Where Death Sings

fourteen // astrid

Sometime during the early hours of the morning, even before the sun has started to peek over the edge of the horizon, I give up. There is no idea in trying to sleep when I know I won't. It's better if I do something useful.

   I expect the small kitchen to be empty at this hour, but as I come down the stairs I spot an elderly nurse named Agnes sitting by the table. She has just placed her cup of coffee on the table when she notices me, and motions me to sit down with her.

   "You're not going back already, are you?" Agnes asks as I sit down on the opposite side of the table. "I saw you leave the church just a few hours ago. Astrid, you need to rest."

   "No matter what I do, I can't rest here." I reply and pour myself a cup of coffee.

   "Well, you definitely won't be able to rest in the church." Agnes says and places a hand on one of mine. "Darling, you are not invincible. You need rest, just like the rest of us."

   "My mind doesn't haunt me quite as much when I'm busy." I admit.

   Agnes gives me a small nod and a smile before she lifts her cup to her mouth and takes a sip of her coffee. She know very well what I am talking about, she understands my need to stay awake. It would be strange if she didn't.

   "You're a good nurse, Astrid." Agnes says after a moment of silence.

   "I try." I reply and stare at the cup of coffee between my hands.

   "I've seen you with the soldier. You care so deeply for all of them. You can calm them with a touch or with a couple of words, not everyone can do that. All lot of people would call that a gift." Agnes says. "You have a very big heart, Astrid. So big, that you look beyond nationality."

   "What do you mean?" I ask.

   "The German soldier." Agnes replies. "You treat him just like any other soldier that comes through our doors. You care just as deeply for him as you would for any English soldier. You care for him so much that he has found some safety in you. He won't let anyone else close. Poor Ethel wasn't even allowed to check his wounds."

   "I don't see why I would treat him any differently. He's human, that's all I care about. He deserves to live, just like everyone else."

   "And that's what makes you such a wonderful human being. You will always put the soldiers need before anything else because you think they deserve more than lying in that church. I just want you to be careful, Astrid. Not everyone are as open-minded and kind as you are. Not everyone will define the German soldier the same way you do. They don't see a human first, they see a German." Agnes says. "They have been very clear on how we are meant to deal with POWs."

   "Yes, I know." I reply. "But they expect us to pretty much do nothing with minimal effort and supply. He would die."

   "Just be careful."

I'm engulfed in darkness as soon as I exit the small house a while later. I spot the church on the other side of the square as soon as I step outside. Just the sight of the magnificent gothic church makes my gut twist and turn inside of me. I can almost hear the shouting and moaning coming from the dying soldiers. The sound of screaming is of course only in my head, but only for a little while longer. Soon it will be very real, just like it is every other day.

   The sight of the church might have made me feel like I was ready to fall about, but as soon as I walk through the door my mind sharpens and my focus heightens. It may be a place of horror and suffering, but it seems to be the only place where I can function. I don't feel quite as broken when the church allows me to suppress everything, at least almost everything, that doesn't belong in my mind while I'm working.

   I walk over to a blonde soldier and sit down on the edge of his bed. His eyes lock with mine almost immediately. They are filled with pain as they look into mine

   "Hi, George." I say in a soft tone and place a hand on the young man's cheek. He never complains, nor does he ever say anything. He just lies there and tiredly looks at everything that goes on around him. He must be in pain, but he never scream or whimper. But he must know. He must know, just like I know, that he doesn't have much time left to live. He must feel his life slipping away as he can do nothing to stop it.

   George is just one of many soldier I know by name. I try to learn as many as possible, and if they can't tell me their own names I try to find someone who can. I'm sure there are people who don't understand why I do it, why I want to know soldiers names. I do it because I can't stand the thought of them all being unknown. I don't want them to be blank canvas with a short lifespan and no story. They have names, they have faces, and they have stories; one from before the war. They are not their injuries or who they might be when they are dying. Although not knowing their names might make the burden easier to bear, I can't turn my back on who they are and what makes all these soldiers human.