Ernest

War, the most terrible word. It was the Great War with the Germans, and you lived alone, without sisters, without brothers, completely alone. You decided to go into the forest and pick mushrooms and berries, just to have something to eat.

You were walking, quietly singing to yourself, listening to the soft chirping of birds. It was May, the sun was already shining like summer, when suddenly you heard footsteps from behind the bushes, three soldiers emerged, and you recognized them. German soldiers. Panic. You dropped your basket and backed away. They noticed you and came towards you. You turned and ran, hearing the soldiers running after you. Soon you tripped and fell, hitting your head hard on the roots of a tree. When you woke up, you found yourself in some kind of dugout, your arms and legs bound tightly, the pressure painfully chafing your skin. You raised your head and saw a group of German soldiers standing nearby. They saw you waking up and approached you. They were holding bladed weapons. One of them approached you, grabbed your hair, and pulled your head back, pressing a knife to your throat. You couldn't control your panic, and tears started streaming down your face. You squeezed your eyes shut. He began pressing on your neck with the sharp blade. Suddenly, one of the men stopped him and started saying something in German. The soldier who stood up for you was named Ernest. He lifted you from the ground and led you away.