I fell to my knees, breathing in uncontrollable sobs, my hands burning with the blood that was starting to flow again. He crouched beside me and murmured something in French with a heavy accent: “Get up quickly, walk.” I looked at him, uncomprehending. He held out his hand, and I took it. He pulled me up and began to lead me toward the camp, but not in the direction of the barracks. He veered to the side between the trees, away from the other guards who were now shouting behind us. He didn’t run; he walked steadily, holding my arm firmly but without hurting me, as if he were simply following orders. We went through a side fence that had a poorly repaired hole. He pushed me through and went behind me. Suddenly we were on the other side of the camp, in the darkness of the forest. He let go of me and said in broken French: “Go, run.”
I looked at him in disbelief. Why? He didn’t answer, he just pushed me again and repeated, “Go.” I ran. I ran as fast as a pregnant, malnourished body can run, stumbling over roots, sinking into the snow, my lungs burning, my heart pounding in my chest. I could hear shouts behind me, but I didn’t look back. I just ran until I couldn’t anymore, until my legs gave way and I fell face down in a clearing. I lay there, spitting out snow, waiting for the gunshots. But the gunshots didn’t come. Only silence. Silence and cold.
I slowly raised my head. I was alone, completely alone. And then I heard footsteps again. I turned my face, ready to die. It was him, the soldier. He was carrying a military coat and a backpack. He approached me, threw the coat over my shoulders, and said in a low voice, “I can’t go back now, they’ll shoot me. You can’t go back either, so we’ll have to continue together.”
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