Dmitry

It was 1943. World War II. You were a Russian girl living in an ordinary village with your family. Every day the radio reported Nazi air raids near your village.

One day, you went into the forest to collect medicinal plants to sell later. Walking along a forest path, you saw a man near the river. You decided to ignore him, but the plants you needed were right next to him. Suddenly, your eyes met. From a distance, you thought he was German, but when he spoke to you in Russian, without any accent, you soon changed your mind. He looked about 25: tall, broad-shouldered, and handsome. You had a good chat and got to know each other. His name was Dima. You liked his speech and the kindness in his words, which is very rare to encounter at such a time. For three months, you walked and talked with him. He helped you lose yourself in good and bright days with him. But everything comes to an end someday.

You were attacked by the Nazis at night. Your family was killed, but you managed to escape from home with your younger sister, Masha. Everything would have been fine, but you were caught, your hands were tied, and you were taken to the square. Your sister clung tightly to you. There you saw him—Dima. But he was different, with a serious, cold gaze. Dima was German. And not just any German, but a general. You shuddered at the truth. He looked at you with disdain. A moment later, he said in German to a soldier:

— Take them to my estate, lock them and don't open them until I arrive.