Cartographer of scars

The words of the old pathologist, Professor Knežević, who repeated in every class, came to mind: “We doctors only postpone the inevitable. Death is a part of life, and it must be treated with respect, but without fear.” But here, in this cursed basement, the professor’s words seemed like a cynical lie.

Pushing off from the wall, Miloš wandered down the corridor, hoping to find a secluded place to pull himself together. Some liquid squelched under his feet, probably blood mixed with water. In the wards, the wounded groaned, calling for nurses. The smell of carbolic acid, meant to kill germs, couldn’t overpower the stench of pus and decaying flesh.

Miloš entered an empty dressing room and closed the door behind him. The room was lit by a dim bulb casting strange shadows on the walls. Bloody bandages, syringes, and used ampules lay scattered on the table. Miloš went to the window and opened it, letting in a stream of fresh air. It was raining outside, as if mourning the dead.

He leaned on the windowsill and closed his eyes, trying to stop the trembling in his hands. The face of the dead soldier, his frightened gaze, his convulsively squeezing hand stood before his eyes.

Miloš felt like a fool. He had naively believed he could save lives, ease suffering. He didn’t understand that war was more than just wounds and illnesses. It was destruction, chaos, despair.

His hands trembled again. He took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, taking greedy drags. The nicotine calmed his nerves a little.

He remembered Jasmina’s words: “Miloš, the most important thing is to remain human. Don’t let the war break you.” But how to remain human when there’s only death and destruction around you? How to keep faith in goodness when evil triumphs everywhere?

He heard footsteps outside the door and immediately stubbed out the cigarette, hiding the butt in his pocket. The door opened, and Jasmina entered the dressing room.

“Miloš, what are you doing here?” she asked, looking at him with concern. “I’ve been looking for you. Damir says we need help. Lots of wounded again.”

Miloš sighed and looked at Jasmina. Her eyes were tired, but a spark of hope still burned in them.

“I can’t, Jasmina,” said Miloš. “I can’t see it anymore. I’m tired.”

Jasmina walked over to him and took his hands.

“I know, Miloš,” she said. “It’s hard for you. But you’re needed there. Those people need you.”

Miloš looked at Jasmina and felt a new wave of despair rising in his soul.

“Why, Jasmina?” he asked. “Why are we doing all this? So they can go back to war and die? So they can remain disabled for life? So they can suffer from nightmares and memories?”

Jasmina squeezed his hands tightly.

“We can’t know what awaits them ahead, Miloš,” she said. “But we can give them a chance. A chance at life. A chance at hope. A chance that things can still be good.”

A cry full of pain and despair sounded outside the door. Miloš flinched.

“They’re waiting for us, Miloš,” said Jasmina. “They need us.”

Miloš looked at Jasmina and saw a plea in her eyes. A plea for compassion, for mercy, for humanity.

He remembered his grandfather’s words: “If you see someone in need of your help, don’t pass by. Help them however you can. Because if you don’t help, who will?”

Miloš sighed and straightened up.

“You’re right, Jasmina,” he said. “We must go.”