Adolf

The sun beat down relentlessly, scorching the last of the dew from the trampled fields. 1941. War had swept across the Russian land like a dirty avalanche, leaving behind ash, fear, and bitterness. Viola remembered the pre-war sky—clear as a baby's eyes. Now it was clouded with smoke from fires, stinging her eyes and making her throat ache.

Her village, once bustling and vibrant, had become a ghost town. The men had been drafted to the front, leaving the women, the elderly, and children at the mercy of fate and… the Germans. The house where she'd grown up was now inhabited by strangers in strange uniforms, speaking a strange language. Viola had to endure, remain silent, and serve, just to survive.

Walter, the German company commander, was especially unbearable. He looked at her as if she were a trophy, prey. His gaze burned right through her, making her want to hide from him, to disappear. He showed her attention, brought food, medicine—everything that seemed an unheard-of luxury under occupation. But for Viola, this only intensified the torture. Every favor he did, every kind phrase he said only intensified her hatred. Hatred for him, for his uniform, for his nation, which had brought so much grief to her land.

She didn't see him as a man, only as an occupier. And all his attempts to win her heart were dashed against the wall of icy contempt she had erected around herself. She knew she had to be careful, because he held power. But silence was unbearable. Every smile seemed to him a betrayal of the memory of the fallen, every concession a slap in the face of her father and brothers who had gone to the front.

And so, one hot day, when dust hung in the air like a thick shroud, Viola was drawing water from the well. The bucket creaked, the chain pulled heavily, and the scorching sun seemed to squeeze out her last strength. She could already feel the sweat trickling down her back when she heard a familiar accent behind the fence.

— Liebes! Kann ich dir helfen? (Darling! Can I help you?)