Ever since I joined the fighters, I’ve changed beyond recognition. The commander promises us that if we try hard, train diligently, and follow orders precisely, at the end of the course we’ll be fighters. Fighters do not complain; they grit their teeth and do not pity themselves.
Just one year ago I was a student, a teenager of average height with eyeglasses, and until last year I excelled at school. I don’t want to talk now about last year, when I was a tangle of contradictions. Presumably things will become clear when the time comes, but I will say this, my parents were greatly pained by the decline in my studies.
My report card glittered with high grades during my time at high school. I was my parents’ pride and joy, but suddenly my life veered off course, and their quiet happiness turned into shame. They were periodically called to the school and stood mutely before the vice principal, unable to offer a word in my defense.
The teachers grieved alongside my parents over my failure, especially the math and Latin teachers.
“What happened?” my humiliated father would ask in despair.
“Nothing,” I would say, over and over.
“Why aren’t you studying like you used to; something must have happened.”
The war was at our doorstep. People ran around in the streets, trying to escape the trap, but my parents were sunk in their depression. The decline in my studies concerned them more than the imminent danger. In those days I was blind and merciless. I felt that my parents were drowning in their own world and blocking my way. I didn’t speak up or make excuses, but without meaning to I was pouring salt on their wounds.
NOW THEY ARE far away from me, and I’m here. Sometimes it seems that everything that has happened to me in these past months is a nightmare to be deciphered in the future. I will undoubtedly be found guilty, which is why I try hard to obey orders and be a flawless fighter.
The training is exhausting. The commander has no pity for stragglers; he demands extra effort, and weakness is forbidden. Those among us who do not meet his standards guard the base and help with the cooking. They chop wood and gather twigs for bedding.
Fighters, the commander calls us. Our training includes long runs, hurdling over obstacles, climbing ropes, advancing correctly in forested areas and swamps, carrying heavy loads. More than once, I collapsed, and had it not been for friends who supported me, I doubt I would have met all the demands.
I look in the water, and to my surprise I don’t recognize myself. My face has filled out and reddened, and my shoulders are broader. In a sheepskin coat I look more like a young farmer than a gymnasium student. My hands are rougher, too. I’ve lost my previous quickness; a different quickness guides my steps. I can bend scraps of tin and iron, break poles, dig a trench in minutes. I doubt my parents would recognize me, and if they did, I wonder how they’d react. Deep in my heart, my transformation makes me happy. Every success in training, every compliment, makes me swell with pride, and I feel that on the battlefield, face-to-face with the enemy, I will perform to my commanders’ satisfaction.
THE WETLANDS. Is this home base or the start of the journey? We press on through the thick foliage, where the darkness is greater than the light. Progress sometimes means strenuous chopping of trees, all hands clearing the path. I do not complain; I accept the difficulties as a duty and atonement for sin. The training exercises and ambushes do not weaken me. I assume that when the time comes, not far off, we will become forest creatures, and the trees and bushes will wrap us in a warm, wide mantle.
There’s no point wasting time with fantasies; better to clean the weapon, fix what’s left of my shoes. The soles are torn, and I tie them with string. That’s how it is for nearly all of us. Were it not for the cold nights, it would be easier, but the cold and wet are unrelenting. Thank God for the whispering coals that keep our clothes a little dry.