The Photograph of Eternity: A Tale of Love and War

 "Vinogradar

16 Km from Odessa

September 3, 1941

My dear Ana,

   In the depth of the night, when silence falls heavily over the battlefields, I find my escape in writing to you, as if my words could fly towards you, surpassing the inferno of this war. The sky here is dark, not with night, but with gunpowder and smoke, a veil hiding the stars under which we swore eternal love. At home, I hope the sea is as crystal clear as the color of your eyes...

   And yet, in this endless fight, the thought of you is the spark that keeps me ignited, the flame that burns despite the cold wind of despair. Every moment without you is a wound that does not heal, a longing that does not quiet. I wonder if you too feel this void, if your sky is just as dark without me.

   I no longer know what I feel, apart from my immense love for you. Here the world becomes more and more chaotic, a macabre dance wrapped in a lie. War is a lie, after all. We fight for ideals that seem so grand and so important, but in the grand scheme of humanity, it all comes down to the simple fact of surviving and not losing our humanity. I feel I’m losing mine, little by little, when I see only blood, weapons, fire, and death...

    I can no longer carry the weight of this cruel world without you. Every step forward on the battlefield is a step made towards you, towards my coming home, into your arms where I find my refuge. Every day on the front has become not only a battle against the enemy but also with ourselves, with the fear and despair that engulf us when we see what price must be paid for every meter gained.

   The losses are enormous, and spirits are low. There is not a moment when I do not feel the presence of the angel of death and the weight of his kiss. How much longer can we continue like this? That’s the question on everyone’s lips, dried by so much dust that surrounds us, from the tasteless and odorless food rations made with rainwater.

   At night, when it rains, the trenches turn into rivers of mud that seem to swallow your feet and the cold begins to be felt, penetrating to the bones. We sleep piled on top of each other, trying to find a drop of warmth, one of the things that still keeps humanity in our souls.

   Wounds are another story. People left to lie in agony because resources are too few and the distance to help too great. Those who are seriously injured somehow manage to reach the ambulance 7 km away from the front and then sent to the hospital in Tiraspol, if there are still places. They are considered lucky but even they return to the front without having time to fully heal, eventually dying in the line of fire, becoming numbers on a report that they died for sure and.. that’s it. People don't matter here... God has spared me from serious wounds and I can continue to fight but.. I don’t know for how long. It is already the third week since we have been here, 16 km from Odessa, and time is passing more and more slowly and oppressively and we fight.

   A week ago I received the "Crown of Romania with Sword" decoration because we managed to escape the artillery and aviation bombings, crossing all of Bessarabia. I received the decoration for surviving. We are considered heroes but I do not feel like one. I feel like a cold-blooded murderer when I see enemies falling to the ground. Heroes are those who save people, not those who kill them for an ideal. I remember how one of our comrades, a young man barely out of adolescence and hit by the maturity of a world that stole the joys of his life, jumped forward to defuse a mine threatening to cut our path. With trembling hands, but with a determination that took my breath away, he succeeded. But the happiness did not last long. A few hours later, he fell prey to a machine gun fire. We lost many brave young men, whose only sin was the desire to see their country free.

   I still carry your letters on my chest, with an unstoppable belief that they are my shield when I fight, and I reread them night after night, when we manage, tired and overwhelmed by the weight of the war, to gather around the warmth of the improvised fire in the trenches. Your letters have not arrived for several months, but they couldn’t have. We move from place to place, without a precise location, and people are shot one by one as if it’s an open hunt, senseless and merciless.

   I hope my letters reach you and at least alleviate a little of the pain that war has caused you by taking me away from you when you needed me the most. I hope you write to me, and that I will receive your responses because only they keep me alive.I hope yours are well and that you manage to find small moments of joy even in these troubled times.

   I often think about what that moment will be like, when I will cross the threshold of our home, when I will see your smile again and when I will be able to hold your hand in mine again. I imagine the peace I will feel, knowing that I have finally arrived home, to you, to us. Until then, however, I only have our memories and dreams of a better future, which give me the strength to face each day.

   I have heard stories from other soldiers, who have lost their love due to the war, either through separation or through definitive loss. These stories make me realize how precious our love is and how lucky I am to have you in my life. I promise myself every day that I will do everything possible to return to you safely, to protect your heart and to fulfill our dreams together.

   In these moments, when everything seems to collapse around me, the thought that somewhere in the world, you still carry my love, gives me the courage I need. Knowing that there is someone waiting for me, who believes in me and in my return, makes the fight worth every sacrifice.

   Please, do not forget how much I love you and how much every thought of yours means to me. Despite the distance and the silence, the connection between us remains unchanged, unshaken in the face of adversities. I keep my faith in us, in our love, and in the better days that await us.

   Until we meet again, take care of yourself and keep hope and love in your heart that united us. I miss you more than words can express, but I know that, no matter what the future holds, our hearts will always be together.

With all the love and longing in the world,

Yours,

Alin"

***

   Leaves rustled with so much green at the window of the old building, seemingly forgotten by time. With its thick stone walls, painted in white and red, the asylum stood both majestic and terrifying in the middle of a wild garden, where nature reclaimed its rights, embracing and hiding a part of its sad history. The building, with its imposing architecture, resembled more a castle than a care institution, its walls witnesses to countless untold stories, failures, and shattered hopes.

   The tall windows, generous in size, were darkened by thick iron bars, presenting a gloomy image of the limited freedom of its inhabitants. Each window reflected sunlight in a strange way, creating shadows that danced on the dark corridors and cracked walls.

   The garden surrounding the building was a chaotic mix of beauty and neglect. Paths once well-tended were now overrun with wild herbs, and the flower beds, untended for years, only retained the memory of the vivid colors that once enlivened them. The old trees spread their branches everywhere, creating a dense canopy under which silence was only broken by the song of birds or the rustle of leaves moved by the wind.

   Here and there, old wooden benches, eaten away by time and weather, offered rest to nonexistent visitors, and an old fountain, now dry, stood mute in the center of the garden, a symbol of life that flows incessantly, regardless of human suffering.

   In this world-forgotten setting, Ana lived her existence, trapped between walls that provided shelter but denied freedom. The asylum, with all its fortress-like appearance, had become both a sanctuary and a prison for her wounded soul. Despite the vast expanse of the garden, she felt captive, a bird with broken wings, dreaming of a flight she could not achieve.

   Ana had just turned 18 on June 22, 1941, celebrating her birthday. She was young, with eyes of clear blue that reflected the sea she loved so much, her blond, almost golden hair shone under the summer sun, seeming a part of it. It had been a beautiful day, full of promises and dreams, until the sky darkened with combat planes, and bombings turned the city into a field of ruins. That day, Ana's world changed forever.

   The explosions left behind not only destroyed buildings and lost lives but also deep wounds in Ana's soul, wounds that did not heal even after years. The trauma of the bombings, the sudden loss of everything familiar and secure, plunged her into an abyss of despair and confusion from which she could not escape.

   Without family, without a home, Ana became a shadow of the past, increasingly reminiscent of the tragedy that struck Romania. Nobody knew anything, when, how..where... and her mind became an echo of a fragment of history...

   Days passed, and Ana relived the day of the bombing, in a constant search for an exit. She could no longer remember who she was before, nor who she was supposed to be now. The pills taken as candies had become a routine and seemed to calm her a little and offer her a bit of lucidity in the imaginary world she lived in. The asylum staff became so familiar to her that she started associating their faces with characters from the stories she imagined. An assistant became the saving hero, a nurse - the loving sister she never had, and the director - the guardian who held the key to her freedom. In her mind, each day transformed into an epic search to discover herself.

   She felt she should not be there, among people who had lost themselves in their own worlds, each carrying their inner battles, sometimes more quietly, other times more noisily. In a strange way, this place of isolation had become a parallel universe, where reality and fantasy intertwined in an unending dance.

   Days passed, and Ana began to become an anchor in history, a victim of everything the war meant... She never managed to regain her memory and wandered lost in the hospital corridors, like a long-gone ghost.

   The doctors tried to anchor her more in the present, trying to introduce her to various activities that would stimulate her mind and somehow bring her some relief. It seemed she did not know feelings and somehow appeared dehumanized with all the confusion..

   Now, at 77 years old, Ana carries time on her face like a badge of honor. Her hair, once golden blond and shining under the rays of the summer sun, is now a cascade of silver, the white strands shining just as beautifully, but in a softer, wiser light. Her skin, a testimony to the decades passed, bears deep wrinkles, each line an untold story, each crease a kept memory. Her eyes, however, those clear blue eyes that once reflected the sea in all its splendor, still hold that spark of life, though now framed by dark circles and the delicate wrinkles of long-faded smiles.

   Her body, once agile and full of life, now moves with a certain heaviness, a testament to the years and burdens she has carried. Her walk is slow, measured, each step taken with care, as if navigating through a landscape of memories and dreams. Despite her age, Ana still maintains a straight posture, a sign of dignity and inner strength that have not faded despite life's trials.

   Her hands, which once tightly held love letters and got lost in golden blond hair, are now the hands of an old woman, with prominent veins and thinned skin. These hands sometimes tremble, but can still tightly hold a photograph, caress a flower, or offer a warm hug.

   Her face, even marked by time, still radiates a serene beauty, an inner calm that comes only with the wisdom of age. Her expression is often contemplative, her eyes lost in a fixed point, somewhere in the distance, where the present intertwines with the past. Yet, when she smiles, her face lights up, and for a moment, years of hardships seem to fall away, revealing the woman she once was, though those moments are rare.

   On her bedside table lay the books the staff brought her, hoping to ease the torture of daily life. Among volumes of poetry, historical novels, and philosophy treatises, Ana found an old book about the heroes of the Romanian people. Her hands trembled with emotion as she opened the book, each page seeming to whisper stories of courage and sacrifice. Although the life described in the books was familiar to her, memory did not allow her to unleash the wave of memories. As Ana leafed through the pages of the book about the heroes of the Romanian people, with hands trembling slightly, a thin corner of paper slipped from between the pages and landed softly in her lap. It was an old photograph, its edges yellowed by the unforgiving passage of time, and the image slightly faded from hands that may have caressed it too often, seeking consolation in memories.

   With an uncertain hand, she picked up the photograph, bringing it closer to her eyes that saw the world only in the shadows of the past. In the image was Alin, standing proud and upright with the "Crown of Romania with Sword" shining on his chest. On the back of the photograph was written a dedication "For my Ana, keep this memory of our eternal love, until destiny reunites us again! With eternal love, Alin". For Ana, time stopped, and the photograph became the portal to the past, to the moment when the light became darkened by waves of bombs dropped over Constanta, to the constant feeling of separation from Alin, to the reality where death seemed more real, and life seemed an illusion. She began to hear the infernal noise of the explosions, the sound of buildings collapsing like sandcastles under the merciless power of the bombs, the desperate cries of people seeking shelter. She could not stop the chaos of her mind, and everything seemed so clear. The pain and despair she had packed and hidden so deeply in her soul burst into an uncontrollable whirlwind of emotions. The discovery of the photograph, far from bringing a drop of relief, unleashed in Ana a storm of feelings she could no longer manage. It was as if seeing Alin broke the last chains of patience and hope.

   In the days that followed, Ana was seen wandering the corridors of the asylum, the photograph always in hand, murmuring unintelligible words, a repetition of the past that gave her no peace. The staff, accustomed to her fluctuating states, noticed a profound change, a total loss in the abyss of her own mind, a journey with no return into the depths of despair.

   One evening, with the sky enveloped in a reddish twilight, Ana was found in the garden of the asylum, staring fixedly towards the horizon, where the sun bid farewell, leaving behind the promise of a new day. She had the photograph in hand and, for a moment, smiled, a sad smile full of longing and regret.

   In the morning, when she was discovered, stiff in the cold of the night, with the photograph clutched to her chest, her peaceful expression contrasted with the violence of the inner storm that had gnawed at her existence. Her death marked the end of a life tormented by the memories of a war that stole everything - past, present, and future.

   Ana never found the way back to the light, and the discovery of Alin's photograph was paradoxically both a balm and a poison for her troubled soul. She died as she had lived in the last years - alone, in a world that could not or did not know how to heal her.

   In the tumult of the war, fate chose an abrupt and tragic end for Alin, far from Ana and the promises they had made to each other. He died on an anonymous battlefield, on a day that seemed to blend with all the others, marked by chaos and violence.

   The confrontation was violent and unforgiving. Enemy artillery opened fire, and the surrounding terrain quickly became an inferno of churned earth and smoke. In the midst of this chaos, Alin fought bravely, thinking of Ana and their common dream of living in peace.

In a moment of ephemeral respite, a sudden and close explosion threw Alin to the ground, robbing him of his breath. In his last moments, his thoughts flew to Ana, to her smile that illuminated even the darkest moments of his existence. In that fraction of a second, before darkness swallowed him, Alin felt a profound peace, knowing that their love would transcend time and space.

In Ana's memory, the asylum garden now hosts a small monument, a marble plaque that simply reads: "Ana - a victim of war, love, and forgetfulness."