Chapter 8: Epitaph

Sicily, Italy.

November 1, 1943

Eugen:

In this war that has taken so many lives, without asking what were the dreams or desires we had? Wordless, cold, where the voices we hear are laments, pain, sadness; a solitude that, like a cloak shelters us in the cold. We will wonder if we will embrace those arms of those who love us again.

Running seeing worthless pointed bodies... Who will mourn them at this precise moment? He wonders how many were left behind? I wonder, what is the right of death that, in the blink of an eye, snatches us from our body, leaving us cold? The indigence of who is right and his methods are enough for us to depend on what is ordered to us, not returning to our homes, because the homeland is now forgotten.

Who will speak of value and our interest? Will they ever thank us? Seeing the epitaphs that are erased, flowers that will wither, graves that the dust will cover. Our weapons are enough to save the lives of those around us.

How many will hear our cry? Or will it comfort in the winter? In the long days that, only a cup of coffee and a piece of bread would be a delicacy. Wash our clothes, stained by the red of our companions. The prayer to our God, who looks at us on lonely nights, in the tone of some voice that only rises, clinging to life, while we run in our dreams.

This is the letter of a brave man who, for many, will be unknown. Only 19 years old, someone who died, torn to pieces by a grenade and this was his book, where he wrote to his mother; the bravest young man.

My love, I ask you to do everything possible so that this letter is published, it is the least we can do with this brave soldier. I praise your effort and the time you have waited for me, not leaving those who trust me, I do not owe it my beloved lady, because you are my pillar. How I miss you! And I hope to see you next summer, to hold you in my arms so that your prayers comfort me. Your letters that I kiss and cling to my being.

Always yours, Patrick.