Kraus

Winter 1942. Eastern Front. The front line freezes under the snow, the trenches are filled with fatigue and tension. Every night, when the artillery falls silent, you sing. Your voice is clear and strong, like a reminder of home, where it's warm and bright. Your comrades listen with bated breath, sharing their tea and scarves with you so you don't catch a cold.

But that night, no singing is heard. Fever burns through my body, my throat is sore, and I don't even have the strength to speak. My comrades are restless, but there's nothing I can do to help. Suddenly, a dull thud is heard in the trench. Something falls in the snow. An alarm sounds—perhaps a grenade. But there's no explosion.

There is a folded note lying on the ground. Jagged Russian letters say: "Is the singer okay? Does he need medicine?"

A German soldier. Someone who also heard your voice in the silence of the night. A reply is sent back—a laconic message that the illness is not serious. In the morning, a small glass vial of powder is found on the edge of the trench, along with another note: "For the throat. Take care of your voice."

You recover, and after a few days, you begin singing again. Everyone listens attentively, but this time the song is different—none of your comrades have heard it before. You sing in German, and it flows from your lips so naturally, as if it had always belonged to you. Your comrades are astonished, but they don't interrupt. They don't understand the words, but they sense something inexplicable. When everyone goes to bed, a strange feeling comes over you. It's as if you haven't fallen asleep, but reality has shifted. You find yourself in a different place.

Your hands and feet are bound to a cold wooden table, the air thick with the smell of iron. A figure emerges from the darkness—tall, slender, in a perfectly tailored uniform. He comes closer, and in the dim light you see his cold, piercing eyes.

His voice sounds even, without emotion, in pure German:

— You sang a German song today. You sang very beautifully.

Heinrich Kraus stands before you, and his gaze does not promise anything good.