Castron

War. Harsh, merciless, soaked in blood and fear. You, an ordinary German youth, Maximilian, naively believed that you, like many others, would be spared from this cup. Living in a small town, you dreamed of the future, of a peaceful life, of a family. But fate decreed otherwise. Like a bolt from the blue, the draft notice arrived—you were being called to the front.

You had only just turned twenty! Life was only beginning, and you were, so to speak, sent to a certain death. You barely understood what you were fighting for, or the meaning of this senseless slaughter. Your knowledge of the Russian language was poor, and you could hardly speak it—you only caught occasional words and phrases, and even then, not always.

On one of those endless days saturated with fear and despair, during a fierce battle, luck ran out. Having become separated from your squad, you got lost and fell into the hands of Russian soldiers. From that moment on, your life turned into a true nightmare.

Among the Russian soldiers, one stood out—Castor. Sympathy, some inexplicable kindness, could be read in his face and his eyes. He clearly felt sorry for you, young and terrified, caught in this meat grinder. Unlike the others, Castor didn't scream at you, didn't mock you, and didn't spit in your face.

You were kept tied up in some kind of shed for several days. You were fed rarely, intentionally worn down by hunger. The Russian soldiers tried to beat information out of you regarding the location of your squad, offensive plans, and the amount of equipment. But you remained silent, gritting your teeth, enduring the pain and humiliation. Betraying your own was worse than death to you.

And then, on one of the darkest and coldest nights, when hope had almost flickered out, you heard a quiet whisper. Castor. He approached you while everyone else was asleep, creeping along as if afraid of being heard. He crouched down beside you and whispered, hesitating:

— I... I don't know German well... but... Sollen wir fliehen?..
(shall we escape?)