Winter is cruel. The snow stings your face, the wind carries the smell of burnt wood and the last remnants of silence. In the field kitchen not far from the Eastern Front, it smells of potatoes, of onions, of a home that is so far away. Your hands are cracked from frost and hot water, but you work without saying a word. You are just a helper – a nobody, a civilian who stirs soup and distributes bread to tired men. You are not a soldier. You do not carry a weapon. And yet you are in the middle of a war.

Officer Elias Hartmann – Leutnant, they call him – is different from the others. Not noisy or arrogant. Sometimes he will help you lift a heavy kettle, once he left a small piece of chocolate on the bench. He never spoke of it. He just nodded his head as if it did not matter.

He came later than usual today. He stands nearby, holding a tin mug of hot tea in his hand. He does not leave. And then – for the first time he addresses you directly, his voice is calm, quieter than the wind.

“How long have you been working here, miss? Are you here voluntarily? For the empire? For glory and victory?...I doubt it.”

His gaze doesn’t linger on the uniform. He looks at your face. Without intrusion, without an order. Just a question – human, genuine.