My vest used to be white. Even if you need a lot of imagination to see that color now. But from the air it might still be visible, and if the aircraft spot us ... the thought doesn’t affect me. The shirt disgusts me. The heat is worse than death.
"Don’t argue with this shit. It’s not worth it." Jamus, who is lying next to me, hardly moves his mouth when he talks. His half-closed eyes are gazing skywards, his wild beard makes him ugly, and his mustache, formerly the pride of the company, looks like a filthy weed. I don’t have the strength to argue, and cover myself with the damp shirt like a sheet.
No one sleeps. We just lie there motionless. Passive on the hard ground. We haven’t even pushed aside the sharp stones which are boring into our backs. Now and then one of us raises his head, listens for a while, and lowers his head again. That is an automatic move-ment. He thought he heard an aircraft in the distance. There is some-thing in the air. No one talks about it. But everyone is thinking about it. A dull thought that barely manages to reach the margins of con-sciousness.
Ceasefire!
This evening at seven a ceasefire could begin. We spell that word mentally. It has such a meaning that we don’t dare to think it directly.
Ceasefire is safety. Ceasefire is life. Ceasefires are healthy limbs. Ceasefire is the chance to remain human, even if only for a few days. Ceasefire is paradise. You can’t even think that or you will go mad. Otherwise we will lose our senses. We would shout and howl, roll around on the ground and stand on our heads - and cry.
We all secretly believe that there will be a ceasefire. We want to believe it! A childish, naive belief: strong, at least if we hide it from each other (and from ourselves). Because if we talk about it, it will take its revenge on us and the ceasefire will disappear.
We don’t believe in spirits. We just know for sure that they exist. We are surrounded by spirits of various kinds, some protecting us and some persecuting us. There are good spirits which shield us from bullets. They are to be found in headdresses, in particular hats, some-times also in shell fragments and old cartridge cases. And there are evil spirits which write names on bullets.
"Every bullet has its address," Dudu, the scout, told us before our first battle. "When it leaves the factory its target is already fixed.