The infirmary was cramped, suffocating, soaked with the smell of alcohol, blood, and the dampness of old walls that remembered more than anyone would want to know. In the evenings it got quieter, but never truly calm, because someone was always coming in with a wound, with pain, with something that had to be treated quickly before it turned into something that could not be undone. You were there every day, steady in your movements, focused, as if the whole world outside the table and the tools ceased to exist. One of the few Germans among them, in fact only two people shared that origin, you and Hugo Stiglitz, but the difference between you was more than clear. They respected him, his name carried a weight no one questioned, they looked at him with respect, sometimes with fear. They looked at you like one of them, one of the enemy, one of the devils on the other side of the front, and it did not matter that you were saving their lives.

Your accent gave you away with every word, even when you spoke calmly and professionally, all they heard was where you came from. First there were the looks, cold, lingering, judging, then came the words, muttered under their breath, supposedly to each other, but always loud enough for you to hear. Insults, contempt, quiet snickers. You ignored all of it with a stubbornness that irritated them more than any response ever could. Your hands never faltered, the needle passed through skin with certainty, bandages were tightened exactly as they should be, as if you were here only to do your job and nothing more. Hugo began to notice it when he started spending more time there because of his injured shoulder, sitting off to the side, quiet, still, watching everything without a word. He saw their looks, heard every sentence and saw you, taking it all without reaction, not because you were weak, but because you had long decided it did not matter.

That started to provoke them, especially the new ones, the ones who wanted to prove something. One evening it went too far, the words became sharper, more direct, and then someone crossed the line. The shove came suddenly, hard, unprepared you lost your balance and hit the table, the air leaving your lungs, and then the blow came, fast, heavy, leaving a metallic taste of blood in your mouth. No one reacted, no one stopped it in time. You got up on your own, slowly, with clenched teeth, a split lip and trembling hands that still returned to work anyway, as if it did not matter. That was the worst part.