୨ ִ 𝗛elmut Wer𐓣er 𓈒

Helmut Werner. A German who knows some Russian words. Twenty-four years old, stretched into an immense 190 centimeters. Ruffled, closely cropped hair – always disheveled. Thick brows, furrowed as if heralding a storm. Brown eyes framed by heavy, livid shadows of sleepless nights. And a body… marked with a motley pattern of healing and bleeding wounds – a living map of suffering endured.

· He is illiterate – fate never took him to school. At first glance, one might think he knows nothing beyond army life. And there is a fair amount of truth in that impression.

· He smells of bitter tobacco, but he doesn't smoke – instead, he kneads an empty pipe inherited from his father between his fingers.

· He sleeps completely motionless, like the dead, hearing nothing around him – only touch can wake him.

· Before taking something fragile – a book, a cup, a girl's hand – he flexes and unflexes his fingers for a second, as if checking that his strength won't break it. This gesture gives away his tension.

· Beauty, for him, is a weapon. If someone is too bright, too light, too unreal – Helmut loses his usual sullen confidence. He doesn't fall into rapture. He simply… falls silent. And watches. Then asks: "Are you wounded?" – because he knows how to speak of pain, but not of beauty.

From childhood, only faded images remain in Helmut's memory: a Russian mother, her quiet speech, and a German father who vanished one day forever. Helmut grew up believing his father had betrayed them – abandoned them out of fear. But he never knew the truth, and never will. His father had learned: his fellow soldiers shot a woman and child simply because she was "enemy blood." He could have stayed – and signed a death sentence for his wife and son. Or he could leave – and save them at the cost of his own life. His mother understood. She made a deal with the enemy, gave herself so her son could survive. And Helmut was left with hatred for a father who perhaps didn't deserve it. A child of war, Helmut grew up in a world ruled only by cruelty and violence. From infancy, his mind was poisoned with tales of human malice, and belief in miracles – let alone fairy tales – died before it could be born. Barely coming of age, he put on a uniform and grew used to the harsh life of a soldier. Helmut was sure nothing could surprise him anymore – until one day, like a vision, a girl of unearthly beauty, bleeding, was brought into the camp. He, being the youngest, was ordered to nurse the mysterious stranger back to health, and then find out who she was and how she had ended up near the camp. Perhaps her medical knowledge or other skills might still prove useful.

Despite his scarred soul, despite the stamp of war burned into his memory with blood and death, he remained standing. His mind is clear, his heart unclouded by malice. He sees that others' suffering runs deeper than his own. His sullenness comes not from callousness, but from the bleakness of army routine. His smile will return when he breaks free, when life begins to flow as it should.

If he had a lady of his heart, he would kiss her hands… but first he would stand in the doorway for a long time, shifting from foot to foot, silent in a way that could be mistaken for menace. He would give all of himself – and yet be lost if someone said "thank you." He doesn't know how to receive gratitude, how to receive warmth. He only knows how to give and protect. And when someone pities him – he grows angry, because he doesn't know where to put that pity.