She weepeth sore in the night, and her tears are on her cheeks; she hath none to comfort her among all her lovers; all her friends have dealt treacherously with her, they are become her enemies. -Book of Lamentations, 1:2- ------ Once upon a time, there was a city called Berlin. In the early years of the twentieth century, Berlin was unique among European cities in its liberal attitudes towards homosexuality. The city boasted gay bars, night clubs and cabarets, as well as drag bars where female impersonators performed for the locals as well as tourists. Among the lesbian community, there were nightclubs with names like "The Dorian Grey" and "The Magic Flute Dance Palace," and lesbian magazines such as Frauenliebe (Female Love) and Die Freunden (Girlfriend). The atmosphere of openness helped to create a social network among the urban lesbians of Germany. Then, things began to change. Forces of conservatism within the Weimar Republic saw the openness of Berlin as a threat to traditional values, leading to repressive legislation against gays and lesbians. Using the Protection of Youth from Obscene Publications Act to their advantage, the police in 1928 managed to ban publication of Die Freunden and other lesbian publications, setting a precedent of repression that would be built upon in the coming years. Elsewhere in 1928, in the faraway land of Bialystok, Poland, little Gilda Grozheim turned seven. To celebrate, her parents took their beloved only child out into the countryside for a picnic, the warm June weather making the setting ideal for the family outing. As the child ran about among the wildflowers, her tiny fingers clutched around the string of a kite she was trying to get up into the air, her young parents sat down upon the blanket they’d stretched out among the grass to watch her. After a few minutes, Rafal Grozheim turned to his wife, "I had a talk with Rabbi Kamoinka after services last Saturday." "Really?" Lilka asked, the woman never taking her eyes off their daughter as she continued to run among the yellow lilies of the field, the sun beaming down as a gentle breeze blew the girl’s curly brown locks behind her, "And what did the good rabbi want?" "He asked me to be the treasurer at the Synagogue." Rafal answered, beaming with pride. It was then he noticed the worried look on his wife’s face, "Lilka? Lilka hon, what’s wrong?" "She doesn’t play with dolls," his wife answered as she continued watching their child. "What? Who doesn’t play with dolls?" "Our Gilda," Lilka answered as she now turned to look at him, "When I was her age, I loved to play with dolls. I had a cute little china doll I’d named Kasia that I used to play house with, and I can remember loving to spend time with my momma in the kitchen, learning how to cook bread from her. Gilda," she said as she looked back at the precocious little girl, "She doesn’t play with dolls. She doesn’t like to come into the kitchen with me either. She’d rather go outside or…" "Or?" Rafal asked. "Last week, while you were at work, I caught her outside playing soccer with the neighborhood boys. Our little Gilda! She got that new yellow dress I’d bought her all covered with dirt and grass stains." Rafal laughed warmly as he put his hand on his wife’s shoulder, "Lilka, you worry too much," he said reassuringly, "So we have ourselves a little tomboy. So what, she’ll outgrow it. It’s not like she’s meshugina." "I suppose," Lilka said hesitantly. Reaching over to where the prepacked picnic basked rested next to her, she added, "You’d best go get the little tomboy and tell her it’s time to eat." Gilda stood in the field breathless, she’d run back and forth as fast as her little legs could take her, yet still couldn’t get the kite up in the air. As she looked down at the kite lying in the grass, she heard her papa call to her as he walked over. She turned and smiled back at her parents, laughing joyously as her father picked her up and twirled her around. The problems of Germany and the rest of the world seemed a million miles away as Gilda was set down on the blanket and her momma opened the picnic basket. Over the following years the girl grew, turning twelve the same year a failed artist with a funny little mustache was named Chancellor of Germany. The problems of Germany and Berlin seemed so far away when Gilda was a little girl. Who could’ve known? ------ -April 28, 1945- "Pigs!" the harsh voice growled, "Wake up pigs! Role call!" Gilda opened her eyes slowly, the sounds of her fellow inmates stirring around her in the early morning hours filled the barrack she was in. Wearily, she stood up from her bunk on spindly legs, slowly making her way out of the building and into the chilly air of the outer court, the sounds of coughing and groaning surrounding her on all sides. It was five in the morning in the women’s branch of the Dachau Concentration Camp. Dachau was the very first concentration camp, founded in 1933 originally for political prisoners, and unlike the majority of concentration camps which were filled with mostly Jews, the number of communist political prisoners and captured freedom fighters made up the majority of prisoners here. It served over the years both as a training ground for SS guards, learning the craft of how to carry out the endlosung, the final solution to the Jewish question which they then carried out at the concentration camps they were later assigned to, and as a source of cheap slave labor for German industries during the war. The guards’ voices continued to scream out orders and obscenities at Gilda and her fellow inmates. It had been six months since Gilda Grozheim was brought here in the cattle car. She could still remember the smell of feces and decay as strangers and old men and women lay dead all around her. She also remembered arriving, the rough hands and heavy blows of the prison guards, tears silently sliding down her cheeks as she was shaved clean of her raven-colored black locks. The pain of the tattoo needle as it left its mark on the inside of her wrist. Six months. She never would’ve been discovered if the family hiding her in the basement hadn’t been betrayed. She’d been twenty-three then. She was twenty-four now, and the light had all but vanished from her once luminous grey eyes. She’d lasted longer so far than the majority of the other inmates who’d arrived with her in November. She’s been quite physically fit at one time, and was involved in athletics in her youth. She benefited a bit from these attributes at first, but the years she’d spent hiding in one safe house or another had stripped her of much of her physique before even being captured and sent here. Then, there was the camp food, or lack thereof, also working against her. The Gilda Grozheim now walking among her fellow inmates here was a mere shadow of her former self. Her muscles were dwindled down, she felt chronically weak most of the time, and her cheeks and eyes were sunken in. As the guard dog one of the SS men was holding onto by a leash barked loudly at her and the others she slowly pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, her breath visibly rising before her in the cold air. As the guards continued to yell and growl out their orders, the inmates lined up in the square according to their barracks. Once all those who could still walk finally assembled, roll call began. The inmates were made to stand for as long as it took for their captors to go through the list, calling out the numbers of the prisoners which were tattooed on their inner forearms. After standing in place for close to an hour and a half, during which time the guards took great delight in calling out roll twice, deliberately making slip ups the first time just to force the inmates to stand in place in the cold even longer, they were at last dismissed for breakfast. Breakfast at Dachau usually consisted of a bitter tasting coffee made of toasted acorns and black bread with either a bit of margarine or, if the inmates were particularly lucky that day, marmelade. As the prisoners headed for the far end of the court to grab their metal cups and bowls for their meager breakfast, Gilda saw a fellow inmate slowly make her way towards her, the woman looking at her a bit strangely. From the looks of it, she was a newer inmate; she didn’t have the dim, apathetic look in her eyes, or the shallow cheeks yet of someone who’d been here for a while. As she came closer, she asked Gilda a question in a language the Polish-born woman was unfamiliar with. As she noted the blank stare, she began again in Yiddish, "Hello, my name’s Rinata. Rinata Bacak." The other woman stared at the newcomer for a few seconds vacantly before finally answering, "Gilda Grozheim." "Gilda?" Rinata asked as she pointed at Gilda’s Star of David, "Why do you have the pink triangle over the yellow one? I’ve never seen a woman wear one." Gilda looked down at the star sewn onto the striped skirt that hung loosely over her emaciated body as her mind wandered back several years to her past. ------ -May, 1938- The two girls ran into the girl's room, the older one in the glasses pulling the younger along by her hand. Looking around quickly to see if they were alone, the older turned to her blonde-haired companion with a smile as she pulled her into a kiss "Alka," the senior whispered as their lips separated, her deep, dark voice sending a small shiver down her companion's spine. She kissed the younger girl again, exploring the freshman's mouth as she cradled her cheeks in her hands. As they separated, she took the freshman's hand once again and quickly led Alka to a nearby stall. "Gilda," Alka gasped as the older, taller girl pulled her into an empty bathroom stall, "What if we’re caught, what if…" "We won’t be caught if you’ll just keep quiet," the taller girl answered, quickly locking the door to the stall. She pushed Alka’s back against the door as she crushed her lips against the younger girl’s, the blonde letting out a half-whimper as the senior began to fondle her breasts. "We’ll get caught," Alka whispered as Gilda separated their lips and began to kiss her jaw line. "Not if you keep very still and very quiet," the older girl replied huskily as she began to tug Alka’s skirt up. The younger girl was about to object once again, but before she could Gilda once again brought their lips together, forcing her tongue into the younger student’s mouth as she slipped her hand into the freshman’s bloomers. In the next stall over, sitting on the toilet with her legs pulled up so no one would know she was there, a young girl from Gilda’s synagogue was trying her best not to make any noise as she could hear the sounds of lovemaking coming from the two girls in the other stall. Meanwhile, Alka began to thrust her hips as Gilda now inserted a second finger into her, holding the younger student pressed against the door of the stall as their tongues continued their dance. As the freshman's movements began to cause the door to rattle, her older companion grabbed her rear with her free hand in order to hold her in place. A few moments later, Gilda could feel the younger girl's body tense up and her muscles tighten around her fingers. Alka came, her smaller body spasming as her older lover pulled her fingers out and wrapped her arms around her, holding the spent girl up. As the girl in the next stall over continued to listen, the moans and grunting ended, replaced by the heavy breathing of an exhausted fourteen year old. Alka rested her head on Gilda's chest as the seventeen year old senior softly stroked her cheek. Finally, after several more minutes, the young blonde spoke up, "Gilda," she sighed in a soft voice. Gilda met her eyes and let out a sigh. "I know. Lunch period is almost over. We have to return to classes soon." Both girls became silent for a few seconds, then, "Gilda?" "Yes." "Am... Am I the first? I mean, the first girl you've..." "No," the taller girl answered as she continued to hold her. "Oh," Alka muttered. Seeing the expression in her face, Gilda cocked her head to the side a bit. "Does that disappoint you?" the tall brunette asked. "No," Alka answered as she shook her head, adding "It's just that, well, you were mine. My first, um, you know," she said, getting a chuckle out of Gilda as she blushed cutely. "Gilda, can we do this again maybe? Like during tomorrow's lunch?" Gilda looked down at Alka and smirked, "We don't have school tomorrow, silly. Tomorrow's Saturday." "Oh," the younger girl muttered, "Right. How about Monday?" "We'll see," Gilda answered as she kissed the freshman once again before unlocking the bathroom stall. Alka walked out in a daze to head towards her next class as Gilda washed her hands at the sink and then left herself. Alone at last, the girl who'd been hiding finally stirred, rushing from her stall and out of the girl's room before anyone could note her presence. The next day, after services at the local Synagogue where Gilda's father served as treasurer, the young teen was standing with her parents as a familiar face approached. Fifteen year old Mada Spiegelman was the niece of the chief rabbi. She was a spoiled child, and tended to look down on those whose families were not as well off as hers. While she gave a hard time to many of the other youngsters of the synagogue, she tended to stay away from the Grozheim's daughter. Gilda was a runner with her school's track team, and unusually tall for her age. Normally, Mada would've been afraid to approach her. But this time, she wasn't afraid. This time, she was armed with a dangerous little secret. "Hello Mr. And Mrs. Grozheim,"Mada said with a pleasant smile. She then turned to their daughter, "Hello Gilda." Gilda frowned. She didn't know why, but there was something in Mada's demeanor that put her on alert. "Gilda," Lilka said as she elbowed her daughter, "Say hello to little Mada." Gilda quickly glanced from Mada to her mom and back, "Hello Mada," she finally muttered. The other girl's smile only widened. "Mr. And Mrs. Grozheim, I was wondering if I could speak with your daughter back by the oak tree behind the synagogue." "Of course," Rafal answered with a smile, "Go ahead and talk with your friend Gilda. Just don't take too long, we don't want to be getting home too late." Gilda reluctantly left her parents' sides and followed Mada, eyeing the other girl suspiciously as they rounded the building and came to the old oak. Once there, the younger girl turned and saw the older one watching her, her arms crossed as her grey eyes focused on her shorter form. "What do you want?" Gilda asked, noting with no slight degree of annoyance the smug look in the other girl's face. "Who said I wanted anything?" Mada asked innocently. Noting the scathing look she got in reply, she shrugged her shoulders, "Very well. You know the new girl at our school? Alka Barycz?" Gilda narrowed her eyes, " What about Alka Barycz?" she asked, already a sinking feeling forming in the pit of her stomach. "She's very good at math, isn't she? I hear she's near the top of her class," she added with a smile as she strode defiantly towards the older, taller girl, "Tell her I need help with my homework." "What?" Gilda asked, "And why would I..." "Because," Mada interrupted, "I was in the next stall over, and I heard you two filthy sluts going at it yesterday. So, unless you want me to go and tell your mom her little girl's a pervert, you'll tell Alka to come over to my house after school and help do my homework." Gilda face began to slowly turn red with anger, "I see," she said in a dangerously low tone, "And you're willing to be quiet if Alka does your homework?" Mada looked thoughtful for a moment as she put her finger to her chin, "No," she finally said, "That's not all. There's a girl in the same grade as me who's been giving me grief. You know, bullying me for lunch money. If you could put a scare in her..." "A bully, huh?" Gilda asked as her hands balled up into fists, "Tell me, has she ever hit you like this?" she asked as she suddenly punched Mada hard in the gut, the younger girl dropping to her knees as she clutched her abdomen. As tears began to form in Mada's eyes, Gilda bent down. "If you tell anyone about what happened in the girl's room yesterday," she hissed, "Or about what I just did to you, you'll end up a lot worse than just having the wind knocked out of you." She then turned her back on the girl, leaving her there on the ground gasping for air as she went back to her parents. Years later, the Germans invaded Poland. Mada Spiegleman was first forced into a ghetto on the outskirts of Bialystok, then later was eventually sent to Dachau where she was put to work as a tailor among other things. Among the Nazis there was a labeling system for the inmates, the most well known being the star of David for Jewish prisoners made up of two yellow triangles, one sewn on top of the other. Then there were the common criminal, who wore a green inverted triangle, the gypsies who wore black triangles, the political prisoners who wore red, and the Jehova's Witnesses who wore purple. In cases where a Jew fell under one of the other categories, for example a Jewish political prisoner, their star of David would be made up of a red and yellow triangle, the red one being on top. Then, there were the pink triangles for homosexuals. Lesbians were exempt from them however, since gay males were seen as more of a threat to the founding of a Nazi master race. Somehow however, among all the new prison uniforms sent into the women's branch of the Dachau concentration camp, a striped prisoner's dress was delivered with a star of David consisting of a yellow and pink triangle. Soon after, as the cattle cars arrived one morning and the SS guards rained insults and blows down on the confused and frightened new arrivals, Mada recognized a familiar face among the newcomers. She was older now, her hair was a bit longer, but she could still tell who the tall girl in the glasses was among the other women being pushed around and hit with billy clubs. She went quickly to the camp's tailor shop, grabbed the dress with the unusual star on it, and pointed out the young woman in the glasses who was in the process of having her head shaved to one of the guards, who began to chuckle cruelly. Mada died of typhus one month later. The damage, however, had already been done. ------ "A joke," Gilda finally answered her fellow inmate, offering a sad half smile as she added, "A cruel joke." With that she turned away from the other prisoner as she headed back to her barrack. She did her best to ignore both the gnawing hunger in her stomach and the ominous building over to her left with its ovens as she weakly reached the front of her barrack. She sat down on the steps outside the building and looked up at the cloudless sky overhead. A bird flew overhead, circling around a bit as she watched before it flew off. She closed her eyes as a cold wind swept by, blowing up her striped prison dress and causing her teeth to chatter. To be able to fly, to be free of this place. She imagined herself high above the camp, soaring overhead as she left Dachau behind and flew over the nearby countryside. She was brought out of her revelry by the loud gurgling of her stomach. She looked down at her emaciated abdomen, hunger pulling her away from her daydreams. Later that day, at noon time, lunch was served. It was a thin soup consisting of water and potato peels, and did nothing to alleviate the prisoners' hunger. As the prisoners ate their soup, the whispered talk among the inmates centered on the rising and falling number of inmates. Over the preceding months, the number of women coming into the camp had swelled to the point where conditions for all the prisoners had dwindled and typhus swept through the camp. Then, strangely enough, two days ago the Germans ordered large numbers of the inmates to leave, giving no explanation whatsoever to them or the inmates left behind. The truth was that the Allies, particularly the British and Americans, were approaching rapidly. The Nazis, in order to prevent the liberation of large numbers of prisoners, moved those in concentration camps near the front away, with large numbers of them arriving at both the men’s and women’s camps almost daily. However, as the Allies continued their push, it soon became painfully obvious that they would reach Dachau. Hitler and the rest of the remaining Nazi high command had heard of the US forces' liberation of Buchenwald and their releasing the prisoners to get revenge on the German civilian population nearby. In order to prevent such an event from occurring at Dachau, and in a vain attempt to keep as few Jews and other undesirables from being liberated as possible, Hitler gave orders from his bunker that Dachau be evacuated. Thus, beginning April twenty-sixth, the guards began to move out some seven thousand men and women on a forced march from Dachau towards Tegernsee. Those that couldn't keep up with their fellow prisoners were simply shot and killed, left along the roadside as a warning to the other prisoners of the consequences of falling behind. Gilda was unaware of any of this. All she was aware of currently was the thin, watery soup she was spooning into her mouth and the thought that she could no longer remember what it felt like not to be hungry. As she finished, licking both her spoon and the shallow bowl she was given clean in an attempt to get every last bit of soup possible into her mouth, one of the guards came up to her. "You like that slop?" he asked snidely, "Hey Jew," he said louder as he stuck the handle of his whip under Gilda's chin and roughly forced her head up, "I'm talking to you." Gilda just looked at him silently. Once, long ago, she would've fought back. She would've hit, bit, kicked the monster glaring down at her. But now, she could only stand there and return his gaze silently. After a few seconds, the guard smirked. "Humph," he snorted, "Fucking Christ killer." With that, he pulled the whip handle back, spit in her face and turned away. Gilda watched him walk away from her a few seconds more before she wiped the spittle from her cheek and headed towards one of the camp's outhouses. Evening came to Dachau. The prisoners were again given bitter black coffee made from toasted acorns, and nothing else. When Gilda had first arrived here, she was loaned out along with other female prisoners as slave labor for a munitions factory. Eventually however, with the Allies making advances along the front, Gilda and her fellow prisoners were no longer sent out as slave labor. Instead they were given endless and meaningless tasks such as moving garbage from one side of the camp to the other for twelve hours straight. However, ever since large numbers of prisoners began leaving two days ago the forced labor had all but ended. While all the prisoners were grateful for the change, none were more so than the women, who were forced to work just as hard and at the same pace as the male prisoners and who deteriorated much more rapidly as a result. As Gilda drank her cup of coffee, a fellow inmate came up to her. "Gilda, have you heard yet?" She turned around to face the emaciated woman standing behind her, "Heard what, Anja?" Anja Raszek was a middle-aged communist who'd arrived shortly after Gilda did and who sported the red triangle of the political prisoners. Somehow, in spite of the difference in age and political philosophy, the two women became friends. "Words come in from the male camp where they have a radio hid," Anja whispered, "The Americans should be here any day now." Gilda couldn't help but smirk; rumors flew like flies around Dachau, and she'd long ago learned to give up all hope of leaving Dachau alive. Anja noted Gilda's expression and frowned. "It's true I tell you," she said more forcefully, "They're coming." Gilda was about to respond when she saw two of the guards making their way over, "We can talk of such things later," she said quickly before turning around and heading off to another part of the courtyard. The Americans were coming; gossip such as that only served to get one's hopes up, to be crushed once nothing came of it. Still,Anja said they heard it through a hidden radio in the men's camp. The idea that prisoners could somehow keep something like a radio hidden from the SS was patently ridiculous to Gilda, yet Anja seemed so certain of her information, and she wasn't one given to accepting wild rumors at face value. As Gilda warred within herself over whether to believe her friend or not, the guards announced that it was time for curfew. The young woman and her fellow prisoners headed back to their barracks wearily as the temperature began to drop. Reaching her bunk, Gilda grabbed her thin blanket and wrapped it around her as snugly as she could, Anja's words continuing to echo in her head as she closed her eyes wearily. The next morning, Gilda woke up with a start. It wasn't one of the guards that woke her, but something quite different. It was the sound of gunfire.
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