What the Germans did to Soviet women who were too weak to walk was shocking.
My name is Tatyana Ivanovna Belova. My passport says I’m 94 years old, but in reality my life stopped when I was 20. I haven’t lived since then. I simply exist, living out this endless period of time that fate has allotted to me . I was silent for 74 years. I didn’t tell my husband, my children, or even the priest about this during confession.
In the Soviet Union, surviving in German captivity was not a source of pride, but a mark of shame. We were considered traitors. Why are you alive when others died? What did you pay for your life? These questions were asked of me in the cold offices of the NKVD immediately after the war. And I learned to keep silent.
Before the war I was an ordinary girl from a village near Minsk. The village was called Krasny Bor, a small place with wooden houses, a well on the main street, and a church that the Bolsheviks had converted into a warehouse. I dreamed of becoming a doctor, wearing a white coat, smelling of iodine and cleanliness. I had long blond hair and braids, which my mother was very proud of.
She braided them every morning before school and said: “Tanya, you are as beautiful as a birch tree.” And my father called my laughter a bell. He worked as a tractor driver on a collective farm, came home tired, covered in oil and dirt, but always smiled at me. I had a younger brother, Kolya. He was only 14 years old when the war began.
He loved fishing in the river and dreamed of becoming a pilot. I remember the summer of 1941 as clearly as if it were yesterday. The smell of sun-warmed grass, dust on a country road, the taste of fresh milk in a tin can. We didn’t know that this was the last summer of our childhood. We didn’t know that very soon the sky would turn black with smoke and the earth would turn red with blood.
When the start of the war was announced on the radio on June 22, 1941 , my father silently got up from the table and went to enlist in the militia. Mom cried, holding onto the edge of the table to keep from falling. And I didn’t cry. There were no tears in me, only a cold, ringing hatred for those who came to destroy our lives.
The Germans arrived quickly. Our army was retreating. I saw columns of refugees on the roads, carts loaded with bundles, children crying from hunger. I saw our houses burning, and my neighbors being hanged in the central square for hiding wounded Red Army soldiers. They hanged them slowly, not breaking their necks, but their souls.
And the German soldiers stood nearby and smoked, laughed, and took photographs of the corpses as a souvenir. I didn’t have time to evacuate. My parents are missing. I never found out what happened to them. Brother Kolya was taken by the Germans to work in Germany. He went missing. I was left all alone.
I went into the forest to join the partisans. This happened in the autumn of 1942 . I was accepted into the unit because I completed nursing courses. I became a sister of mercy, although there was very little mercy in that forest. Guerrilla warfare is an ugly story about heroes. It’s dirt, cold, hunger and constant fear. We lived in dugouts buried deep in the marshy soil.
It was always damp inside and smelled of mold and tobacco smoke. I learned to bandage wounds with dirty rags, cut out bullets without anesthesia, shoot a captured German Walther, and endure hunger that made my stomach stick to my spine. I learned not to cry when men died in my arms, whispering the names of their wives and children. My close friend Olya Smirnova was in the detachment . We were almost the same age.
Olya was 22 years old. She was a strong woman with broad shoulders and strong arms. Before the war, she worked on a collective farm, milked cows, and carried sacks of grain. She had a rough face, but kind gray eyes. Olya saved my life twice. Once she pulled me out from under fire when the Germans surrounded our group in the forest.
Another time she shared her last piece of bread with me when I was lying with a high temperature and delirious. Olya left two children at home: Vanechka and Mashenka. She talked about them all the time. Tanyusha, do you think they remember me? Vanechka was only 5 years old when I left. Has he forgotten his mother’s voice? I promised her that we would definitely return home, that the war would soon end. I lied.
I didn’t know that in a few months I would be watching her die in icy water and not being able to help her. We were captured in the winter of 1943 during a large German roundup. It was an operation to clear the forests of partisans. The Germans surrounded a large area, drove the local residents around and began combing every village, every ovrak, every dugout. We have been betrayed.
One of the villagers, whom the Germans had tortured, pointed out our camp. I remember that day down to the smallest detail. It was a frosty January dawn. We heard the barking of dogs, then sharp commands in German, which sounded like a bark, like the growl of an animal. We tried to escape, but we were surrounded on all sides.
I remember the blow of a rifle butt to the face. The world has turned upside down. I fell into the snow. The taste of blood in my mouth, the ringing in my ears, the rough hands that twisted my arms behind my back, the icy metal of the handcuffs on my wrists. We were not shot on the spot. The Germans needed labor.
We, female partisans, were considered especially dangerous. They stripped us naked right there in the snow to check for weapons or documents. I remember this shame, which burned worse than frost. German soldiers stood around and looked at us, laughed, said something obscene in their language. One of them spat in my face, the other kicked me in the stomach, so I bent over and couldn’t breathe for several minutes.
They threw us out of our old, torn dresses and drove us on foot along a snowy road. We walked for several days. Those who fell from weakness were shot right on the road. I saw an old woman shot because she couldn’t walk any further. Her body was left lying in the snow. And no one had the right to even look back. We were taken to the railway station and herded into freight cars like cattle.
It was so cramped inside that the dead stood next to the living, unable to fall. There were no windows, no light, no air in the carriage. There was only a small grate under the ceiling, through which a weak light shone. We traveled for four days without water, without food, in complete darkness. The carriage rocked on the joints of the rails.
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. This rhythm is ingrained in my brain. To this day, when I can’t sleep at night, I hear that knock. Yes, yes, yes, yes. People died right in the carriage from cold, from disease, from despair. The smell of death was so thick that it seemed material, that one could suffocate on it. Olya held my hand.
She whispered a prayer, although before the war she was a member of the Komsomol and did not believe in God. Our Father, and Thou who art in heaven. Her voice trembled, but it was the only thing that kept me from going crazy. When the carriage doors finally opened, the frosty Polish air hit my lungs like a knife. I took a breath and coughed.
The light was so bright that my eyes watered. The Germans shouted: “Raus, schnel! Raus! They beat us with clubs, driving us off the wagons.” Those who couldn’t walk on their own were dragged down and thrown right onto the platform. I saw barbed wire, watchtowers, long wooden barracks.
I realized we had ended up in a camp, a place from which few return alive. We were lined up on the parade ground. It was a huge area, trampled to the hardness of stone, surrounded by barracks and barbed wire. There was a sign in German above the gate. I didn’t understand what was written there, but I found out later. Arbeit Mahtfrey. Work liberates.
What a monstrous lie. Work did not liberate here. He killed slowly, methodically, day after day. We were forced to strip naked right in the cold. I remember that shame that never went away, even when you realized that human dignity has no meaning here. German guards and overseers, women in grey uniforms with stony faces, walked among us, looking at us as if we were goods at the market.
We were examined by a doctor, a German in a white coat, glasses, and a neatly trimmed moustache. He looked intelligent, almost friendly, but his hands were cold as metal. He looked into our mouths, checked our teeth, felt our hands, checked whether there were muscles capable of working. He made notes in his notebook.
He immediately sent some women to the left. I didn’t know then that it meant death. I found out about it later. My head was shaved. My blond braids, my mother’s pride, fell into the dirty snow. Along with my hair, they took my name, my identity, my history. I stopped being Tatyana Ivanovna Belova. I became number 4089. Just numbers on a piece of dirty cloth that were sewn to my chest.
We were given striped overalls that didn’t warm us at all. The fabric was thin and rough. She rubbed her skin until it bled. We were given wooden blocks instead of shoes. Their feet froze in them, so much so that their toes lost sensitivity and turned black from frostbite. We were taken to the barracks.
A long wooden building with no windows, only narrow gaps under the roof. Inside there were holes three meters deep. Each Yerus was supposed to sleep 10 people, but we were crammed in with 15, 20. We slept on our sides, huddled together like sardines in a barrel, because there simply wasn’t enough room otherwise.
There was no blanket. There was only thin straw that was split and smelled of rot. The first night I didn’t sleep, I lay and listened. Some cried quietly, choking on tears, some prayed in whispers, some raved in fever, shouting out the names of their loved ones, and some were silent forever.
In the morning, when we were woken up at 4:00 a.m., I saw that the woman lying next to me was dead. Her eyes were open, glassy, staring into space. Her body was cold and hard. I tried to scream, but they hit me on the back with a baton. Shut up and drag the corpse to the gate. Another woman and I took the dead body by the arms and legs and dragged it to the gate of the camp where the dead were piled.
There were already dozens of bodies lying there. They lay in stacks like firewood. Some were naked. Clothes were taken from the dead to give to the living. I realized then that human life here is worth nothing, less than nothing. The camp operated like a well- oiled death machine. Each had their own role, their own function in this mechanism.
We were woken up at 4:00 in the morning. We lined up on the parade ground for roll call. It could last an hour, two, sometimes 3 hours. We stood motionless in the frost, in the rain, in the snow. If anyone moved, they were beaten. If someone fainted, they would kick him with boots until he got up, or shoot him if he did not get up.
After roll call we were sent to work: some to build roads, some to the quarry, some to the ammunition factory. The work was hard and exhausting. We were fed once a day with balanda, a thin soup made from rotten vegetables and some kind of grain. Sometimes there were worms floating in the soup, and we ate the worms too.
They gave us a small piece of bread, about 150 grams, black, sticky, half made of sawdust. But we saved every crumb. The hunger was such that you thought about food every second. You saw food in your dream. You woke up and cried because you realized it was just a dream.
But in the midst of all this hell there was a special circle, a particularly terrible place. They called it the ice barracks. It was a stone building on the very outskirts of the camp, separate from the others. Women who were too weak for heavy work, but still alive enough to be useful for science, were taken there. The Germans conducted experiments there, medical experiments.
They needed to find out how long a person could survive in icy water. This was important for the Luftwaffe, for German pilots who could fall into the cold northern sea. But they didn’t want to risk their pilots. This is what we, Soviet women, partisans, subhumans, rats from the East, were there for. ” Russians are as tough as rats,” SS-Obersturmführer Klaus Weber, the officer who oversaw these experiments, liked to say.
His face was smooth and well-groomed. He shaved every day, smelled of expensive cologne, and wore polished boots. He smiled when he gave orders. He was polite, almost courteous, but his eyes were empty, like a dead fish. I was sent to an ice barracks. A month after arriving at the camp. I had lost a lot of weight. My hands were shaking with weakness.
I could barely stand on my feet. During morning roll call , the warden, a fat German woman with a face like a bulldog, pulled me out of line with 15 other women. You are no longer fit for work, but you will serve the Reich in another way. We were taken to that barracks. It was cold and damp inside. The stone walls were covered with mold, the floor wet, slippery, and in the middle of the barracks stood five huge cast-iron bathtubs.
They were old, rusty, with peeling enamel. Every morning they were filled with ice water brought from the river, and chunks of ice were thrown in. The water was so cold that it steamed. Black, thick. It seemed alive, angry, waiting to be fed with a human body. Next to the bathtubs were tables with medical instruments. Doctors were working there.
Real doctors with diplomas, with education. They wore white coats, sterile gloves. They recorded data in thick journals. They measured body temperature before and after immersion. They recorded the time it took for a person to lose consciousness. They checked how long the heart continued to beat in the icy water.
They did all this calmly, methodically, with scientific interest. They looked at us the way biologists look at lab rats. The first time I was forced into that bathtub, I thought, that I would die instantly. We were stripped naked. Olya stood next to me, her whole body shaking. Her teeth were chattering so loudly that I could hear the sound. We were holding hands.
” Tanya, I’m scared,” she whispered. “Me too, ” I answered. The punisher pushed me in the back. Get in quickly. I went to the edge of the bathtub. The water was black. I saw chunks of ice floating on the surface, like shards of a broken mirror. I lowered my leg. At that very moment, pain pierced me from my foot to the top of my head.
It wasn’t just pain, it was shock, attacking every cell in my body. I screamed, I couldn’t hold back. Everyone was screaming. The icy water burned my skin like boiling water. I sank into the water up to my waist, then up to my chest. My heart began to beat wildly, somewhere in my throat, like a captured bird desperately beating against its cage.
And then it began to slow down. My breathing became shallow, intermittent. I was suffocating, although there was enough air. My hands stopped obeying. I tried to move my fingers, but they did not move. My skin turned first red, then purple, then gray. The doctors stood nearby. One of them was timing the time on a stopwatch, another was writing something in a notebook.
The third came closer, leaned over me, and shone a small flashlight into my eyes , checking the reaction of my pupils. He spoke to his colleague in German, in a calm, businesslike tone, as if discussing the weather. I did not understand the words, but I understood the intonation. For them, I was not a person.
I was a research subject, material for an experiment. We had to sit in the water for 15 minutes. 15 minutes that lasted an eternity. I looked at Olya in the neighboring bath. Her lips had turned blue, her eyes were glassy, staring at one point, without blinking. She whispered the names of her children: “Vanechka, ” Mashenka, Mom will come back, Mom will definitely come back.
” Her voice grew quieter and quieter. Then her jaw cramped, and she could no longer speak. In the tenth minute, Olya lost consciousness. Her head fell back, hitting the cast-iron edge of the bathtub with a dull sound. The doctor came up, checked her pulse in her neck, and shook his head indifferently.
He nodded to two orderlies. They came up, roughly grabbed Olya by the arms, and pulled her out of the water. Her body was lifeless, gray, covered in goosebumps. They threw her on the floor, in the corner of the barracks, like a wet rag. Water dripped from her hair, forming a puddle. I screamed.
I called her name, but no one listened to me. When the 15 minutes were up, they pulled me out too. I couldn’t stand. My legs buckled. They threw me on the floor next to Olya. I was shaking so hard that I couldn’t control my body. Teeth They were knocking, my muscles were cramping. They gave me a thin rag, which they called a towel. I tried to dry myself, but my hands did not obey. I crawled to Olya.
I shook her shoulder. Olya, Olya, wake up, she did not answer. I put my ear to her chest. Her heart was not beating. Olya was dead. My friend, who saved my life twice, who shared her last piece of bread with me, who dreamed of returning to her children. She died in this icy water for the sake of German science, so that SS officers could write down in their journals how many minutes a Soviet woman could last in water at 2° Celsius.
I did not cry. The tears froze somewhere inside me. I just looked at her face, at her closed eyes, at her blue lips. And I swore to myself: “I will survive. I will survive to tell about her, about Vanechka and Mashenka, who will never know how their mother died. I will survive because someone must remember. After Olya’s death, something inside me broke, or, on the contrary, hardened, turned into stone. I stopped being afraid.
Fear requires hope, and I no longer had it. I went to these sessions in the ice barracks every day, sometimes twice a day. They immersed me in ice-cold water, timed me , recorded the data, pulled me out half-dead and threw me on the floor. I was shaking, I was losing consciousness, I came to and realized that I was still alive.
Why? Why me? Why am I not the one lying in the corner with my heart stopped, but another woman, whose name I didn’t even have time to find out? Among the guards there was one soldier, young, just a boy. He was probably 19 years old, no more. light hair, blue eyes, in which that dead emptiness has not yet frozen, like in other Germans. I didn’t know his name.
Maybe Hans, maybe Fritz, maybe Peter. Who cares? He was an enemy. He wore an SS uniform. He served the death machine, but he looked at us differently. There was something in his gaze that I hadn’t seen in others. doubts, a shadow of humanity. He stood to the side as we were herded into the baths.
He turned away as the dead bodies were pulled out. He smoked, looking out the window, as if trying not to see what was happening around him. One day, as I sat in the bath, shaking so hard that the water around me was rippling, this young soldier came closer. Obersturmführer Weber went out for a smoke. The doctors were busy with another patient.
The soldier looked around. He quickly took a small piece of sugar from the pocket of his overcoat and handed it to me. I looked at him, not understanding. Sugar is here, now. He looked back again and shoved sugar into my mouth. I tasted sweetness on my tongue. a sweetness I hadn’t felt for over a year.
Tears streamed down my cheeks, mixing with the icy water. He leaned over and whispered something in German. I didn’t know the language, but the intonation was clear. Sorry or hold on, or I’m just sorry. Then he quickly walked away, stood in his place by the wall, and lit a cigarette, as if nothing had happened.
That lump of sugar, dirty with tobacco crumbs, was the most precious gift I ever received. He reminded me that somewhere, even here in this hell, there might be humanity. Weeks passed, maybe months. I lost track of time. The days merged into one endless torture: cold, hunger, pain. I saw women die one after another.
I remembered their faces, although I didn’t know their names. There was a young Ukrainian woman with huge brown eyes who died on her seventh dive. There was an elderly Belarusian woman who prayed before each session and died whispering a prayer. There was a pregnant woman, I don’t know how she even got into the camp. She was forced to enter the water despite her stomach.
She screamed, begged, and held onto the edge of the bathtub. They tore off her arms and pushed her into the water. Three days later she gave birth to a stillborn child right on the floor of the barracks. She herself was found dead the next morning. I saw it all. I was a witness, and I could do nothing but survive. Survive and remember.
In the spring of 1944, everything changed. We felt it. The Germans became nervous and twitchy. We heard the distant rumble of guns. The Red Army was advancing, the front was approaching. The Germans began to evacuate the camp, destroy traces of the crimes, and burn documents. And they did a lot of selection. It was a May day, cold and grey.
The sky is covered with clouds. We were all lined up on the parade ground. All the women in the camp, those who could still stand on their feet and those who were held by others because they could no longer stand on their own . There were maybe 300 of us . Skeletons covered in skin, with shaved heads, in dirty striped robes.
We stood and waited, no one spoke. Only the wind rustled in the barbed wire. A tall SS officer appeared. I did n’t know his name. He was in impeccable uniform, with polished boots and a cane in his hand. The face is stony, cold, like a statue. He walked slowly along the line, looking at us as if he were inspecting cattle before slaughter.
Sometimes he stopped, tilted his head, squinted, as if he were solving a difficult problem. Then he pointed his cane to the left or right. Left to the gate where the trucks were parked, right back to the barracks. We didn’t know what these two sides meant, but our instinct told us: one is life, the other is death. But which one? The women who were sent to the left began to cry, fell to their knees, and begged.
One Polish woman with gray hair fell in front of the officer and grabbed his boots. Bits, bits, ikhnda, I have children. He didn’t even look at her, he waved his hand. Two guards grabbed her by the arms and dragged her toward the trucks. She screamed. Then one of the guards hit her on the back of the head with a rifle butt . She fell silent.
Her lifeless body was thrown into the back of the truck like a sack. When it was my turn, I stood there without trembling. I looked straight ahead. I did n’t pray, I didn’t expect anything. The officer stopped in front of me. He looked for a long time, too long. His grey eyes studied my face.
My sunken cheeks, my thin arms, my trembling legs. I saw him thinking, evaluating, deciding whether I was worth something or just trash that needed to be thrown away. My legs were shaking not from the cold, but from fear, a deep, primal fear of death that lived within me, despite everything. I wanted to live.
God, how I wanted to live. The officer raised his cane. Slowly. The world stood still. I stopped breathing. And then I saw him, that young soldier. He stood behind the officer, holding a folder of documents. Our eyes met. One moment. He made a barely perceptible movement of his head. To the right.
Just a little bit, but I saw it. And the officer saw it too, although perhaps he didn’t realize it. He lowered his cane and pointed to the right. Right. I didn’t understand right away. The guard nudged me in the shoulder. Go. I went right. My legs were wobbly, but I kept going. I looked back and saw that soldier again.
He looked at me. He nodded slightly, just nodded and turned away. There were about 50 of us who were sent to the right. The remaining 200-plus women were driven toward the trucks, tall, covered trucks that looked like moving coffins. The women screamed, clung to the doors, and begged. They were beaten, pushed, and thrown into the back of a truck.
One old woman clung to the door frame. The guard crushed her fingers with the butt of his rifle. She fell. She was thrown inside on top of other bodies. The doors slammed shut with a metallic clang. A sound I can still hear. The sound of a grave closing. The trucks left. We never saw these women again.
Later, after the war, I learned that they were taken to Ravensbrück, a death camp for women. Most died there within 3 months. I stayed in the camp. We, those 50, returned to the barracks. But everything has changed. The experiments stopped. The Germans were too busy evacuating. We heard the roar of the cannons getting closer and closer.
Every night the sky in the east glowed orange. The Red Army was advancing. We knew it. And the Germans knew. They began to panic, burn documents, shoot witnesses, and prepare to escape. In August 1944, the chaos reached its peak. The number of guards decreased and the barracks became empty. One morning we woke up and no one showed up for roll call.
The gates were open, just open. I and three other women ran out. We ran through the forest without looking back. We ran for 2 days without food, without water. We drank from puddles, ate grass, tree bark. We followed the sound of guns because the Red Army was there. There was freedom there.
When we came out onto the road and saw a Soviet tank with a red star, I fell to my knees and cried. For the first time in 2 years. A Red Army soldier, a young lad with a scar on his cheek, jumped down from his armor, threw his greatcoat over me, and handed me a flask of water. Hang in there, sister, you’re home. You are safe.
I drank water and it tasted sweeter than wine. I thought: “It’s all over, it’s all behind me, I’m free. How naive I was. They weren’t taking us home. They were taking us to an NKVD filtration camp , a special camp for those who had been captured or in occupied territories. We were suspected of treason, of betraying the motherland, of collaborating with the enemy.
I was interrogated for four months every day. The same question: “How did you survive?” The investigator, an NKVD lieutenant, with eyes red from lack of sleep and fingers yellow from tobacco, yelled at me, slamming his fist on the table. “They killed everyone, but you’re alive. Why? What did you pay for your life? Did you sleep with them, work for the Gestapo, and betray your comrades? I talked about baths, about ice, about experiments, about Olya. He laughed.
Are you making this up? The Germans wouldn’t waste time on such nonsense. You’re just a [ __ ] who slept with fascists to survive. He forced me to write dozens of pages of explanations. Over and over again, every day the same thing. I wrote until my hand went numb. I wrote the truth, but no one needed the truth.
They needed wine. They needed to show that everyone who was captured was a traitor. Otherwise, how can one explain that millions of Soviet people were taken prisoner? I wasn’t shot, I wasn’t imprisoned, I was lucky, they let me go, but with a black mark. There was a mark in my documents. She closed all the doors to me.
I was forbidden to live in big cities, forbidden to study at the institute, forbidden to work in state-owned enterprises. I returned to the village in the burnt Krasny Bor. There was no home. Parents are dead, brother is missing. I was completely alone. I lived with a distant aunt who took me in out of pity.
She was afraid of me. I was afraid that I would bring trouble to her house, that they would come for me. She forbade me to tell anyone where I had been. Shut up, forget about it, otherwise we’ll all be arrested. I remained silent. I married tractor driver Ivan in 1947. He was a good man, quiet, hard-working.
He knew I was in captivity, but he didn’t ask for details. We gave birth to three sons. I raised them, fed them, taught them. But I never sang them lullabies. My voice remained there, in the icy water. All my life I lived with an eye on things. I was afraid to knock on the door at night.
I was afraid that they would come for me, arrest me, and send me to Siberia. I haven’t watched any war movies. Whenever they showed parades and speeches about heroes on TV, I went into another room, because my war was different. In my war there was no heroism, victories, or medals. There was only black icy water, the smell of death and fear.
Fear of one’s own. My husband died in 1985. Heart. The sons moved away. I was left alone. And then the silence became unbearable. It choked me more than the ice water. I carried this inside me for 70 years . For 70 years I have kept the memory of Bole, of those women whose names I did not know, but whose faces I still remember.
In 2010, a historian, a young man from Moscow, came to see me. He collected evidence about the camps. He asked me to tell him. I refused for a long time, then I agreed, because I understood that if I died without saying anything, then they would die with me . Olya, Zinaida, Vera, all those women. And oblivion will win.
And oblivion is what the killers were aiming for. I told this in March 2010, exactly 66 years after I ended up in that camp. I was 86 years old. My hands were shaking, my voice was breaking. But I spoke, I told about the baths, about the cold, about Olya’s death, and I cried. For the first time in decades, and strangely, I did not fall apart, I was freed.
It was as if by telling the story I had lifted a burden that I had been carrying all my life. I am 94 years old now. I know I’m going to die soon, but now I can go peacefully because my story is written. Olya’s voice, the voice of those women, is no longer silent. Did you hear him? You have learned the truth.
I think about that German soldier. Was he a kind man? No. He was part of the death machine. But the second he gave me sugar, the man in him woke up. And I think about the Soviet lieutenant who interrogated me whether he was a villain. He sincerely believed that he was defending his homeland. War breaks everyone.
She blurs the lines between good and evil. She makes executioners out of heroes and heroes out of victims. I told you this story so that you know. War is not parades and feats, it is cold, pain, death and betrayal. And the worst thing is not to die. The worst thing is to survive and be rejected by your own people .
Do you remember Olya? Remember her children Vanechka and Mashenka, who never knew how their mother died? Remember all those women who were turned into ice for the sake of crazy science? My story is a drop in an ocean of tears, but this drop will not disappear without a trace. I said, “Now I can leave in peace.” If you listened to this story to the end, please write in the comments what city or country you are watching from.
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