The Lilac People

by Milo Todd

That was but a prelude; where they burn books, they will ultimately burn people as well. HEINRICH HEINE (1820), plaque at the Sunken Library in Bebelplatz, Berlin

Please note that all terms used in this novel reflect the story’s era. Terms such as transvestite are outdated and should be avoided when referring to transgender people of today.

We’ve received word that the liberation of the camps is not the celebration we’d hoped. The Allied forces are sending all pink triangles and any qualifying black triangles to jail to start the sentence for their crimes. All other categories of identity, crime, or marker have been liberated, for the Allies feel they have suffered enough. We repeat. All inverts, transvestites, and lilac people who survived the camps have been sent to jail. If you avoided detection during the War, you are still not safe. We repeat: you are still not safe.

Despite his careful planting, the asparagus made things look wild. Each crown grew at its own pace, but as soon as they started, they became eager. Some were still just baby stalks, poking out of the ground obscenely at first with their pale skins and distinctive heads. Others were already ferning, sprouting big and bushy far as they could reach. Some of the berries on the delicate fronds had already gone red as cherries and heavy with seed, others still green and new. By the end of the season, the ferns would be nearly as tall as him. An achievement for a plant, though perhaps less so for a fellow person. Spargelzeit was his favorite season. He loved how easily the beetle eggs fell off with a tender skim of his thumb, he loved parting the tickling fronds to check the crowns beneath, he loved the juicy snap when he broke off a ready and eager stalk. He always chewed a spear raw as he harvested the others, the pale skin tender and woody on his tongue. Some mornings sprouted so many spears that he could barely make it to town at a respectable hour, other times there were only a few to be had. He and Sofie simply split those while breakfasting. They were not worth the trip. Their crop was old, older than life, Opa had claimed, planted back when his own grandfather first bought the land. Long before this War, long before the one before that, long before the Treaty or the Inflation or the Crash or the Nazis or any of this. Long before Opa had been born, or Oma, or Bertie, or So...

his assistance of Doktor Magnus Hirschfeld at the Institut, his leisure time drinking beer with his friends at the Eldorado—at

THE GIRL WHO “MARRIED” A GIRL The astonishing case of a pretty woman who masqueraded as a man for over thirty years and married her lover. Only to be found out after her death, her lover claims she did not know, and the deception has swept across the United States.

The wind gave another gust, and he heard the thin rustling of paper behind him. He turned to see the article take off, gliding happily through the air toward whatever freedom it sought. He swore and ran after it. He grabbed at it but missed, the clipping dodging him at the last moment like this was a game he was in the mood to play. It gained courage across the fields, tumbling, rolling, and already persistently out of reach.

Bertie did not know how to address the body in his arms. “Black triangle,” he managed to get out before his voice broke off. He vowed years ago that he would not cry about things like these anymore. Crying spent energy needed to do labor, to eat and to live, and these were things he could not change, no matter how much he blamed himself for them. But to not cry was a silly promise. “We have to help.” “Oh, Bertie,” she breathed, the pair of them once again letting their natures slip while indoors, for it felt impossible to stop calling each other by their real names entirely. “We don’t even know what type of black triangle.” He did not want to tell her this was a face he recognized. “Tell me no and I’ll put it back.” “You know I can’t say no.” “Neither can I.” She held herself a moment before letting her arms drop. She wore the same face she had the night they had fled, the face she wore every time they heard bad news on the radio, or worse news on the radio, or news that was good for everybody but them.

Bertie looked closer at those eyes, the recognition stronger now. He did not want to remember. He would not remember. The difference of one minute, the neglect that sprang from his own selfishness and fear. He would finally start to make amends. He would not let the young man know, but he would make amends. “It’s alright,” Bertie said with a calm voice. He thought a moment of his next words, for they were the kind of words that could never be taken back. But he was sure he knew him. “I’m a transvestite. I am Berthold Durchdenwald. And this is Sofie Hönig, my lover. We’re called Goss and Ina Baumann here in Ulm.” The grip of their guest had loosened upon Bertie’s wrist as soon as the word transvestite was uttered. “Me, too,” came the worn and dusty voice. And then he took a moment, as if he could not remember. “Karl Fuchs.”

“Is it true?” Bertie stuck in again. “They’re setting everyone but us free?” Karl nodded slowly at the table, the fork still dangling from his mouth. He kept sucking on it like a nervous tic. “Anyone with a pink triangle was taken away immediately. All those with black triangles were cross-checked with the surviving Nazi records. If you qualified, you went, too. I ran while they were checking for mine.” Sofie clutched the album tighter in her lap. “And so you just . . . ran? They didn’t shoot you?” “The only difference I’ve seen between them so far is their style of murder. I was surprised when I made it past the grounds alive.

He did not want to say that even when wearing Gert’s clothes, Karl was not immediately convincing. His manner of speech, the way he carried himself, nothing seemed to be working for him. Before ’33, it would have been less of a problem. But these days, being unconvincing put all of them in danger, especially if what Karl was saying was right. Sofie glanced Bertie’s way. They seemed to have the same thought. “We can’t let anyone see you. Not yet.” “And perhaps when you’re rested,” Bertie said, “I can teach you how to transvest.” Karl placed the fork against his mouth, his bottom lip puffing slightly between the tines. He swallowed. “I am not a man exactly like that.” “I know, but being”—Bertie cast about for the proper word—“unassuming is our only choice.” “Or you could wear some of my things,” Sofie added gently. Karl put the fork back down on the plate, his eyes now to the table. “So we have to be who we’re not in order to be who we are.” “I’m afraid so, yes.” He knew Karl knew it was the truth, but also knew how much he did not want it to be true. “Even before, we only got what we got as long as we didn’t draw attention to ourselves. If we were respectable, if we behaved like them, then we were rewarded. It surely would’ve gotten better over time, and some strides were being made, but . . .” It was not necessary to finish his thought. “And if either of us were to be found out, it could put all of us in danger.”

Mr. and Mrs. Goss Baumann, By order of the United States of America, you are hereby notified to report to the Oberer Kuhberg camp on the first of June to begin your compulsory labor. You will work no less than twelve hours each day, at which point you may return home. Any person who does not report for duty will be imprisoned until deemed suitable for work. —Lt. William Ward, United States Army

The streetlamps dripped a pale yellow against the night sky, polishing the wet cobblestones. The cobblestones were always wet at night; Bertie did not know why, as if it rained like clockwork and he always missed it. The lamplights were blurry suns in the haze of smoke and exhaust, coughing from auto pipes, billowing from sewer grates, drooling from manholes. The thin fog parted and curled as people sliced through, as autos turned a corner, headlights winking. It melted upon all of them, invisible in the daytime, and Bertie found it as comforting as a blanket. You are here, the city said, a world within a world. And at night, you can be whatever you want to be.

He could see the lights of the club before its dark brown walls in the evening haze, darker and more alluring than the rest of the wide intersection. ELDORADO, it declared from the front of its diagonal cut, its neon red bleeding onto the street. Bright light spilled out of the windows of all five stories, those on the ground floor plastered with posters for privacy and enticement. Balconies graced both sides of the higher levels as the building fanned out from its corner like a flock of geese. A long strip of mural wrapped itself around the east side between the ground and first floors: people holding banners, dancing, and having a good time. Under the neon buzz of ELDORADO were sturdy cutouts. A young woman with a dark bob smiled coyly behind a translucent folding fan, a large question mark printed upon it. Beneath her, just above the doors, were the faces of a man and woman on the left and right, his dark hair slicked back, her blond waves ending just past her ears, both wearing gloss and shadow, both grinning and winking. HIER IST’S RICHTIG! was the proclamation between them. Here it’s right. The slogan repeated itself directly beneath, wedged into the thin strip of the overhang, to make sure you saw, to make sure you did not forget. For anything worthwhile was also worth repeating. Bertie glanced at the little kiosk nailed to the left side of the doors, full of advertisements and pamphlets and show schedules. Sometimes he refilled material from the Institut there hims...

All of them were full with the stepchildren of nature.

Bertie preferred it this way. He did not appreciate the normally sexed categorizing his own as part of sightseeing. A topic for colorful stories back home, as if the visitors had been on safari, narrowly surviving animals in their natural habitat in acts of heroism they had willingly put themselves into. Sometimes, when he had had a bit much to drink, he wanted to go over to them and ask: Had they never seen joy?

When the theater showed films, he always had tickets for the rest of his friends, particularly for the invert and transvestite films. Old or new, silent or sound, they did not care as long as it nodded toward their kind. Especially trouser roles, even if the endings or morals were not always what they wanted. They were eagerly anticipating the release of Viktor und Viktoria next year. Doktor Hirschfeld had helped create Anders als die Andern back in 1919, the first homosexual-positive film, but it was banned soon after release. Doktor Hirschfeld managed to argue it was educational, however, and at least was granted permission to show it within his own Institut. It was during one of those showings that Bertie and Gert had met Markus, Gebhardt, and Karsten, and their small group had formed. They since dedicated themselves to meeting a few nights a week to drink and talk. The Eldorado was their favorite spot because it welcomed transvestites without being exclusively for women. There were clubs and meeting spots all over Berlin for what seemed every type of the third sex. Half the time Bertie could not name all the ones still open despite the latest laws. There were events and shows and parties given frequently by the Transvestite Association D’Eon, the Deutscher Freundschaftsverband, the Bund für Menschenrecht, and his own Institut für Sexualwissenschaft. But out of all of them, the Eldorado was his home.

Gert mostly made his way as a carpenter’s assistant, though he sometimes made extra on the side—he claimed accidentally so—when he would bird at Noster’s Cottage, an invert pub near the working-class district of Hallesches Tor. The more knowledgeable ausländers were known to stop through, particularly Amerikans. They were quite aware of his biologic type, but this seemed the opposite of a deterrent for many of them. They affectionately called him Dreilochhengst. The three-holed stallion. He never visited the Cottage without leaving with at least two good stories. And if tourists happened to offer him money for being adorable, who was he to deny them? He was going to have his fun either way.

“To Berthold!” Gert shouted for the seventh time that night, standing his small frame up atop his chair. “May his scars always give him pride!”

Like a proper Berliner, Bertie slurred his words and chopped off syllables. He overpronounced some letters, mispronounced others, and threw away whatever was left. He had no concern for grammar. His friends teased that he sounded both in a hurry and drunk, perpetually pissed by everything in even his softest voice. “You’re destined to be an old man yelling at courtyard children,” Gert once concluded. Bertie responded that if he talked like the big city, then Gert sounded like a cow town.

“He yours?” “—to one of my dearest, the one who has made me most happy to be myself—” “Never seen him before in my life,” Bertie replied. “—Berthold Durchdenwald—” “He seems sweet,” Sofie said. “—who has, quite recently, conveniently misplaced his breasts!”

But the Catholic policies of the new Papen government had implemented in July their “extensive campaign against Berlin’s depraved nightlife,” including “all amusements with dancing of a homosexual nature.” The twenty-second hour was a curfew now for all related bars, clubs, and dance halls. Then two months ago in October, the Chief of Police ordered a ban on third sex dancing in public.

It was a terrible place to be caught between, those two laws. If they were not found in violation of §175, a sexual offense of intercourse between men, then they would automatically be at the mercy of §183, a sexual offense of public indecency by crossdressing. The only real difference was how much time they could spend in prison if Bertie did not gather his wits. Six months if §175, one year if §183.

The worker Berthold Durchdenwald, 30.8.1898 Berlin born, residing in Schöneberg Nollendorfstraße 17, is here known as wearing men’s clothes. —Kriminalkommissar

Bertie was still not sure who started their first time a few years back. They had looked at each other after a night of drinking and slowly moved closer until they were kissing soft and sloppy. They opened their mouths more, roamed their hands, laid themselves upon the bed. Bertie had felt the blood rush between his legs, and just as it began to ache, Gert indulged him. He had slipped Bertie’s braces off his shoulders, a tug on the front of his trousers as he slipped his hand through. Bertie breathed against his mouth as Gert began to tease him with his juices. He felt himself slowly get close, closer, until finally he held Gert by the wrist and pulled away from his face. Bertie rolled atop him instead of letting him finish. He kissed Gert down his shirted chest, taking off his trousers in short tugs once he got to them. Gert parted himself as soon as his legs were free, opening himself up with such a trust that Bertie fell in love in a way he never had before. He took Gert in his mouth, slicking his chin with joy until Gert moaned and clutched the back of Bertie’s head with one hand, twitching against his tongue. Gert caught his breath before finishing what he had started, sealing his lips around the throb of Bertie as he hithered his insides with one finger, then two. Bertie was a third off the mattress by then, the world upside-down and without leverage as Gert toyed with him. Faster, slower, faster, making his eyes roll back until the swell of his pleasure finally burs...

Posters were still pasted everywhere, nestled into the grooves of brick and stone; VOTE COMMUNIST, VOTE SOCIAL DEMOCRAT, VOTE NATIONAL SOCIALIST, ABOLISH THE ABORTION PARAGRAPH, ABOLISH THE HOMOSEXUAL PARAGRAPH, JEWS CONTROL YOUR MONEY, WORKERS’ RIGHTS NOW, BRING BACK THE KAISER.

They held up signs looking for work: WILL SEW ANYTHING, WILL REPAIR ANYTHING, WILL WORK FOR FOOD, WILL DO ANYTHING FOR ANYTHING.

copy of Das 3. Geschlecht and some toast. The former took longer than he expected, with nearly thirty different Deutsch-language journals for the third sex sitting on the outside racks of the newspaper stand.

He finally saw a copy of Das 3. Geschlecht and paid. It was his favorite, focused on transvestites, written by transvestites and those who supported them. There were stories both personal and imagined, declarations of joy (“My First Outing as a Woman”), broadcasts of frustration (“The Desperate Struggle of a Male Transvestite”), poetry, advertisements, and information on the next hot social event, where to find clothes in your size, places for medical care or makeup tutorials or voice lessons. And so many wonderful pictures.

At the edge of the property perched a wooden box. It was where curious individuals could slip in questions and concerns anonymously about sex and abortion, transvestites and inverts, and pleasure and venereal diseases. Bertie grabbed the new strips of paper every morning. Every two weeks, the Institut invited the public in for an evening of sexual education, during which the compiled questions were answered.

biologist Ernst Haeckel,

The attic housed rooms for people sent to the Institut for expert assessment in criminal court matters, usually sexual crimes from a range of definitions. When they were around, plainclothes detectives positioned themselves opposite the building to make sure none of them left the premises. Forensic fees provided a major source of income for the Institut. To a lesser extent, the Institut also got by with other paperwork services: written court assessments were 150 marks, transvestite cards 50 marks. In ’21, the Prussian Ministry of the Interior began to permit name changes for transvestites who underwent a medical assessment, though such changes had to be reported in the official gazettes, including dates of birth and home addresses. Bertie hated how his personal business required broadcast. It felt both unfair and unnecessary. The rest of the Institut’s matters scattered themselves throughout the two buildings. Consultation rooms, treatment rooms, surgery rooms, reading rooms, exhibition rooms, offices, a moving picture projection room, a ballroom, and the large library and archive. Even the departments were known to shift and restructure based on which doctors and staff members were currently practicing. Archives management and financial administration offices were a constant, alongside departments for research, sexual counseling, physical sexual ailments, psychological sexual ailments, forensics, eugenics, sexual reform, and public sex education. Homosexuals, transvestit...

Quotations by Goethe

Dora Richter, one of the hauskeepers, was always first to air both buildings out for a new day. She lived in the basement, working in exchange for the first vaginoplasty known to be performed.

Doktor Hirschfeld’s key aphorisms and maxims for the Institut hung in a black frame behind Bertie’s desk, above his many file cabinets, for all applicants to see while sitting with him: 1. To love one’s neighbor, one has to respect his love. 2. Instead of asking “Who’s to blame?” rather ask “What’s to blame?” 3. Both predisposition and circumstance mold mankind. 4. All attraction in nature rests on laws—so does love’s attraction. 5. To every law an exception, to every exception a law—everything is determined. 6. Love is the transformation of latent into active energy. 7. Just as love sprouts life, so life lets spring forth love. 8. Whoever stems from both sexes possesses a union of both. 9. The concepts supernatural, unnatural, and contrary to nature are signs of a deficient knowledge of nature. 10. Manners and morals change according to time and place. 11. A naked human being is not undressed, but rather not dressed. 12. Freedom obliges. 13. To prejudge is to judge by proxy. 14. Per scientiam ad justitiam—Justice through science. 15. Science does not exist for its own sake, but for people’s sake. 16. True purity is pure truth. 17. Truth—more than anything.

I’m thrilled to show you the many wonders and humanities Dr. Hirschfeld and his team have developed and provided for not only people like myself, but also inverts of all types, third genders, and even for people like you, such as sexual practices, indulgences, safety, childbearing, family planning, and many other knowledges vital to each and every one of our livelihoods.”

We’ve seen as many as twenty thousand people from across Europe and have gained accolades and support from such scientists as Dr. Albert Einstein.” He automatically paused for the customary ripple of awe through the crowd. “We’re additionally a primary archive and pseudo-university for anything related to sexual intermediates. Our library houses over twenty thousand books and journals collected from around the world, at least half of them rare or the only known surviving prints of such works both by and about inverts and transvestites. We’ve also collected over thirty-five thousand glass photographic slides of similar excellence. If you’re looking for anything that proves, explains, or shows our existence, here’s where you’ll find it.”

A select few eyes had since lit up and he knew them to be one of his own kind. It was a type of joy and relief that he knew too well, and he had to often look away from such visitors before he felt emotional. He remembered his own first time learning that there was nothing wrong with him. And that he had the chance to attain the dreams he had always wanted. It was a theme heard frequently by patients and visitors, how monumental it was to learn that there were others out there like them.

“The first known chest surgery upon those with the soul of a man was performed by our own Dr. Ludwig Levy-Lenz, in 1926. The first for the soul of a woman was done in 1931. We’re in the process of developing hormone treatments, but we believe we’re still a few years away from a decent breakthrough.

“We would go out in a blaze of glory if we were younger.” Ina suddenly looked ashamed. “I wish we could do something. When people hurt bad enough, they’ll grab any idea to make their own lives better, no matter how illogical. It’s been tough since we lost the War. And they’re quite alluring in their promises.” Goss huffed. “They’re pandering to the people who were already hateful and looking for reason and protection to be so. I just didn’t realize there were so many of them.

Even Hitler’s own close friend and commander of the brownshirts, Ernst Röhm, was a known homosexual.

“You have a beautiful city,” Goss said, “but that’s the problem with Berlin. You take nothing seriously. Everything’s a joke.” Bertie tried to shrug off what he knew was true. “Everything’s just so hard. It’s how we get through life, laughing it off.” “But sometimes it’s not a good idea. I worry this is one of those times.” He locked eyes with Bertie, the lines of his face deepening as if he had learned this lesson himself the hard way. “Never laugh in the face of villainy.”

We’ve received word that the Allies are occupying their territories without any known regulation. The French occupation has expelled more than 25,000 civilians from their homes to clear minefields in Alsace. The British are forcing prisoners of war and civilians into reparations work, as are the Americans with all inhabitants in their zone aged fourteen to sixty-five. The food situation is dire in all territories. But the Russians . . . reports are coming in of mass murder and rape. No German is being spared by gender nor age. Some are even Russian themselves or refugee survivors trying to get back home. Elderly civilians are being killed as a form of entertainment. Mothers and children as young as six are being raped by groups of soldiers at a time, often for hours, in front of one another. Many victims have died of their injuries. We will spare you further details.

“Just come over here, Bertie. I know you’re sweet.” She looked a little self-conscious then. “And to be honest, I wouldn’t mind being held tonight. Please don’t misunderstand me, I like you very much,” she said quickly. “But this isn’t intended to lead you to anything else. Not tonight.” Her final words caused the stirrings in him again. He once more quieted them, for even if she had been interested tonight, he felt he would be too tired and too distracted to enjoy it. He did not want it to feel hollow. “There are different types of comfort appropriate for different occasions.” He tried to give a small smile. “And you are permitted to kick me if I ever choose the wrong one.” She pursed her lips in a muffled grin and scooted over so they could both lie down. They faced each other, his chin resting on her head, her arms wrapped around him, their legs tangled. It was the way they would fall asleep for the next thirteen years.

“Why do they do it?” Karl asked. “Keeping everybody out?” “Power, I’m sure. If they’re to decide that those with the most power are them, then logically they’ll want as few people like them as possible. The few in control decided that all the correct traits were what they already had. The rest of us have been left scrambling, transvestite or otherwise. What we need to emulate aren’t things that men naturally have.”

“I like other men, Bertie. Not women. You’ll always have it easier because of that. You were always going to be safer than me. I spent my whole life not living as myself and now I have to not live as myself all over again. No matter where I go, no matter how much people see me as a man, I will always have to choose between living a lie or living in fear.” His mouth made what passed for him as a smirk. “Silly, isn’t it? If I were a woman, this wouldn’t be a problem at all.”

Paragraph 175 had been explicitly about upholding male homosexuality. Transvestites were somehow lumped in based on how they were treated, but how exactly? What upheld male homosexuality and what did not? Did both people need to be male on their birth certificate? Many of them had successfully changed their birth certificates, including both Gert and Bertie. Or did both of them just need to present themselves as male? What about the surgeries? What about one surgery but not another? People seen as women were not on the books for their homosexuality. An attempt had been made years before. The only reason it did not go through for proper consideration was the first War and then the Treaty and suddenly Deutschland had much bigger problems to worry about. The Nazi Party considered women valuable incubators that could not be spared, so female homosexuals were prosecuted at much lesser numbers. And what of the Allied forces? Would Bertie be seen as a man or a woman to those in control? What about Karl? Did it matter? How could Karl be seen as a woman and a male invert at the same time? How could he be both a threat and not a threat for reasons that contradicted themselves?

“If they want to get us, they’ll get us. But I want us to try and make it as difficult on them as possible.” He swallowed. “If it helps, I believe everyone is acting in one way or another in this world. We’re all afraid to be ourselves. And the saddest part is that fear is unnecessarily genuine.” They were quiet for a short while. Karl stared at the far wall, giving a big sigh before speaking again. “Do you think every man is miserable, Bertie?” “Some more than others. But yes, I believe every man. None of us naturally fits every criterion demanded of us. But some of us have to work harder at it than others because some of us have so much more to lose if we don’t.”

“I hope you know that I don’t do any of this to you to be cruel. I do it because I want you to live. I want you to be happy, even if it’s not completely. But at least happier than you are now.” Karl’s head was already on the pillow, his eyes closed. “And it’s not my intention to cause you trouble in return. I have a lot inside of me right now. I’m sorry for what I said to you.” “That’s alright.” His eyes remained closed. “I’m afraid of what could happen if I finally let it out. And I’m afraid of what could happen if I never do. Poison has been swimming inside me for the past eleven years. I’m worried I’ll poison you, too.” “If we haven’t been poisoned yet, then it’s not going to happen.” Bertie forced a smile then. “And good luck trying to poison Sofie. When you’re ready to let it out, we’ll be right there to bring you back to the world.” Karl managed a small grin then. It faded. “Thank you, Bertie. You two have—” his voice broke a moment. “You’ve reminded me what kindness is. I just hope I can repay you someday.”

“This is madness.” His words, his anger, tumbled out in a hiss. “The Amerikans waited two years to join the War, and that was only for revenge after Japan attacked them. They never cared what Hitler was doing. Great Britain invented the camps in South Africa. And the Russians are raping children so badly that they’re killing them. If Hitler hadn’t double-crossed them in Poland, they never would’ve joined the Allies. It was all for revenge again.”