The Pink Triangle

Mr Ferdinand Shriver sat by his kitchen window, admiring the array of colours in the flowerbeds of his garden. Spring had been good to him this year garden. None of his flowers had been late to bloom. They moved languidly in the breeze, swaying from side to side like little hula dancers. Ferdinand nodded appreciatively to himself, lifting himself out of his chair with a grunt of effort. Not bad for a man of his age. Not bad at all.

Ferdinand had hit his late eighties last March, and with little to show for it (other than a hip replacement and arthritis in his knees). No family photos adorned the walls of his little unit. No trophies and honour certificates were tucked away in glass cabinet. Ferdinand had lived out the rest of his life in a state of solitude, never quite finding the urge to marry and surround himself with a brood of children. Even though sometimes he found himself growing lonely, he did not regret the decisions he had made. He would have made a terrible husband, and as for the children... He found it too difficult to look upon their sweet little faces, so fresh and full of life. They reminded too much of what he had lost.

After his escape from the camp, he had travelled down Europe to France. There, he had found Antoine’s parents and gave them the news of their son’s death. He had felt it was the right thing to do- that Antoine would have wanted them to know. He spent one night in Paris consoling them through their grief, and left early the next day. He had told them that he was a close friend of Antoine’s during their time in the camp, and it had taken a mere twenty four hours for him to grow sick of the facade. He could not go on pretending and so he had left. It was better for them not to know. They did not needed anything else added to their grief.

In France he obtained a visa and travelled to England on a small barge. After some initial suspicion (he was, after all, a German) he was allowed to settle in a small town near Yorkshire. And that was where he had remained, whittling away the hours of each day working in his garden. It was a simple life, but after all he had endured, he felt he did not want for anything more. Standing amidst the clutter of his tiny kitchen, the horrors of the Nazi War camp seemed as if they had existed in another life entirely.

But here and there, there were still reminders.

He had kept his pink triangle. Some things needed to be remembered. It was folded away in his bedside cabinet, next to a bottle of painkillers and a shiny pair of toenail clippers. The pink had faded over time and edges were frayed and torn. It was strange- it looked like any old rag, and yet for Ferdinand, it was still a symbol of all the hate he had witnessed, all the beatings he had taken. Most of all, it was a symbol of loss- not just the loss of Antoine, but the loss of sons, brothers, lovers and friends who had all disappeared through the gates of that camp.

He hadn't lied to Antoine. He had gone back. It had taken him half a lifetime to pluck up the courage. He supposed he was frightened that the body would still be there- unchanged from how he had left it. But by the time he returned, Antoine's bones had been carried away by the inhabitants of the forest. All that remained was the rotted shirt, and his silver pen. The silver pen that said his name- Ferdinand Shriver- on the side in delicate cursive.

Ferdinand had taken it back. He knew that Antoine wouldn't have minded. He had kept his promise, after all. But he never used the pen again. It stayed shut up in his bedside, wrapped in the material of his old pink triangle. And there it would stay, until the end of his days.