

















Today my friend and I went searching for a German cemetery from the World War I era. It took us a while to find the place because it’s located deep in the forest and surrounded by swamps. We met some locals in a nearby village and their dog, who helped us and pointed us in the right direction. As dusk fell, we finally found the cemetery. Nearby, on a small hill, there’s an old but very sturdy log house. It seems that wealthy peasants once lived here—there are two large stoves in the house, and the logs are in such good condition that you could simply replace the windows and move in.
It’s likely that during the war, the original owners either died or fled, and German soldiers moved in, eventually burying their comrades there. Every cross has a name and a date of death: 1915. It’s a strange feeling—ordinary, living people of all ages came so far to kill others, and now they lie here, in a tiny country in the middle of a forest near a swamp, with no one left to visit them. Only the old house remains. And yet, each of them had a name.