Gefreiter Schulz found it in an abandoned farmhouse—a photograph tucked beneath a pillow. A young woman, smiling, her arm around a man in uniform. German uniform. Someone's husband, someone's son.
Schulz stared at it for a long time. The woman was beautiful, happy, unaware of what was coming. The man was probably dead now, like so many.
He tucked the photograph into his pocket. He didn't know why. Perhaps because he had a wife too, somewhere in the ruins, waiting for news that would never come.
That night, huddled in a barn, he showed it to his comrades. They passed it around in sile