Where Death Sings

eleven // friedhelm

I lie quietly and still in the bed the English nurses had put me in, not necessarily because I want or because I like it, but because everything hurts. Such as simply thing as taking a breath feels like getting stabbed; razor sharp blades penetration my skin. My German skin, I remind myself. I am not supposed to be here. I'm on the wrong side of the front. I'm not surrounded by my country men, I am not among friends. At any moment someone can kill me, take me away or put me in a POW camp. I don't know what awaits me, or what will happen to me, or if I even will survive. I guess in one way it would be easier to die, that way I would be able to avoid any complications this situation might bring. I would be an idiot if I expected to walk out of here like nothing happened when I feel better. No, something will happen to me. I just don't know what yet.

   I let out a deep sigh, causing pain to shoot through my body, and let my eyes wander over the interior of the church. Even though I am hidden away in one of the corners of the church, I don't have any trouble observing the architectural features. The walls are made of solid stone, and the roof that seems to reach the sky is shaped by multiple aches. The windows, which have the same curve as the arches, are just as grand and majestic as everything else in the church. My eyes rest on one of the windows, which is letting in the warm daylight into the church. I am not completely sure if my eyes stay on the window because I find it beautiful or because every muscle in my body is too weak to look away. Something I do know is that somewhere outside that window, beyond the town, the trees and the battered earth, German soldier, my comrades, my country men, are dying at the hand of the English and French. On the other side of no man's land my friends are suffering, and I'm not there with them. I can't help but wonder who might have died. Maybe the scrawny little recruit with the narrow face who never had gotten enough to eat, or maybe Klaus, the most experience soldier I know. It's possible that I will come back to a completely wiped out platoon, maybe even company. That is of course if I ever come back, if I ever get join my company again.

   "Good morning, Friedhelm." The voice belonging to Astrid, the nurse, brings me back from my thoughts. She sits down on a stool next to the bed. "I'm just going to take a look at your wounds and change the dressings, okay?" Astrid's voice is a soft as velvet, and she speaks in a calm manner. I'm not entirely sure how she does it. How she can seem so unaffected by what is happening around her. It impossible to miss the cries of agony and how they echoing within the church. I find it hard not to believe that one can go insane for spending too much time in the church, among the suffering.

   Astrid leans forward, and shoots me a worried look before she carefully starts removing the dressing over my wound. I understand her glance, maybe she's just as worried about me killing her as I am about some English soldier killing me while I'm stuck in bed. Truth be told, I don't let my eyes leave her even for a second. I don't dare. I know when I'm at a disadvantage. Even if I wanted to kill her, which I don't, I probably wouldn't even have time to raise my hand before someone stopped me, and killed me instead.

   "Hm." Astrid says. "Doesn't look as bad as it did yesterday. You will be just fine. Not yet, but give it some time."

   "Time is something I don't have much of." I say, starling Astrid just as much as I did the first time I spoke. "How long do I have before they send me off to a POW camp? They don't care whether I bleed out on the way or dance my way to the camp, as long as they get me there."

   "I promise you, you are more likely to dance your way to the camp then bleed out. I was told to patch you up so you could survive the transfer, and I intend to make sure you do."

   "I'm sure if they want to transfer me to a camp, they will. No matter what anyone says or does."

   I know Astrid means well, but what I know, my future doesn't look very bright. It doesn't really matter if Astrid sees me like any other human, I'm sure most people will first and foremost define me as German. I am German before anything else, at least in some people's eyes.

   We both fall silent, and Astrid turns her attention to my wound and the new dressing. Her cold fingers brush my skin gently, which reminds me how long it's been since I've been this close to a girl. There was no lust or love in her touch, her touch was caring and compassionate. She cared about life, about the beating heart in my chest, and the beating heart in every soldier's chest.

   "Do you hate us? Do you hate England?" Astrid suddenly says.

   "Do I hate you?" I repeat. "No, I don't hate anyone. I don't have a reason to hate you."

   "Not even all the soldiers who have tried to kill you?"

   "No. They are humans too, aren't they? I think there's a possibility, that under different circumstances, I could have been good friends with them, but the war..." I don't finish my sentence, there is too much to say about the war and what is has done to all of us, what it has turned us into.