“Lavender nights are our greatest treasure
where we can be just who we want to be
Round us all up, send us away
that’s what you’d really like to do
But we’re too strong, proud, unafraid
in fact we almost pity you
You act from fear, why should that be
What is it that you are frightened of
The way that we dress
The way that we meet
The fact that you cannot destroy our love
We’re going to win our rights
to lavender days and nights”
~Kurt Schwabach
There was always a part of me that knew I would love him,
Even though I wasn’t supposed to.
Even though every minute we spent together was dangerous.
Even though I was supposed to kill him.
He is facing away from me, the back of his head only in view – fragile like the shell of a robin’s egg; the outline of his spine protruding, resembling an abstract painting: distinct, suprematic. Impulsive ideas rush to the centre of my conscience, “I could reach out right now and break his neck, separate his spine from his brain stem and save him from learning the truth about me.” But before I can even consider the possibility as reality, soft mumbles begin to suffocate under the blanket as he rotates on his side. Courage leaves my body through an exhale as I look at him and tuck ribbons of hair behind his ear.
Ruban.
Under his skin, blood, sparkling like jewelled gemstones, moves slowly through his veins and lingers inside his full figured lips, complete with a soft cupid’s bow capable to pierce any heart it pleases. Every part of him is rich and thick: his striking chestnut hair , filled with lust: his mischievous smirks , passion: his feverish heart , vitality: his silken complexion , persuasion: his eyes.
Ruby.
Three gunshots followed by four screams erupt from across the street as slits of his cerulean irises reveal themselves to with their columbia blue lace interweaving around the pupils, cushioning the diluting black spots.
“Can’t they wait till after dawn to start killing people?” He grumbles, bringing his palms to the folds of his eyelids and massaging them fully open.
“ Probably just some rowdy drunks.” A rouge colour diffuses in his cheeks as his body begins to wake up.
“ Or innocent people,” he loosely articulates as his mouth expands in a yawn. My nose twitching at the edge in his tone.
“No one is considered innocent nowadays,” I make an effort not to mimic his edge, not to reveal to him that I truly believe what I have just said.
“That’s bullshit, and you know it” His attention drifts upwards to meet mine and for the first time since he woke up, we regard each other.
“Good morning, Ruban.”
“Good morning, Oskar. I see you’ve had a rough night, and I wasn’t even awake to keep you occupied.” He nods at the damp strands of hair sticking to my forehead, the dark circles spreading from under my eyes.
“I can occupy myself, thank you,” I reply, returning his mocking manner and expression.
“Can’t remember the last time you were so impish so early in the morning.” It’s funny because neither can I. I’ve forgot what is native to my nature, unable to accept that I have been merging and mixing my natural identity with this new one. At first it was like mixing oil and water: the oil settling a top the water, resisting against the surface. Except now I’m getting good, finding ways to emulsify the two stubborn fluids, creating something homogeneous.
Explicit.
Ruban rests on his elbows and surveys the room, soaking in his nest of easels, the petals of arched paint tubes, and portraits of green carnations, men’s anatomy, prostitutes, violets, and me.
The portraits of me are outstanding among the rest.
As he is appreciating his oeuvre, I am admiring the structure of his face and how striking and vibrant he looks despite the weariness of life in Berlin for the likes of us. Of him, I mean. I’d been living with Ruban for five months now. I was new to all this, to this lifestyle, this identity;but it was what I was good at. It was why I was assigned to this position in the first place – in fact, I remember distinctly my captain saying that I am shit at firing a gun, awful at intimidation, not smart enough to build machines and think of strategies, and not enthusiastic enough to run door to door, handing out drafts and ration cards. I was assigned to this position because I could be anyone the Nazis wanted me to be. Imitation. A master of impersonation, a creator of counterfeit characters. And for six months they wanted me to be a queer, to be trustworthy, to be ruthless, to unearth as many homosexuals I can find and report them.At first it was exciting to find out people you’ve known for years are homosexual – people are willing to open up to you if they believe that you and them share a common trait. All it takes is for you to begin talking about a club or the recent gossip about a certain performer, and they confide in you.
Every month I am to send out a list of men who I have discovered to the Gestapo.
Max Klein, the landlord.
Ernst Hoffmann, the baker’s son.
Karl Wolff, the writer.
Peter Vogel, the pharmacist.
I don’t see these men again.
Ruban extends his curled fingers, palms angled to the ceiling. The muscles in his back enunciating his delicate ribs, skin taut around his spine, faded like the outline of his name I’ve constantly erased and rewritten.
R ub an Lu wi g, th art ist.
Six month old letters, wavering between freedom and imprisonment. I remember the day I had first taken down his name in my little book of dead men.
~~~
He had looked like one of those models cafe owners paid to sit in front of windows and look attractive, inspirational, to intrigue passersbys and motivate them to enter the shop. It was one of those cafes that harboured budding philosophers, aesthetes, poets, actors, mathematicians, and queers. I recognized them immediately as they lounged around a polished wooden table, laughing amongst themselves, and slowly stirred cream into their coffees. They glanced sideways at each other as I entered, uncertainty pinched the napes of their necks. All it took was a smile, and an, “Afternoon, gentlemen.”, to make them realize that I am an ally, a friend. So, they smiled too and soon enough I would have their names.
All it takes is their names.
The heel of my shoe was tucked behind the bar stool as I leaned my head a top my palms, appeared to be engaged in my thoughts. Once they saw I was harmless, the men would call me over to join them. I glimpsed over at them, attempted to overhear their conversation – catch names. Ruban sat on the other end of the bar from me, leaning over a fairly small book, pencil fluttering around a page. There is something so incredibly enchanting about seeing someone completely trapped in a creative trance, like watching a butterfly hover over a flower.
“You’re not fooling anyone, y’know, “ he suddenly remarked, attention directed at his work.
“Pardon me?” His unexpected comment startled me, more than his unbroken focus.
“You’re not fooling anyone,” he repeated again, glancing up and letting me fully take in his thin, translucent frame, coiled and wiry like the frame of his glasses.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Even in childhood, I hid behind dismissal as I do now. It was always easier to lie than to admit the truth and suffer consequences.
“ Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude to pretend to be something you’re not?”
“Who said I was pretending to be something I’m not?” I punctuated my question with a innocent smile. He said nothing as he slid his notebook under his arm, nodded at the group of men in the corner, and left. A scrap of notebook paper rested where he sat. Eagerly, I flipped it over, steadily skimmed its contents, and rubbed the coarse paper between my thumb and index figure. It was a sketch of a man, complete with a strong nose, low forehead, defined jaw, warm eyes, and furrowed brow. Despite its comprehensiveness, there was a quality about it that was incredibly familiar. Catching sight of my reflection in the cafe window, I recognized the likeness. It was a sketch of me.
Underneath the drawing was an address.
~~~
He didn’t live too far from the cafe. A couple of blocks at least. I have no idea what motivated me to follow his directions. It wasn’t safe for me, or for him for that matter. I believe I went because he fascinated me, there was so much mystery in his character. Was it that I didn’t have his name? Is that why I felt so obligated to see him? With a knock, I pushed gently against his apartment door. He slightly turned his head, his back to me, facing the room’s window, brush in hand.
“ So, you’ve come to prove yourself.” He looked as if he expected me, waited, foresaw my arrival.
“I’ve come to get my portrait done.” I displayed the sketch of me to him, holding it beside my head like a passport.
“Why don’t you just go to a photographer?” He stared at me, arms crossed, paintbrush balanced in between his fingers like a cigarette.
“ I already have a photograph of myself. I would like a painted portrait. My name is Oskar Muller.” His frigid blue eyes never left mine as if they were frozen in place. After a moment or two, a smile slowly spread on his face, melting his glacial stare.
“Ludwig. Ruban. Please, have a seat.”
~~~
Within an hour we were intertwined. It started with Ruban asking me if I would mind undressing and changing into a different outfit; he didn’t like the dark tweed jacket I wore and jokingly refused to paint it. It felt natural being with him. Having his hands on my skin, positioning me like a marble statue, however, he spent more time gazing at me than actually painting me. I liked it. But if anyone from my commandment found out- I would be executed. I could already see one of my fellow officers asking me to go on a walk and then shooting me behind a wall. But I didn’t want it to ever end, as he tossed his attention from painting to analyzing – the distance between us shrivelling. Shortly, our curiosity and lust manifested into touch. Every kiss he planted on me would soon germinate, sprouting into a flower symbolizing a new element of my being. The lip marks he left on my skin spelt out my death sentence, yet it felt more like a salvation, a liberation. I should have killed him that day; I should have at least written down his name and left. My mission was to kill him but I ended up falling in love with him. Time caused me to forget my purpose and develop a love for him that I didn’t know blossomed until it was too late.
~~~
The weight of Ruban’s lifeless body slips off of my lap and onto the covers. He lies motionless, bleeding tenderly from the back of his head. It takes less than 6 seconds to kill a man with a revolver- for me it took 6 months. It is just so much easier to kill someone when you don’t love them. I need to move quickly before the taste of grief drowns my tongue in tears. Avoiding the loose easels and discarded canvases, I pull the telegraph from under the bed, and punch in my final list of names, releasing the tension in my shaky fingers:
Fredrick Weber, the professor.
Hans Schneider, the cafe owner.
Marcus Krause, the banker.
I don’t hesitate to write the last name.
~~~
An hour later, I am submerged in the bath, eyes stinging from the pinkish water, my mind swarming with thoughts. The telegraph ticking in anticipation, vibrating after my final submission:
Oskar Muller, the soldier.
As the water becomes crimson, I realize: the war hasn’t even begun yet.
This story is dedicated to the members of the LGBTQ+ community (approximately a quarter and a half million homosexuals died in concentration camps) who were murdered due to the xenophobic perspectives of the Nazi political party. We will never forget the horrors you faced and the strength you exemplified in the face of homophobia and or transphobia. To this day, people still face extreme discrimination due to their sexuality or gender and it is our duty as humanity to treat everyone with understanding and respect.