Past Tense- Part three

[skull_bearer]

It’s only a few days later that the police come. He and Charles have ventured outside for more than just their meals today, and they’re eating an early dinner on a sloping hillside not far from their tents. They‘d tried to climb higher but their legs refused.

It's becoming a depressingly familiar pattern, Erik muses, after the endless work of the camps and the terrible march to Belsen, they’d found themselves unable to walk a short distance before exhaustion overtook them. Charles says that they need time to recover, but after being able to force himself to work and walk and stand for longer than he’d thought anyone capable of, it’s a shock to find that whenever he attempts this now, his body just refuses to work.

Just another. Another step, another shovelful of mud, another minute. Then I’ll stop. Always hanging on to that next moment, the one than never came. Forcing himself to keep going, hoping for that longed for moment of rest like a donkey after a carrot. Just another.

Erik looks down at himself, feeling a burst of irritation that in the end, he can’t even control his own body. It’s his, however much of a wreck it is, it’s his muscles and bones and nerves and skin, and it should do as it’s told.

And Charles is smiling at him, he can feel it, and a quick glance over his shoulder confirms it. He doesn’t seem bothered by the weakness they have to live with, consoling him that they’ll pass given time. How his friend can be so accepting of his own limitations, Erik has no idea, but to him they’re a constant frustration. His life has spent too long being out of his own control.

He can still remember was it was like when he was free, living with his parents in the village, being able to go where he liked, do what he liked. And how easy it had been to take that freedom away and put it in the hands of people who at best wanted to see him worked to death and at worst simply wanted him dead at once. Never again.

Erik pushes those thoughts away, he can dwell on them later, in the tent when there’s nothing to do but stare at the canvas ceiling or re-hash old conversations with Charles in an attempt to distract each other from the memories crowding in on their minds.

The day is deceivingly beautiful, the few clouds in only accenting the brilliantly blue sky. The weather’s been dry and the grass is a tawny green, and it’s warm enough that Erik’s finally taken his coat off. 

It had been much like this when he’d been younger, living in the country. Trees and field and peace. Playing with his sister in the very wood where she would one day leave her life- Stop.

There must be quite a view at the top of the hill- he derails that train of thought, he doesn’t want to think about that again, and concentrates on what Charles’ saying.The hospital doesn’t have much contact with the outside world, beside the occasional supply carrier, and the only radio in the hospital had been stolen by someone before they had even arrived. It was only today, when the staff’s letters finally arrived that the news of the final victory over Nazi Germany started circulating through the grapevine.

“When they forced the door,” Charles finishes the story he’d overheard from nurse serving the food, “They found him lying on the floor of the bunker. He’d shot himself, the coward.”

Erik feels oddly surprised at this oddly blood-thirsty comment coming for his usually pacifistic friend, but it’s not really surprising. Neither of them had ever met Adolf Hitler, but for once he and Charles are in complete agreement that if anyone had ever deserved a bullet through the head, it was him.

“What happened to wanting everyone to get a fair trial?” Erik smiles in cold humour, which fades when Charles sends him a sharp, angry look.

“Don’t start.” He says shortly, turning away to look over the tents and the hospital.

Erik jerks one shoulder up in idle apology and finished the last of his meal. It’s meat stew today, as it always is on Sundays. He’s heard some of the staff mutter that they’re in no danger of forgetting the days of the week, seeing at the meals come as regularly as clockwork. For both of them, the memories of hunger and deprivation are raw enough that they can’t imagine complaining.There had been no way of telling the date in the camps, particularly by the end. They could tell the time by the quality of the light and could see how the seasons changed, but it was only through the SS guards that they had any idea how much time had passed. They always made sure to set the selections on the holy days of the Jewish calendar.

Erik remembers watching the guards celebrate Christmas every year, the tree they had, and the carols they sang, and the beatings they inflicted on their prisoners in revenge for having to spend Christmas away from their families.

Again, Erik ignores the memories, and focuses his thoughts, like Charles, on the view. The hospital is in a shallow valley between a low, tree covered ridge- part of which they’re sitting on- and a long plain, on which Erik can make out the patchwork of fields and a low dot that might be a farmhouse. The only road curls back around the ridge, which is probably the reason Erik doesn’t see the truck before it’s almost at the hospital gates. It’s black and at this distance it reminds him of one of the building blocks his little sisters used to play with, only with wheels. The comparison is vaguely amusing, and helps to push away the other, more insistent reminder.

The van had also been black, and it had driven up at their old house just after they had left it. Erik remembered watching it drive past them, and wondering with all the innocence of a thirteen year old why his parents had gone pale at the sight. He had realised the truth soon afterwards, when they were in Warsaw. It was the reason his mother had explained to them that they no longer had grandparents.

The van now looks a lot less like a child’s toy and a lot more like the Polish police van from his memories. It pulls up by the doors to the hospital, and Erik has to force his hands to unclench from the death-grip they have taken on his bowl. Charles slides down next to him and shakes his head, silently telling him not to worry. His fingers brush his elbow lightly, and he suspects that if they were alone or if the action wouldn’t have such negative consequences, Charles might have put an arm around his shoulders or waist as encouragement.

It’s a strange luxury, to be able to touch each other without fear. In the privacy- privacy!- of their own tent, there is no one to look on or judge then save God, and Erik hasn’t believed in him for a long time. To indulge in the kisses that had previously been stolen treasures, and to touch and hug and hold each other as much as they wished was an abundance of riches.

It’s absurd to see this newcomer as a threat, but even Charles looks slightly concerned when the van doors open and four men in uniform step out. He doesn’t recognise what they’re wearing and slowly allows himself to relax. He leans over to whisper “Not SS,” in Charles’ ear, with a thin smile.

His friend doesn’t react, he’s tense, and frowning at where the men went in.

“Do you know what they are?” Erik asks, the English is stilted and tense on his tongue, and he probably made a mistake somewhere, but Charles understands anyway and shakes his head.

“They might be soldiers, I don’t know, maybe police?” He looks up at Erik as if for confirmation, but he shakes his head, he has no idea.

The men are inside for a long time, and Erik can see other people starting to leave their tents to get a look of these unusual visitors.

More people had left the hospital for the tents in the last few weeks, leaving only the severely ill or maimed or those too traumatised to look after themselves. He and Charles had little contact with those inside the hospital beyond getting meals or hot water, and never went inside any more. They didn’t mingle much with those living in the tents either, beyond a few short words of greeting or a nod of recognition.

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Charles is just about to suggest risking moving closer to get a better view of what’s happening when the doors open again and the men exit, followed by the doctor and a nurse- Charles recognises her as the one who helped carry them from the truck when they first arrived.

The men spread out on the porch, looking over the tents and various people standing outside, for a moment, Charles feels certain that they’re looking in their direction.

Being marched in front of the SS doctors, naked and shivering and praying to any God who might care that they would not notice him and pick some other poor fool to be sent for the gas. They couldn’t kill them all and hopefully they would see someone thinner or sicker than him and take them instead. The way he and Erik would always try and find a place behind or next to someone so weak and broken that they would look strong in comparison.

Charles shudders at the reminder, at the fear and his own despicable behaviour. Erik’s staring at the men with narrowed eyes, hiding his own fear behind a mask of anger. As though seeing the emotion was enough to prompt it in himself, Charles feels an answering wave of indignation towards these men. What did they want? Couldn’t they leave them alone?

Something is being said. It sounds roughly like German, and though they are too far away to hear the words properly, the familiar sharp syllables are unpleasant to hear, especially now.

The words are repeated, although they sound quite different this time, and Erik sits up a little straighter. “Polish.” He whispers in response to Charles’ questioning look, “Looking for… something. Can’t catch.”

“Didn’t catch,” Charles corrects automatically. He’s watching the scene intently and sees the doctor lean closer to one of the men, presumably saying something in an undertone, but he can’t even make out the sound of his voice, let only the words themselves. The doctor points, and for a single, heart stopping moment, Charles is certain it’s them he’s pointing at. But when the men turn to look, Charles can see that it’s not them but one of the tents.

The chill relief at not being selected, the SS’ eyes passing over you as though you were nothing but an animal- or rather, a piece of meat that was too stupid to know it was already dead- not speaking, not gesturing you aside, letting you breathe for a few more days. Turning around to see them order aside someone else, someone you would have been happy to see sacrificed in your place a few moments ago but who you now feel ashamed to look in the face.

Three of the men start towards the tent, one staying behind to talk to the doctor. Charles almost starts when he feels Erik’s hand cover his. In the long grass, it’s impossible to see, but he can’t help but worry while the men get closer to where they’re sitting. All the same, he’s glad for the comfort, and the reassurance that he’s not the only one feeling the slow, sinking sensation in his stomach.A new contact, this casual comfort.

The sounds are muffled inside the tent, and the men’s voices are no more than murmurs, a louder one answers, but again, Charles can’t make it out, only that the speaker must not welcome these men any more than they do. Then a shout, making them both jump and Erik’s hand tighten painfully on Charles’.

Another man is hustled out of the tent by the first three. Charles doesn’t recognising him, another face in the crowd in this place, someone he had no doubt passed at some point without even giving him a second look. Thin and starved like all of them, and wearing the same rag-tag assemble they all had to put up with; clothes too big, shoes falling off and string used as a belt.

One of the men is holding something- has been holding something from the beginning, but Charles didn’t notice- and they’re close enough that he can recognise it as the striped shirt of a camp inmate, the same kind of shirt he and Erik had had to wear for three years. One of the men brandishes it at the former prisoner, and this time Charles can see the pink triangle on it.

The day he’d been given his shirt, pink triangle. The realisation of what it meant. The shame of being branded as such outstripping the fear of how others would treat him- a last gasp of civilisation.

For a moment, he’s almost blinded by a sense of vertigo at the sight. Of course, his thoughts whisper in the only part of his mind no paralyzed with shock- Erik’s voice- of course they would arrest him. It’s not as though what they did to him was illegal. He’s a homophile, a faggot- like us-

The real Erik isn’t speaking, his only reaction to the sight is that his hand clenches down of Charles’ with more strength that he’d though possible from such bony fingers. “They can’t do that.” He says softly.

Charles blinks at him, usually he’s the one to deny what they’re seeing, as though that would stop it happening.

“They can’t do that.” The crematorium.
“They can’t do that.” The beatings.
“They can’t do that.” The starvation rations.
“They can’t do that.” The torturous work.
“They can’t do that.” The endless hours spent in roll call.

He answers the same way Erik always had, “They just did.”

Erik looks at him, surprised at having his own words used against him. “No, they can’t. It’s not as though he hasn’t suffered enough! Didn’t that place count as a prison?” 
It’s just as well the men are now out of earshot, because Erik is no longer whispering.

Right then, Charles has had enough, he starts to his feet, and for a moment he actually believes Erik might just join him, never mind the risks. He actually lets go of Charles’ hand and makes to stand, but then slumps back down. “Don’t you think we should-” Charles starts, looking back to where the man is being forced away, but Erik shakes his head.

“Not for you.” He says, switching back to English from the mish-mash he’d used earlier, and his expression answers all of Charles’ questions before he can shape them. Not for his sake. They might be registered as Jews here, and brothers, but the hospital staff must already suspect they’re lying. He doesn’t want to compound the risk by going to the rescue of a man marked as a homophile.

And he’s right. Charles realises. Besides, what can they hope to do? They’re as helpless to help as they ever were during the camps. These men, these policemen, rather, might not be allowed to kill them, but at best they’d just ignore them and at worst, as Erik suggested, they would suspect them of having ulterior motives.

Most men marked with a pink triangle didn’t last long in the camps. No one would help them, for fear of being marked with one themselves or just out of sheer prejudice. They were the first to be picked for medical experiments and most often singled out for a Kapo or SS’ sadistic games.

He wonders how this man had managed to survive, and feels a hot flame of anger flare up inside his chest and sear his throat. This isn‘t right. The words are as useless as denying that something was happening, but they won’t leave Charles’ mind, clamouring that he get up and do something about it. But what? What can possibly he do?

He’d seen people taken away for far worse than imprisonment, and done nothing about it. And every time he had felt the same sick twist of guilt, as though by doing nothing- and there was nothing to do!- he shared the blame for the crime.

Erik’s face is bleak and expressionless, watching the man being pushed into the van as the doctor and nurse and orderlies and everyone else also do nothing but watch. Not wanting to help if only for fear of being tarred with the same brush.

Coward. The word comes back. Coward. For just sitting there and doing nothing, even if there is nothing to be done.

He’d never wished death on anyone before the camps, not even when Cain was at his most unbearable or Marko his most violent, and flame of hate had been alien to him at first, when he’d first looked at a Kapo or SS guard and wished them dead. But he’d grown used to it over time.

He’d wanted to believe that people behaved decently in the real world, because if they didn’t he might as well be back in Auschwitz. He was right.

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There’d been a Kapo in one of the blocks close to theirs back in Auschwitz. He’d been marked down as a criminal- and perhaps he was, but they could all name another reason why he’d been imprisoned. Erik had been glad he’d had Charles as an example, because if he’d based his opinion of homosexuals on this man, he might have ended up agreeing with the Nazis on their account. The SS turned a blind eye to whatever he did, because they were all filth and what did it matter what one animal did to another, whether or not they were willing? It was a disgusting irony that should he and Charles be seen so much as kissing, they would almost undoubtedly have been killed for their humanity, while his man could rape whoever he wanted with not so much as a word of reproach.

They had never been under his command, something Erik would be eternally thankful for, and had managed to avoid his attentions- although there had been close calls- but of all the Kapos in the camp, his hate for that one was on a par with that he held for the SS.Erik reminds himself of that Kapo as he watches the man being forced away, because he hopes this man was like him. Because if he allows himself to believe that he might have been like Charles, he will have to do something to stop those men, regardless of the consequences.

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The ground is rough under their feet as they manage gather themselves enough to be able to walk down off the hillside. It wasn’t so noticeable going up, but now they’re tired and heartsick and every step feels as though it’s eating away at their fast-waning energy. Erik slips once and Charles twice, and by the shock of pain at his last fall, he’s twisted his ankle. Erik looks at him, and Charles can see how much he wants to help, but doesn’t dare, and how much he hates that.

The crowd by the doors is starting to disperse, and the nurse and doctor have both vanished. A few of those they pass are shaking their heads, and more than once Charles hears a few muttered words about the ‘faggot’. He grits his teeth, and again the old feeling of being surrounded by enemies returns.

Prisoners that would throw you into the jaws of the gas chambers to save themselves. Kapos that would beat you to death. SS that would shoot you without a second thought.

They walk to the tent from which the man was taken out of, there’s a woman outside trying to stitch up a tear in her skirt. She looks up as they approach. Her dark hair is held back with a brightly coloured rag, and while she’s thin, she doesn’t have the skeletal look that still clings to most of the other- and to themselves. Charles wonders if she might be a gypsy, and his hand goes to where the long-healed cut on his cheek had been.

“*What happened?*” He asks shortly, nodding at the gate. The German words feel painful to speak, but it’s a language most of the inmates understand. 

They had barely been able to communicate in Belsen, because each of the camps had it’s own particular dialect, and after almost three years in Auschwitz, the distorted mingling of language used in Belsen was unrecognisable. They had ended up having to use German, the language of their tormentors, just to make themselves understood.

The woman looks up, her face hardening at the words. She shrugs stiffly, “*Not much to tell.*” She answers shortly, the harsh tongue given an odd lilt by her Romany accent. “*I didn’t know he was a pervert. I wondered why he didn’t look at me when I washed, but I thought he was just being polite.*”

“*Why did they take him?*” Erik asks, the words rolling off even his reluctant tongue more easily that Charles’. “*Was the camp not enough?*”

The woman shrugs again, “*They said it didn’t count, the years at the camp. Don‘t want someone like that around anyway.*” She sends them a suspicious look, and Charles can see her wondering why they’re so interested, and the worry that they might be ‘perverts’ too. Her face becomes guarded, and she stands up; she doesn’t come up to Charles’ shoulder, clutching her skirt to her as though to protect herself, she quickly retreats inside the tent.

Erik’s head drops, and Charles sighs, the last thing they want is to draw attention to themselves, but he wishes he could touch his friend, an arm around his shoulders, a clasp of fingers on his arms. They both need the contact. Erik jerks his head towards the tent and Charles nods. Home. Or about as much home as they can get here. Or anywhere.

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Their tent smells musty after being outside, and slightly too hot to be comfortable. Erik goes in and sits down on the edge of the bed, staring at the ground, green-tinged from the light filtering through the khaki canvas. Charles ties the door closed and sits next to him. His hand touches Erik’s, closing over the palm and entwining their fingers. He looks down at them, then closes his eyes.It was so exhausting, being afraid all the time. 

He could never allow himself to relax for a moment, because that moment might end up being their last. They had to be constantly on their guard against whatever new threat would present itself, and that wore them out almost as quickly as the work.

He leans a little closer to Charles, it might be a risk but he’s so tired it’s hard to care any more. He slides his free arm around his friend’s waist, it helps in a way, as though they’re sharing what energy they have left. Here, the fear isn‘t so strong. Here, they can relax.

Erik breaths in, and feels anger overtake his emotions, the angry, acidic burn is better that the cold chill of fear and he welcomes it.

Fear was a weakness. Fear was what made you stand frozen when the gun was pointed at your face, even when every instinct told you to run. Fear sapped your strength until you just wanted to give up so it would stop. Anger kept you strong. Anger kept you working, kept you living a little longer, lent you strength to run and dig and carry under the eyes of those you hated, imagining with every blow of the shovel that you were driving it into their skulls.

“Do you think she was right?” Charles’ slightly hesitant voice shatters the welcome silence.

Erik rolls his head back, his back is getting stiff and his shoulders are starting to ache, “I don’t know. I don’t listen to Nazis.” He spits, the anger finding a welcome target in the gypsy woman for setting Charles off on this line of thought again.

His friend looks at him in tired resignation, “Erik, she’s not a Nazi.”

“She might as well be.” He answers firmly.

“Not every prejudiced person is a Nazi.”

Erik snorts, and Charles falls into an embarrassed silence; after what they saw earlier, Charles’ point falls flat and he knows it. “Anyway,” Charles puts in, “That didn’t answer the question.”

Erik wonders whether to answer that question fairly or not, but Charles’ worrying over this nonsense is just irritating him even more. “And if she was right, and you are a pervert, what would that make me?”
I love you goes unspoken.

It’s completely unfair, because he knows that while Charles might occasionally take such insults seriously against himself, he would argue vehemently against them should they be thrown at Erik. It would be rather endearing, if it wasn’t so exasperating.

Charles hangs his head, but Erik can see him smiling, and he knows he’s won this argument. He could never get angry at Charles, no matter how annoying his friend might get. He runs his hand over the back of his reassuringly, the skin is warm and he can feel Charles shiver at the touch. “Your fingers are freezing.” The complaint is half-hearted at best and Erik doesn’t move away.

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Charles wonders how Erik’s hands can be so cold when it’s so warm in here, and wonders why he ever bothers to argue with his friend. He always wins, either he argues him down or the argument finishes in a stalemate in which the world will prove him right in the end. Like today.

He pulls his shoes off, still leaning against Erik. He can feel his hand running down his back, stroking over his backbone and shoulder blades through his shirt. Charles looks up at him, and smiles a little, grateful for the support.

Erik is still looking at him intently and then, to Charles’ surprise, smiles back.

Charles sometimes wonders what kind of sense of humour Erik had when he was younger and happier, if it was as black and sardonic as the one he knows now. He hopes so, he wouldn’t like to imagine the damage the Nazis did to his friend’s soul to turn it that way if it had ever been otherwise. He rarely smiled, and when he did it was usually to some ironic twist fate had seen fit to deal them, smiling at it even while it threatened to destroy them.

There is an element of that in Erik’s expression, but it’s softer than usual, as though appreciating the irony of a blessing. He places both hands on Charles chest- his fingertips are like ice- and pushes him gently down until he’s flat on his back, and lies down next to him, curling up on his side in a position that’s probably not at all comfortable, since he’s half on this bed and half on the other. Erik doesn’t seem to mind, and is still smiling when he kisses Charles on the lips.

It’s a light touch, but unlike the other times they’ve dared this, not a brief one. Erik stays still, his face just touching Charles’, close enough that he can feel his breath on his skin, the touch as light as feathers.

A sweet warmth blooms in Charles’s chest at the contact, he closes his eyes, and lifts his head up to kiss Erik again. It’s strange that this should still feel new, but perhaps this is one of those things you can never get used to, and unlike so many such things, it’s something you would never want to get used to.

Stealing kisses, fragments of humanity. Each one an assertion of something that could never be taken away, a reason to carry on under even such burdens. Not lightening them- nothing could do that- but making the goal- survival- worth more than just giving up.

When he opens his eyes, Erik’s face is so close that the first thing he sees are his eyes. His eyes are strange, blue shot through with grey, and Charles wonders if in time they will also turn fully grey, like his hair. He lifts one hand and runs his fingers through the wet strands. They’re slick and clean, and Charles can feel the warmth of Erik’s skin under them. He strokes his hand down to the back of his neck, and feels his friend tense.

Erik had never liked being touched there, even if it was something as innocent as throwing an arm around his neck to be helped back to the block when he couldn’t walk another step. It was a vulnerable spot, where the German soldiers tried to aim for when they shot to kill.

Charles doesn’t remove his hand, instead running his fingers up and down the soft skin, feeling the knobbles of his backbone and the short strands of hairs, stroking over and over again until Erik starts to relax. Then he kisses him again.

Erik’s fingers brush against his cheek gently, and Charles can’t help but smile against his lips. This feels lovely, and strange because he’s forgotten how to feel pleasure like this- and maybe he never really knew anyway. The broken-down bed creaks when Erik lays his hand by Charles head, he pulls back briefly to steady himself, and Charles reaches up, wraps his arms around Erik’s neck and shoulders, and pulls him back down.

He’s not very strong, but neither is Erik and in the end he doesn’t want to put up a fight, allowing himself to be pulled back down, resting his head in the crook of Charles’ neck. Erik’s weight -slight as it is- still feels rather heavy, but it’s a comforting weight, and his sharp edges are smoothed out by the layers of clothes and skin. He feels Erik’s lips move against his skin, although he can’t make out what- if anything- his friend is saying.

The strange, long-lost flame of joy warms him from the inside out, and for the first time, Charles feels what he’s been expecting to feel for more than a month. Relief.

It’s as though he’s finally letting go of an enormous weight, one that sometimes felt as though it were going to crush them both. A warm burst of energy as the realisation really sets in that they’re alive. Enough to forget for a while the fears that still lurk outside their tent, and to ignore the dangers that are only waiting for them to slip to strike again.

He closes his eyes, and lowers his head until Erik’s hair is tickling his nose, and this time he feels him smile. He wonders if Erik is feeling the same thing? Probably, it wouldn’t surprise him, because they are here, they are together and they are alive. And if they’ve survived this, then what has the world left to throw at them? Through hunger and pain, thirst and sickness, death and terror, hell and high water they’re still here. Together. The realisation is exhilarating.

They might not be safe, Charles knows better than to try and believe that, particularly after today. They could still separated, or their true relationship found out, or- God forbid- the staff could find out about his dreams. Perhaps the rest of the world isn’t like this, but Charles knows it’ll be a long time before he will feel safe with anyone other than Erik. But they are here, together, and what can the world possibly do to them that could be worse than what they’ve already survived?

He knows his friend shares his thoughts when his arms come around him and he’s being held in turn, warm lips on his own. Warm and safe and more real than any world he had ever dreamt of. Warm. Real. Safe.

“I really love you.” He whispers, as if wanting to confirm something that never needed confirming. Again, he feels Erik smile.

“I know.” He feels the reverberation of Erik’s words against his lips, they tickle.

“You should keep away,” He continues, feeling giddy and knowing that Erik will do no such thing, “If someone comes in, they might see.”

“Rather late for that.” This time Erik kisses his forehead, his hands cupping his face, thumbs rubbing over the cheekbones. Charles’ hands comb through his hair again.

This time Charles pulls away. There is no irony in Erik’s smile, and instead of highlighting the gauntness of his face, this smile gives Charles an idea of who Erik might have been, before the world fell in on top of them. Then his lips pull back over his teeth in a smile that’s all savagery, and Charles returns it, the electric pulse of triumph flowing through them both. “It‘s done.” He whispers, “It’s over, it’s finished.” It still feels surreal, stating the known, the obvious, just for the sake of stating it, of drawing a definite line under this most horrible chapter of their lives and acknowledging that it is indeed over at long last.

Erik doesn’t answer with words, words aren’t enough to mark this end. Instead, he pulls Charles’ head down and kisses him again, firmly, with the promise of all the other kisses they will be able to share.

 

Comments

[shadowvalkyrie.livejournal.com]

Did that really happen? People arrested when they were barely freed? The years in the camps not counting as prison? That's incredibly sickening!

A good reminder that not all's well in the "real world" either.

[skull-bearer.livejournal.com]

Unfortunantly, it's true. There are loads of examples of gay people being freed from the camps only to be re-arrested. It is all true, I wish it wasn't.