The smell of lye burns. Her nostrils recoil. Her eyes are red and sting. It helps hide the tears. Even after all these days, they still sometimes come. Why this boy and not another? He is barely shaving, now screaming. Not enough anesthetic to sedate him. What good would his leg do him shattered? The coldness she’s developed. Distancing to see him as other. Dehumanizing.
When the war began she ran the boulangerie. She made sweet breads, croissants like buttery clouds and pain au chocolate that melted before you could eat it all. Savouring those memories now torture to an empty belly. Stay here. The rear view does not show the way forward.
The boy has passed out. Screamed himself hoarse. She does not hear them anymore. It is an assembly line of compassionless care. Unlike the sweets - some sprinkled with currants or chopped fruit, some ooze chocolate or almond paste. All of these ooze blood and their young lives flood out of them. They do not rise or become warm and golden in this crowded underground hospital. They turn grey and gangrene flavours their skin. Some never to rise again. The pointlessness of working so hard, so painstakingly breaks her spirit.
His eyes flutter. He stares upward. She coos to him.
“Lily?”
“Yes…?” She knows to answer. She doesn’t know his name. Dog tags buried under bandages hastily wrapped.
“Do you smell that?”
“What do you smell?”
“Mom’s making pie”
“Oh?”
“Saskatoon pie. I can smell pa’s pipe”.
“Mmmm.”
“I’m so tired, Lily.”
“It’s ok, I’m here.”
“It hurts so bad.”
“I know.”
“Will you let me take you to the dance?”
“Of course. That would be nice”.
“You’re so pretty.”
He left me then. Like the others. Death is an impatient customer. Wrapped up by the dozen and passed along. Pieces missing. Pointless puzzles.
She held his hand.
“My name is Louise. I will remember you.”