It was January 1942, Yugoslavia. 9 months after the attacks officially began. The wind was
harsh and deadly. It bit into the cuts on my body as I stumbled away from the battle,
clutching a throbbing bullet wound on my shoulder. The tips of my fingers were black from
frostbite, and I presume my nose was too. Energy drained from me as I trudged through the
heavy snow. I could still hear the shouts and shrieks from the battle I’d just escaped from.
The sky was white and ominous, threatening to pelt more snow at me.
A long, long way ahead was a small village. It was my only hope. If I got there, I could
possibly find a nurse willing to help for free so I could continue fighting for the communists.
So I continued to plough closer and closer.
As I neared it, after what felt like decades, my heart plummeted as I saw it looked desolate
and barren. Some houses were shattered, no fires were lit, and it was blanketed in
untouched snow. Still I pressed on, hoping to find a sort of shelter to spend the night and
perhaps regain some form of health.
My hopes rose as I spotted a sturdy, well-built barn, unscathed, in spite of the wreckage
around me. I staggered towards it, and upon opening the door, I sank with relief into a
reasonably ‘warm’ mass of hay. Outside, snow had begun to cascade down, burying signs of
life in this village even further. A bitter wind still persisted, entering the barn through the door
I’d left slightly ajar. However, I had no energy left in me to close the door. Instead, I simply
lay there, and listened to the groaning gale flogging the walls of the barn.
I’m not sure how long I lay there, imprisoned, isolated in the deserted village. But slowly the
air got warmer, the snow desisted, the wind gave up, and the stifling, suffocating heat began.
I had never wished for death, but throughout the time I spent in that pile of hay, I was
confused as to why it did not come. There I was, with straw poking through my skin, my body
losing blood, and the heat becoming completely unbearable. Still I did not die. Even when, in
the smothering heat, my body started to rot and decompose, I did not die. During that time, I
thought of nothing. I felt no hunger, no thirst. I felt hardly any pain at all. I began to wonder if
really I was dead, and this is what dead people experience.
Another winter came, worse than the previous one. Temperatures dropped further, so there
was no snow, only ice. The constant ice on the barn caused it to topple, burying me in rubble
and chilling me further.
Surprisingly, my ex-comrades also came . Surprisingly, they dug through the ruins, found my
body, and expressed their sympathy and sadness. And surprisingly, I spoke.