Only 19-years-old, but I was called ‘Father’
by a dying German soldier. He was old and fragile,
he did not have a weapon.
He lay twisted around his right leg
but when he saw the red crosses on my arms and helmet
his mouth stretched as if shrieks
were coming out, he reached for me
and cried ‘Vater!’
I bared the wound at mid-thigh,
put sulfa powder on the exposed bone,
covered it with a compress, tied a loose
tourniquet. He was greying fast.
I stuck morphine in, he wasn’t eased,
I gave him another eighth of a grain
and watched him lapse into shock.
I felt as if I too had been shot
and yearned to be dead.
*
Gordon got ripped by a machine gun
through the right waist. We were cut off
in foxholes by ourselves.
I tried to knock him out.
I took off his helmet, held his jaw up,
and whacked it as hard as I could.
I hit him with his helmet
but that didn’t work. Nothing worked.
He slowly, slowly, froze.
*
I knew of shelters built inside
transformer housings covered
with metal-plated doors marked
with warning signs featuring
a skull and crossbones.
The people would drape
high-voltage cables over the iron doors,
in front of which they would place wet leads,
they were warm enough for someone to lie
on the floor even during sub-zero weather.
*
We don’t have water. Everyone wants to drink.
People are simply burning up.
By chance I found a litre
while I was clearing away rubble.
Edka and I each had a little bit,
and then I took it back, practically full,
to our room for the others.
Lana came over—she is terribly thirsty.
I gave her the bottle and said,
‘You drink first.’ Marius came over.
Lana drank a third and asked him,
‘Do you want a little water? Drink some and leave
some for Rena.’ He drank
and put down the bottle.
There was not a drop left.