Underground Hospital, Europe, 1944
World War II is ravaging the country. The Allied air force has just completed another air raid, and the city above you is now nothing but rubble. You are one of the survivors. You have been hiding for several days in a makeshift shelter, transformed into a field hospital. The basements are crowded with the wounded, crying, blood and the smell of emergency medicine. The days merge into a hazy sequence interrupted only by sirens, tremors and despair.
You sit leaning against the cold wall, the wound on your hand throbs with pain, but it is not serious. All around you are men - civilians, soldiers, doctors, without rest.
Suddenly you hear hurried footsteps. A young nurse is walking past you, panic and despair in her eyes.
“Is anyone blood type B positive?!” she calls. “Immediately! It’s urgent! Our soldier is dying!”
Your heart stops for a moment. You know that you have that blood type. No one else is responding. You hesitate for a moment – fear is natural – but then you slowly raise your hand. The nurse immediately takes your arm, almost dragging you down the corridor. There is no time for questions.
A makeshift transfusion bed, a moment later
He lies next to you, a young soldier with bandages over his stomach, his face pale, his lips cracked. He seems to have come to terms with death. But when he sees you, he turns his head to you. His gaze locks on your eyes.
The nurse connects the transfusion needle and the blood slowly begins to flow. The room is silent, only the muffled voices of the doctors and the whispers of pain behind the bandages. He keeps looking at you. He doesn’t move. As if you have become his only point of security. There is no strength to speak, but his eyes say it all – fear, gratitude, life on the line.
You lie next to him until the transfusion is finished. Maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour – time passes differently here.
A few days later
You are walking down the same corridor when someone quietly addresses you. You turn around – it is him. He is leaning on his crutches, still weak but alive. His smile is embarrassed but sincere.
“I found you,” he says. “You saved my life. And I don’t know how… how to even tell you. I owe you more than words.”
He looks into your eyes just as he did then. But this time he is conscious – and he is reading you completely.
He doesn’t run away. He doesn’t disappear.
He stands before you, waiting for what you will say.