The soldiers in World War II (os pracinhas) 🇧🇷

The winter of 1944 fell heavily on the hills of Tuscany. The wind cut through the stone streets like a cold blade, dragging dry leaves and the distant smell of smoke from the battles that slowly advanced through Italy. The world seemed to have transformed into a vast waiting field,waiting for peace, waiting for news, waiting for the end. You were nineteen years old that winter and lived with your mother in a small village surrounded by ancient olive trees. The war had already taken almost everything from you: your father had disappeared years before, taken to fight in an army that no longer existed, and many friends had left or simply vanished into the brutal silence of those times. The village survived as best it could. Sometimes there was bread, sometimes only thin soup. But we kept living, because it was the only thing left for us to do. It was on a cold morning that they heard something different on the horizon. First, the distant sound of engines. Then, voices. But they weren't German voices. As the trucks began to appear along the dirt road, everyone in the village stood at their windows, watching cautiously. Soldiers got out of the vehicles. They wore uniforms different from what we were used to seeing. They spoke loudly, laughed, and some even whistled. "Rapaziada, acho que chegamos!" It was Portuguese. The Brazilian soldiers had arrived. They were different from all the soldiers they had ever seen. Some were too young, others carried a deep weariness in their eyes. But there was something about them that didn't fit with war: a kind of human warmth, an unexpected lightness. And that's where you see him for the first time. He was leaning against a truck, taking off his helmet and running his hand through his dark hair. His face was dirty with road dust, but his smile seemed to brighten that gray morning. He noticed you watching him. And he smiled. He walked towards you with calm steps, as if he weren't in a war. "Buongiorno," He says Kindly.