turned full circle. After toiling through heat, damp, rain and sleet, Christmas came again. The only way Ferdinand could tell was that the officers were perhaps a little more lenient usual. They spoke of receiving fine Sherries from their wives, and how their darling Arian children would be so thrilled with their gifts this year. Some even complained of gaining a belly from all the turkey and cranberry sauce they had been forced to consume. They likened it to torture, to being fed to death.

The skeletons that surrounded them turned their sunken eyes to the ground and tried not to think of the concave hollows where their stomachs used to be.

Ferdinand had mastered the art of staying alive. The secret was to turn off all unnecessary functions. Laughter, weeping- even talking wasted precious calories. To stay alive, one had to take a vow of silence. As well as saving energy, it also prevented beatings. It was difficult to provoke someone nonverbally. However, some didn’t need to be provoked. They would attack anyway, because that was what was in their nature.

He had not seen a mirror since before his capture. In a way, he was thankful for that. He would probably look upon his reflection without any recognition. In the days before his capture, he believed that it was impossible for him to become any more emaciated. He was wiser now. Through the year it felt as if he had lost mass in his very bones. Once he complained of looking skeletal; now he realised his whole body was as brittle as a dried twig. Where his skin was once youthful and smooth to the touched, it was dull, papery and stretched over his bones like the thin skin of a drum. In the space of a year he had turned into a non-person, a corpse stumbling around above ground. Every day he could feel the eyes of officers watching him. They were waiting for him to drop. Well, he would not drop. Not for them.

He was stronger than most- he knew that now. Most certainly he was stronger than Antoine. Poor, sweet Antoine. The boy still lived, but it wasn’t really living. At some point of the year, his mind had snapped. Perhaps it was the morning when he woke up to find he had lost two more fingers to frostbite. Or maybe it was when the Nazi doctors dissected a ligament in his upper thigh, causing him to contract an almost deadly infection. It could have even been the consequence of one beating too many- and oh, how they loved to beat Antoine. They used his small stature against him; slamming their fists into the small of his back, propelling their knees into the centre of his face. The hits to the kidneys were the worst. Ferdinand could always tell when Antoine had been hit in the kidneys. When he got up to urinate, blood would splash onto the ground.

Antoine had forgotten how to take care of himself. It was like living with a senile old man. He, like Ferdinand, had given up speaking- but it was more frightening, like the boy had no other choice. He would not eat unless Ferdinand forced him. During work parties he would drop his shovel and wander off, and Ferdinand would have to bring him back before an officer decided to pick him off with a shot from his rifle. The worst was his sudden incontinence. He would sit on the ground with an absent expression on his face, unaware of the fluid dripping through the seat of his trousers. Sometimes this would anger Ferdinand, and he would scold the French boy like an infant. But Antoine didn’t seem to hear him. And then Ferdinand would break his careful silence and weep. He would weep for his guilt, for what had become of them all. But most of all, he would weep for the loss of the boy he fallen in love with.

Sometimes, during these moments, he would lose hope. He did not think he could survive another year waiting for rescue; a rescue that in all likelihood would never come. The outside world had forgotten the names of Ferdinand Shriver and Antoine Bonhomme. By now another tenant would be in his apartment and all his belongings would have been thrown to the beggars. If he ever returned, it would be like he had never existed.

In these times, he remembered what Antoine had said- that he would prefer to die. In the state he was in, perhaps it would be kinder to just let him slip away. Perhaps when the next sickness came, Ferdinand would not help him fight it. He would do his love a kindness and let him go. But could he bear to see Antoine suffer through sickness? He was not sure he could let himself stand by if the boy was in pain. Maybe it was better to take things into his own hands. He had heard tales of doctors in the camp that put patients out of their misery- mercy killings, they called it. Could he do the same to Antoine? He did not have the right drugs, but there were other ways. While the boy slept, he could gently place the sacking over his face and hold it down until the breath was gone from his body. But truthfully, he knew he was not capable of that either. He was too selfish. He needed Antoine. The boy was the only one he was keeping his strength for. If he lost him, he feared he might also lose what little sanity he had left.

So he waited. He waited for an opportunity. Each day while working, he studied the high barbed wire fences, the cold concrete buildings. He was searching for a weak point- a breach in the guards’ defences. All it would take was one moment of carelessness and he and Antoine could be free again. The thought of escape consumed him- he could think of nothing else. He would take Antoine to his concert halls. He would sit and sketch the audience. All he needed was a chance of escape. Just one chance.

They were digging latrines in the yard when it happened. A group of red-faced soldiers staggered towards them, laughing boisterously. Ferdinand stopped digging and laid his shovel on the ground. Protectively he edged in front of Antoine, suspicious of these men. An officer approached him and gave him a merry slap across the shoulder. Ferdinand didn’t react. He merely stared at the men in front of him/

“Come, you two!” the officer shouted. He swayed where he stood. The smell of cheap wine wafted from his mouth. “We have a special duty! No more digging, no more digging- come with us please, sirs!”

“What do you want?” Ferdinand croaked. His voice was dry from lack of use. The officers laughed heartily.

“You’ll see, you’ll see- all in good time, mein Herr. Follow us, please. We are going on a little excursion! Bring your little friend, yes- always room for more! Come along!”

Ferdinand’s eyes narrowed. He was certain they were trying to rope them into something- a group experiment, or a fatal trip to the showers. It was common knowledge that the drunken officers were always the most brutal and unpredictable. The alcohol freed their urge to kill, their urge to destroy. Only last week four prisoners had been doused in petrol and set alight- just after a Christmas party. They burned in the night like human candles, their screaming faces melting like wax. But to refuse the orders of an officer was to invite an execution. There was really no choice in the matter. They had to follow.

Silently he took Antoine’s hand and began to walk after the officers. Antoine followed along without any struggle, humming to himself quietly. To Ferdinand, it almost sounded like a piece by Bach. A few weeks ago he would have welcomed that as a sign of Antoine’s return to clarity, but it was not so. Antoine hummed pieces of music constantly. If anything, it was another facet of his delirium.

The officers led them towards the back gate of the compound. As they passed a certain building, Ferdinand shuddered involuntarily. He tried not to look too closely at the bullet holes peppering the surface of the wall, or the dried brown stains on the grey concrete. That wall was where most executions took place, and he breathed a sigh of relief once they had passed it.

One of the officers approached the large iron gate, taking a ring of keys from his jacket pocket. Idly he swung them about, whistling an old German tune to himself. Ferdinand watched the metal glitter in the cold sunlight, utterly transfixed. In that moment, those keys were the most beautiful things in the world. Smiling, the officer lowered them and fitted one into the lock. With a small click, it was undone and the gates were pushed open. Ferdinand felt his breath hitch in his chest. He was looking out onto an open field for the first time in a year. For once, the snowy white grounds were not obscured by lines of iron bars. He was gazing upon the freedom that haunted his every waking thought.

“Move forward, please,” the officer at the gate instructed, pointing out at the field. “Outside the gate.”

Ferdinand moved slowly, feeling as if he was in a dream. An officer moved behind him and shoved him in the back, forcing him to increase his pace. He pulled Antoine along with him, stepping into the centre of the field. The air was crisp and cool. Underneath his feet, he could feel the blades of frost-covered grass. He struggled to stop tears from springing to his eyes. He had missed grass the most.

“That’s good, centre field!” an officer called out merrily. Something black and shiny gleamed in his hand. Ferdinand squinted, trying to see what the object was. He was suddenly filled with a sense of foreboding. “But mien Herr, could you turn to your side? So your left side is facing us, please- yes, that is fine. Now... just stay still. Stay very still.”

The soldier lifted the object in front of him, pointing it towards the triangle on Antoine’s shoulder. And suddenly, Ferdinand realised what it was. The solider was holding a pistol. They were being used for target practice.

The barrel of the gun stared at them like an empty black eye. The soldier’s fat pink thumb eased in behind the trigger, slowly pressing forward. There was a muffled bang and Ferdinand heard himself shout something out- a name, a warning, he couldn’t tell what, didn’t care either because there were bullets flying through the air straight towards Antoine and the stupid boy was just standing there-

This was their chance. They had to run now. If they didn’t, they would die.

To Ferdinand’s amazement, the first bullet missed Antoine entirely. It went soaring over his left shoulder and into the forest behind him. But not all of them would miss. One would eventually find its mark.

“Antoine!” he screamed, running towards the boy. His legs felt shaky underneath him- they had forgotten how to move so quickly and he wasn’t sure how long they could hold out. “Antoine! Grab my hand!”

Antoine turned his head and stared at Ferdinand, his blue eyes utterly blank. His arms stayed flat at his sides. Ferdinand swore and kept running. By now, the soldiers had realised something was up. He could hear shouts behind him- the sound of more guns behind fired. He curled his hand around Antoine’s wrist and yanked the boy forward. Together they stumbled over the uneven ground while bullets whistled through the air, sprinting towards the forest as fast as their withered legs could carry them.

“Come on, Antoine,” Ferdinand panted, dragging the boy behind him. “Come on- just into the forest. We can rest when we get to the forest!”

His lungs were on fire. Every time he breathed it felt like the air was laced with mustard gas. All he could hear was the crunching of boots over the frost-covered ground. The soldiers would pursue, but not for long. He hoped to God a bullet didn’t catch him or Antoine in the leg. If that happened, they might as well be dead.

The plain of grass turned into leaf litter and dirt. They had made it into the forest. Ferdinand laughed wildly. Perhaps they would make it after all. Behind him, he felt Antoine jerk forwards, stumbling into his back. Ferdinand grasped the boy’s hand tighter and kept running. He had probably tripped over a tree root. There was a large circle of shrubs in front of them- they could hide there and rest for awhile, before continuing with their journey. He dove forward with Antoine in tow, landing in the middle of a wide leafy bush. He rolled over on the ground, his thin lips parted in a victorious smile. They were out. They were free!

“Antoine!” he cried out joyously. “Antoine, we’ve made it! We can go see your concertos! We can get that apartment in Paris! No more soldiers, no more beatings- we are safe, Antoine! Safe at last!”

The French boy didn’t reply. Ferdinand propped himself up on his elbows, looking up at him. Antoine was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest, hugging himself with his tiny frail arms. His face had an odd, pale sheen to it and his breathing was ragged - though Ferdinand assumed that was from the run. He stared at Ferdinand with eyes that looked like black holes torn in his white face. His lips moved soundlessly.

“What’s the matter, Antoine?” Ferdinand asked. He scrambled up onto his knees, moving closer to the boy. “Are you all right?”

Antoine shook his head slowly. He opened his mouth to speak- and a thin stream of blood bubbled down his chin. For a moment his young blue eyes were filled with surprise- he touched a hand to his mouth and lifted his bloodstained fingers to his mouth, studying them closely. Then with a small sigh, he fell forward, his tiny face planting into the ground.

In the centre of his shoulder blades was a small dark hole, surrounded by blossoms of blood.

“No,” Ferdinand breathed. The elation he had felt only moments before had vanished, replaced by a dull hollow ache. Slowly he lifted Antoine away from the ground, cradling him in his thin arms. The French boy gazed up at him with glassy eyes, his pink mouth slightly open in a soft “o” of surprise. Ferdinand brushed the crumbs of dirt on his face away with trembling fingers. This was not how it was supposed to end. They were meant to escape to France! They were meant to spend the rest of their lives together, living in harmonious bliss! Hadn’t he just said? No more soldiers, no more beatings. It was supposed to be their time now!

He flinched as a tear fell from his eye and splashed onto Antoine’s pallid cheek. Wasn’t that all they had talked of while trapped in that place? Wasn’t that the one thing that had kept his will strong, his mind intact? He couldn’t lose him now- not just after they had escaped. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair.

“Hey,” he whispered. His voice felt choked, like his heart was stuck in his throat. “Hey, it’s all right. We can fix this. I can get you to a doctor now. We’ll still get to Paris.”

Antoine merely let his eyelids flutter closed, his head falling to one side. Ferdinand shook him roughly.

“No! Stop that! Stay awake, you hear me? You hear me, Antoine? We are going to Paris! You are going to a doctor and then we are going to Paris!”

Antoine lifted his head feebly, half-opening his eyes. Ferdinand laughed shakily, his cheeks wet with tears.

“See? You can do it- you’ve always been strong. So, so strong. I know you can hold on, for me. Just hold on for me, please!”

With difficulty Antoine raised his right hand, placing a small finger across Ferdinand’s lips. He gave him a weak smile and shook his head.

“I was never... the strong one, Ferdi,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “That was... you.”

Ferdinand shook his head violently. For a moment he hated Antoine’s smile, hated feeling his finger pressing on his lips. That smile- that smile was Antoine’s way of giving up. He couldn’t let him go. He couldn’t let him leave him here. Not now. Not after all this.

“Don’t say that, Antoine- don’t say that! You have to stay with me!”

“...Je t'aime... Ferdi...”

His arm fell, and with one last shuddering breath, he was still.

Ferdinand felt a high, keening wail rip itself from his throat. He hunched over Antoine’s lifeless form, pressing the boy’s tiny head to his chest. In this dead boy lay the destruction of his whole world. Now when he thought of the future, instead of seeing grand concert halls and an apartment in Paris, he saw... nothing. Let the Nazis come and take him. Let them stand him against the wall and spray him with bullets. Let them force him to fall, to die alone spread out on a dirt floor. It didn’t matter now. Nothing did.

For a long time that was how he stayed. Hours passed and he still sat there, holding Antoine’s cold lifeless body. Around him, the forest was still. Not a creature approached him in his time of grief, not even the smallest of insects. When rain splattered through the leaves of the trees above him, he felt as if even the sky was weeping for his loss.

Soon he was soaked to the bone and shivering uncontrollably. Droplets of water dripped from his hair onto Antoine’s still face- he gently dried them away with the base of his shirt. He supposed Antoine looked peaceful, and for that he was thankful- after a year of such torment, he deserved to find peace. If he ignored the gauntness of his face, and the tangles in his hair he could almost pretend that it was the Antoine he had met over a year ago. He could pretend that the boy who stood next to him in that long line of men had never lost his bright smile or the excited gleam in his wide blue eyes. He could pretend that instead of a year of hell, they had had a year of discussing their favourite concertos and travelling up and down the length of Europe.

He could pretend, and through his pretence, let go.

It was time to leave this place. Ferdinand carefully placed Antoine on the ground, brushing his curls out of his eyes. He lifted Antoine’s damaged hand and tucked it inside the folds of his shirt. Even in death, he knew the French boy would have his vanities. He wished that he still had Antoine’s blue blazer, so that he could drape it over him and protect him from the rain. But that had disappeared long ago. One of the soldiers had decided he liked and stripped it off the poor boy, only leaving him his pink triangle.

Ferdinand wondered whether he should remove the triangle from Antoine’s shoulder and decided it against it. Let whoever found him see it, and recognise Antoine for what he was. Antoine wouldn’t care. He would want them to see that he had suffered, and learn something from it- that no matter what they did to him, he couldn’t help being who he was. What he was.

Ferdinand knew he couldn’t leave just yet. Something was missing. Lying there in the shadow of the shrubs, Antoine looked incomplete. He needed something of Ferdinand’s- a part of him to take with him to the grave, so he knew that Ferdinand had not left him to rot. Ferdinand’s hand instinctively went to the seam of his shirt, where months before he had sewn a secret pocket. Yes. He knew what he had to leave with Antoine. It was only fitting.

Slowly, he drew his precious silver pen out of its hiding place. He cradled it between his fingers, rubbing his thumb over the familiar engraved lettering. Somehow, he knew his Mother would understand if he left it here. After all... She was a lost love herself. Slowly he bent down over Antoine’s body, clipping the pen to the inside of his collar where no scavengers could see it. He held it for a moment, moving so his mouth was just above Antoine’s ear.

“Take care of it for me,” he whispered. “I’ll come back for it and you someday- I promise.”

He let go of the pen and pressed his lips to Antoine’s cold cheek, just like he had done every night they spent in that horrible camp. He drew back reverently, stroking the boy’s auburn hair one last time.

“Moi aussi, je t'aime.”

It was all that needed to be said.