Disclaimer: I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while.
Helga's gaze slowly drifts to the photograph adorning the top of the bookshelf. The piece of furniture itself is old and worn, the dark wood cracked in several places. There isn't a lot of books or other things in it, but she put the photograph in its current place on the very day she moved in, and there it has remained ever since. Far too many times too count, she has considered taking it down, stuffing it away in a drawer, or perhaps even throwing it out, but she's never had the heart to actually do it.
And she won't have it tonight either. The picture will remain there, she knows, because she just can't bring herself to get rid of it.
She sighs and lets her head fall back against the chair, allowing herself a few minutes of rest, of peace and quiet. She is thankful that she has this small attic room to call her own, when so many of the other nurses where she works have no other place to go to at the end of their work day, having to make the hospital their home.
Herr and Frau Kranz – her landlords – are really nice people, though. This room used to be our son's, but he no longer has any use for it, they told her when she came here. The rent they're charging her is modest too, even though they could easily get a lot more in this day and age when housing is scarce and many people are still living in shelters and other improvised homes.
But you are such a nice and sweet young lady. And Germany could not make it without nurses like you taking care of its people in our time of need, they said.
She never heard the couple mention their son again, but she did see the photos that were kept on display in the living room – the oldest one showing a baby sprawling on a blanket, the most recent one a grown man in a sergeant's uniform staring solemnly into the camera.
Though she's never asked, she's certain that the man – the sprawling baby – on the pictures is dead. Perhaps he was even one of the patients – victims – that died under her care. Another person that she failed to save, that she helplessly stood watching as his life slowly drained away from him like water from a rusty bucket.
Of course, she'll never know that, and she prefers for things to remain that way. It's hard enough as it already is without her knowing the identity of all those dead people, their dreams, hopes and memories now forever lost.
Somehow, she had expected it all to turn out differently when she left Stalag 13 and moved to Köln to study to become a nurse, going against the expressed wishes of her parents.
She still remembers the words in the first few letters she received from home after telling her parents about her decision. The disappointment, the desperate pleading that would gradually transform into stern orders for her to come to her senses and get married instead of engaging in this futile pursuit. A woman of her standing shouldn't have to work at all, and most certainly shouldn't get her hands dirty being a nurse. Why would she choose such a way of life when she could marry a fine German officer instead, and just why did she have to let her parents down like this? After all they had done for her, and now she had no compunction shaming them so horribly?
After some months of this, the tone of the letters changed, once her parents realized that there was no changing their wayward daughter's mind. Instead of the cajoling, the guilt-inducement, and the subtle threats, there was now only a cold distance. Like the letters were no longer being addressed to a daughter, but to a disliked acquaintance that one was forced to correspond with for the sake of courtesy. There was no more Dear Helga at the top of the paper or any We hope to see you back home soon towards the end, just a frosty detachment that spoke more clearly than any words could have.
One day, you will regret your decision to become a nurse, one of the letters had said. One of those letters that would now only arrive sporadically, written out of duty more than anything else.
She had shrugged that sentiment off, though. She had known, then, that this was the right path for her. Because she wanted to help people. The war was chewing up so many of Germany's young men and then spitting them out again, all torn and broken. She wanted to do something for those poor souls, something that mattered. So she became a nurse, hoping she could help all those desolate war victims with desperation shining in their eyes.
She was so proud on the day she graduated. She and her class mates were all smiles during that brief ceremony, cheering and hugging each other. Because now, they were real nurses and could actually make a difference.
Or at least, that's what she had thought back then, being helplessly naïve and idealistic. Then the real world crushed that little bubble as she was assigned to a field hospital, the stream of wounded and dying men coming in turning into an uncontrollable flood as the war progressed.
And she had realized, then, that there was very little she could do for all those maimed, burned, or blinded victims lying there on the filthy makeshift beds, moaning in pain and crying for their mothers. Never before had she felt so utterly helpless, so maddeningly useless, as she walked between those endless rows of patients, changing a bandage here, checking the blood pressure there. In the end, she was an insignificant pebble in this raging flood of death and madness. The men she tended to more often ended up dead later in the same evening than not. And the stench, the horrific injuries, the cries of the wounded as surgeries were performed without anaesthetics made her nauseous. A few times, she even had to go outside and vomit.
Once, a doctor saw her as she was standing there, heaving and coughing. She was embarrassed and expected him to show derision and disgust, but he only gave her the barest of glances, shrugging the incident off with a simple Don't worry about it, it happens to almost everyone.
As the doctor turned and walked away, red-stained coat swirling behind him, she realized that his words had not comforted her at all. Because they had been spoken mechanically with no feeling or compassion whatsoever, as if by a machine rather than by a human being showing concern for another. But perhaps that doctor had found the only viable strategy for working in a place like this without going insane – shutting off your emotions and no longer letting yourself feel concern for anyone. Like a machine, something unperturbed by the all-encompassing suffering and death.
But she could never do that. It just wasn't her. So instead she found herself lying awake at night, thinking about those unfortunate victims she wasn't able to help, that were still suffering as she was cosily snuggling in her bed.
Now the war is over, and there aren't any more soldiers with bullet wounds in their guts hurriedly being carried inside on stretchers or civilians with shrapnel lodged deep in their bodies to deal with. But everyday, she sees the aftermath of what the war has done, the wounds and disabilities it has caused, all the lives it has ruined. These people will never heal, no matter what she does. She's still as powerless as she was back then. Day after day, she has no choice but to come face to face with misery and suffering, and she wishes she knew how that doctor at the field hospital managed to distance himself from it all, because she sure isn't able to.
She casts another glance at the photo on the shelf, showing her on the day of her graduation, wearing a nurse's stark white uniform, all smiles and happiness.
One day, you will regret your decision to become a nurse, one of the letters had said.
She never did believe it back then, but now, after being faced with reality, she's starting to wonder if her parents weren't right after all.