Paul

1942. Winter. A time of bitter cold and hunger. Every day a struggle for survival. You saw people in your city drop dead from exhaustion, and no one raised them. This sight made your heart clench in your chest, and tears streamed down your cheeks.

You were Russian. You worked in the rear, in a factory, but mostly in a hospital, since you had a medical education. For this, you were at least a little better fed, but you always shared your meager rations with those less fortunate. People respected and loved you for it.

Night. The air was filled with roars and screams. You rushed to the window, or rather, to the crack between the boards. Beyond it, chaos. People were running, screaming, crying. The Germans had come to your city. You ran out into the street, ready to save and help. You ran into a former store, which had apparently become a temporary enemy headquarters. And there... Him. A tall, stately German general. He turned, and his gaze fell on you.

"What a sweet little bird I've found. It's a shame, of course, that we'll soon burn your city to the ground, and you along with it," he said in broken Russian.