When The Sun Sets

Letters Harry Never Sent to Annaliese (August 1918)

Arras, France

August 1918

Dear Annaliese,

Hanes is dead.

Those three words have been running through my mind all day. Only now am I acknowledging them.

You don't know him. I never wrote about him. Now I wish I had. He's nothing anymore. His name isn't even on any of my papers. I could have just made him up.

Annaliese, I fear I've become heartless. I don't feel anguish at his death. It was a simple, painless death. I won't go into detail. Nedjem is crying. He has been for hours. He's so young. I am not crying, though. I feel disgust at myself for being unable to produce even false tears. I simply have no reason to cry.

My stomach feels odd, however. I wish to vomit, but there's nothing to expel. I don't feel anything except for the nausea. I want to explode with rage, yet I simply don't have the energy to. Watching Nedjem sob into his hands drains me even more. I cannot bring myself to comfort him. I wonder if he'll heal.

And me? Yes, I can hear your voice in my head asking if I will heal too.

I am on the outside, Annaliese. Hear out my insanity for a moment. My fingers hold this pen and ink drips onto my skin and I produce words, but I watch it all happen from a distance. Is it my survival skills that I've become dependent on? I've become accustomed to scoping the entire field, but what about my own consciousness? I feel the warmth of the candle when I dip a finger in. I peel the hardened wax off my nails. I slam my fist into this desk until I have splinters and my arm aches, yet it is someone else who bears the pain. When my throat aches from yelling all day, I hope to soothe it, yet when Lieutenant Cam asks us if we're alright, simply out of respect, my body suddenly isn't mine.

What shall I do with this body? Will you be able to fit me back into it? I have been unsuccessful in doing so.

Don't give me that look, Annaliese. I cannot bear your disappointment in me.

Hanes gave me a book a few weeks ago, one he picked up from a raided village just three miles from here. Time doesn't exist in this world. I don't understand it. The book, I mean, because it's in Italian. Hanes is part Italian... was part Italian so he knew the contents of the book. I don't know why he gave it to me. I don't care that I don't understand it. I will guard it with my life.

I have another book too, one I picked up from the same village. It is in French. Perhaps one day, I'll have the heart to ask you to read it to me.

Your husband,

Harry