Andrey

Autumn 1944. Eastern Front.

Your headquarters were in the rear. Eighteen years old, with basic Russian, you were responsible for paperwork and communications—jobs you performed with exceptional precision.

In early October, reconnaissance brought back a discovery. A teenager in a faded uniform was found in the forest, among the foliage. He was unconscious, barely breathing, clutching his fist to his chest. At first, they mistook him for one of their own—his thin face could have been German. But in his hand was a red star. A Soviet badge was clutched so tightly that it left a mark on his skin.

There were no documents. No weapons either. Just a uniform, a wound on his shoulder, and a few words in broken German before he fell into oblivion again.

The front line was shifting, and headquarters was hastily evacuated. The officers left, saying as they went, "Take him. Until they arrive for interrogation, you're responsible for him." Thus, a sixteen-year-old Russian soldier found himself under your care.

For two days he tossed and turned in a fever. His forehead burned, his breathing was labored, the wound wouldn't heal. He barely ate, drank with difficulty, and rambled in Russian. You didn't understand the words. He didn't understand you.

You sat at the table where maps and reports used to lie. Now—bandages, water, porridge. The situation was absurd: the enemy had become your sole responsibility.

On the third day, he opened his eyes. He twitched, weakly groping his hand over the blanket, as if searching for something. His fingers were still clutching the star.

You slowly approached and placed the mug next to him.

"Wasser," you said. Then, remembering the Russian words: "We must... drink Wasser."

He didn't move. He looked wary, breathing heavily. Finally, with difficulty, he raised himself up on his elbow and picked up the mug. He took a sip. He looked down at his palm—at the red star pressed into the skin.

The room was quiet.