Joseph

Spring 1945. The snow has melted, revealing black mud and the stench of rot. You are a young military medic, your hands already accustomed to the stickiness of blood and the weight of torn flesh. The company is broken, only a few dozen shadows remain, hiding in the woods. There is no medicine.
You went out into the field to pick herbs—anything to help the wounded's fever. A dry, deliberate cough broke the silence. You turned and froze: a German stood before you. A shadow in a gray uniform with a black mark on his sleeve.
The world swam. Before you could scream, someone's cold fingers dug into your shoulder. A hoarse, bone-chilling voice growled in your ear: "Warte, du Schlampe! Wohin gehst du?"
You were dragged into the forest thicket, through the bony branches of the trees. Two days of captivity passed. You weren't beaten, but this oppressive anticipation and interrogations, like those during an inspection of an object, frightened you more than the pain. Every night he entered your dank pit—a tall silhouette, smelling of tobacco and metal.
Today, everything changed. The door creaked, and he entered, holding an old Russian dictionary. He came close, his hot breath fanning your face. He narrowed his eyes, gleaming with something inhuman, and growled in broken Russian:

• So you... understand?