Keeps camp survivors alive

Kurda led the couple on a short tour of the makeshift hospital. There were
fourteen patients, three nurses, and some volunteers. Conditions were
squalid, with almost no medicine, hardly any bandages and few clean
sheets. But every patient knew that they were fortunate. Berlin was full of
the wounded and dying, people who couldn’t find any form of aid, even a
ward as rough as this one.

“It’s chaotic at the moment,” Kurda said, rubbing spit into the wound
of an unconscious woman. Most of her right arm was open and festering.
His spit would work only limited good on an injury this serious, but he
persevered. “Everyone knows the war is lost. Surrender is the only sensible
option. But the Nazis won’t go easily. Thousands more will perish
needlessly before the beast roars its last and is buried forever.”

“How long have you been here?” Larten asked, studying the people in
the beds and cots.

“A few weeks,” Kurda said. “I came when I realized the end was nigh.
Their leaders are wicked, warped creatures, but these are good, honest
people deserving of help.”

“Why do you care?” Arra frowned. “Aren’t there human doctors who
can look after them?”

“There will be soon,” Kurda nodded. “But as I said, it’s chaos now.
The medics will arrive too late to save most of these patients.”

***

“Things have been quiet between the two clans during the war,” Kurda
said. “Both have withdrawn, waiting for the conflict to end, eager not to get
involved. There wasn’t much for me to do, so I thought I’d try to do some
good here. I’ve been working wherever I could help. I spent a lot of time
smuggling people out of Nazi-controlled territories, but in more recent
times I’ve been focusing on casualties like these.”

“Who did you smuggle?” Larten asked. “Soldiers? Politicians?”

Kurda shook his head and stopped by a bed where a man in a doctor’s
gown was wiping a child’s fevered brow. The man was pale and unhealthy
looking, very thin, and his short hair looked as if it had been shaved to the
bone in the near past. As he wiped sweat from the child’s eyes, Larten
noticed a tattoo on the man’s arm, a series of letters and numbers.

“How is she doing, James?” Kurda whispered.

“Not good.” The man glanced around. “She’s fighting hard, but I
think…” He sighed.

“This is James Ovo,” Kurda introduced them. “He has been with me
for the last couple of months. He’s a good friend and a more than passable
doctor.”

James snorted. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“This is not your profession of choice?” Larten asked.

“No,” James said. “I was an undertaker, like my father and grandfather.
I hoped my sons would follow in our footsteps, but…” His face darkened
and Kurda squeezed his shoulder.

“Have you heard of the death camps?” Kurda asked softly as they
stepped away from the bed.

“Rumors,” Larten nodded. “I ignored them. One hears wild tales every
time there is a war.”

“This time the tales are true.”

***

The Saga of Larten Crepsley: Brothers to the Death, Chapter 13