My name is Julien. In 1940, I was 25 years old,
living in Paris, a city of light, music, and forbidden love. Before the war, I
was a pianist. My hands were my life—long, precise, attuned to the delicate
cadences of Chopin and Debussy. But when the German occupation reached France,
my love and my art became a crime. Paragraph 175, that infamous law codified
under Nazi Germany, criminalized homosexuality, turning love between men into a
punishable offense. One autumn night, leaving a Parisian cabaret, I was
arrested—not for sabotage, not for espionage, but for the simple act of holding
another man’s hand in the shadows of the city.
I was deported to Sachsenhausen
concentration camp, stripped of my identity, and forced to wear
the pink triangle—a mark that labeled us the lowest of the low in the camp
hierarchy. Criminals, political prisoners, and Jews were “above” us; we were
considered degenerates, undeserving of respect, humanity, or mercy. Guards spat
on us, other prisoners avoided us, and every day became a test of endurance.
Two years passed. My pianist’s hands, once instruments of beauty, became
twisted, raw, and bloody from endless labor—hauling cement, digging trenches,
and surviving the relentless cruelty of the SS.
The Grim Offer: Redemption or
Death
February 1944
arrived like a frostbitten nightmare. During roll call, the cold German wind
cut through our faces. An SS officer appeared, not like the usual brutish
guards, but feverish and driven by the chaos of a faltering Reich. “The Führer
offers a chance at redemption,” he barked. “Join the Dirlewanger
Brigade, fight the Bolsheviks, survive, and your pink triangle
will be torn away.”
Free. The word
echoed in my mind like a cruel melody. Freedom promised, but at what cost?
Fifty of us pink triangles volunteered that day, trading one form of
imprisonment for another. Old, bloodstained uniforms were handed out. Rifles
were unloaded; the ammunition awaited us at the front lines.
The journey
east was a nightmare across Poland and Belarus. The Dirlewanger
Brigade was no real military unit—it was a den of criminals:
murderers, rapists, sadists, and psychopaths under the command of the monstrous
Oskar Dirlewanger. Their contempt for us was immediate: “Look what Berlin
sent!” they jeered. “The faggot brigade!” They laughed, spat, and pushed,
treating us as expendable tools in their violent games.
Into the Minefields: Survival
Against All Odds
Our first
mission was a living nightmare. Ordered to march hand-in-hand through snow-laden
fields laced with mines, I realized the cruel irony: arrested for holding hands
in Paris, now forced to cling to another man for survival. Step by step, the
mines detonated around us. Screams and blood filled the air. Hans, a
19-year-old German boy who had joined with me, held my hand. “Julien, I don’t
want to die,” he whispered. I lied, “Look forward, not down.” Moments later, he
saved my life with his own body.
Out of fifty
volunteers, only twelve reached the forest alive. Each step was a macabre dance
between death and endurance, machine gun fire echoing behind us, mine
explosions shattering snow and flesh. My hands, my body, my very being had
become tools of survival. The pianist no longer existed; what remained was pure
instinct.
Transformation from Victim to
Hunter
The night was
a crucible. Tied to trees as sentries for the drunken SS, a partisan with
painted black skin approached. I convinced him I was not a German loyalist. He
freed me, handed me a knife, and gave me a choice: fight to survive or die.
Survival became my mission. I plunged into the chaos, taking weapons from
fallen guards, cutting ropes, and turning the hunters into the hunted.
By dawn, the
camp was a ruin. Dirlewanger’s men fled, and the forest was ours, yet our
journey was far from over. We marched 2,000 kilometers west, dodging mines,
surviving skirmishes, and witnessing countless deaths. Only three of us reached
the Rhine. The rest became anonymous graves in Poland.
Return to Paris: A Survivor’s
Silence
When I crossed
into American lines in May 1945, the relief of survival was overshadowed by
bureaucracy. Paragraph 175 was still law, and I was treated with disgust.
Returning to Paris in June, the city celebrated liberation, but I walked alone.
My piano had been destroyed; my hands were broken. Love, for me, became
synonymous with death.
Yet today, at
93 years old, I remain alive. I have no medals, no official recognition, but a
victory that is deeper than any honor: I survived the horror, the mines, the brutality,
and the systematic dehumanization of those the Nazis deemed unworthy. I pressed
a single key on a piano yesterday—a C major—and in that note, I remembered
Hans, and the forest we crossed together.
This is the
testament of Julien and the Pink Triangles: a
story of survival, resistance, and the human spirit’s refusal to bow. Even in
the face of systemic hatred, cruelty, and calculated death, those who persevere
define what it truly means to be human.
If you believe that love should never be a crime, and want to honor the memory of Hans and so many others, write TRIANGLE in the comments. Subscribe to Forbidden Wars and Secrets. The world’s darkest truths must be remembered, mine by mine, story by story.
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