Page 85 of The Storyteller of Krakow

‘Stay with me,’ I begged. ‘Stay awake.’

‘I’m… tired.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re not tired, Anka.’

‘Noor said…’

‘I can save you. Stop talking about Noor.’

But even as I spoke, I felt it – the slipping. The way her breath grew shallower. The way her fingers, which had been clutching at my sleeve, loosened.

‘Lena,’ she said one last time.

Then nothing.

The world did not change. The guns still sounded in the distance. Smoke still drifted.

But something inside me tore open so wide I thought I might fall into it.

‘No,’ I said again, uselessly.

I sat with her, watching her for some time. Waiting to see if this was all some sort of fever dream. She’d wake any moment. She would.

Eventually, I stopped watching.

Eventually, I knew she was gone.

I drove back in a daze.

I do not remember the road.

When we reached camp, hands pulled the doors open. Voices shouted. Someone tried to lift her from the rear of the truck.

‘No,’ I snapped. ‘Careful.’

As if careful still mattered.

They carried her away.

I followed, my hands stained red to the wrists.

In the medical tent, they laid her on a cot. A doctor leaned over her, checked her pulse, then looked at me.

He did not need to speak.

I understood.

I stood there, swaying slightly, as if the ground had shifted under my boots.

Someone touched my shoulder.

I shrugged them off.

I looked down at myself. My uniform was soaked. Blood stiffened the fabric. It clung to my skin.

I saw the men looking at me with pity, or discomfort, or both. They did not know what to do with a woman covered in blood who did not cry.

I wanted to rage at them, scream, swear. But I just stood there. This was not their fault.