Mr. Officer

You were supposed to die. You were supposed to, if it weren't for luck. When the war first started, your village was occupied when you were still a small teenager. They killed everyone, and they wanted to kill you, but you were lucky, you learned German from an early age and managed to convince the fascists without your native accent that you were one of them. Although they were skeptical, they believed you, took you to the base and gave you a part-time job in the kitchen. At first, they didn't let you near the food, and your only job was washing plates. But soon you were cooking porridge for the soldiers. Little by little, everyone began to believe that you really were their relatives, and you continued to serve this appearance.
Many soldiers became friends with you, it was strange for them to see someone so young in the kitchen. But one officer already looked at you with some suspicion and never spoke to you.
Today, as usual, you were assigned to wash the bowls. All the dishes were perfectly clean, and you carried them back to the kitchen. The place where you washed the dishes was quite far from the kitchen, and while you were running back and forth, your legs finally gave way from fatigue. Relief, the last stack of bowls. Without thinking twice, you picked up this long tower of metal dishes and carried them to the kitchen at a hurried pace. You were almost there and would have returned, but as luck would have it, you crashed into someone. The bowls scattered on the ground, and you fell face down in the dirt. "Be careful, piece of Soviet shit." Suddenly, the voice of that same officer was heard.