Pity, Compassion, Kindness
It was a biting cold, bitter day in a small East European town as the file of defeated Nazi troops marched through the streets.The Russian soldiers guarded them closely, keeping watch over the prisoners of war as they were forced to march to a far-off prison camp and an uncertain future. The Nazi officers were at the front of the column, their uniforms clean and tidy, their faces defiant and arrogant as they marched past the jeering crowds of townspeople.
The women of the town had gathered together, and they hurled hateful words and rocks at the Nazi officers. They shouted at them, and spat, their anger boiling over at the sight of the enemy who had caused so much pain and suffering to their families, their friends, their country. The officers remained impassive and aloof, ignoring the taunts and insults of the townspeople whom they had plundered and tormented only weeks before.
As the officers passed, the harsh clack of their polished boots on the cobblestone street reverberated through the town. But once they had marched off into the distance, the street became eerily quiet, as hundreds of defeated German foot soldiers now shuffled through the town. Now the only sounds were the clacking of wooden crutches on the stones. Wounded, hungry, and emaciated, many could barely walk. They were clothed in filthy, torn, tattered uniforms, some wearing mere rags, some wrapped in blankets. Many were bandaged, some had lost limbs and could only rely on comrades and crutches to keep up.
The sight of the pitiful parade of the defeated men caused a change in the mood of the townspeople. What they had once imagined as the cruel invaders turned out to be just boys barely out of their teens.The women's hate turned to silence as they watched the soldiers limped past them. They saw the suffering etched on the faces of the young men, and their hearts softened. An old woman, who could not help imagining that these poor boys were the sons of a mother like her, walked out onto the cobblestone street, her eyes filled with compassion. She reached into her pocket and found a crust of old bread. It was the only food she had, and had been saving it for later that day. She offered it to a soldier who was starving. He ate it ravenously, his eyes brimming with gratefulness, and nodded a silent thank you
The other women in the town saw this lone woman and her simple gesture to an unknown soldier who was once an enemy. But it wasn’t so, could not be so… not anymore. They rummaged in their pockets and bags, searching for scraps of food to give to the soldiers of what little they had. The women who had no food to give reached out to the men, took a hand, patted a shoulder, or whispered a blessing. The soldiers' eyes filled with tears as they accepted the food, overwhelmed by the women's generosity.
As the file of soldiers disappeared in the distance, the women watched them go, their hearts heavy. They knew that these young men were victims too, young men who could easily be their own sons and husbands, caught up in a war they did not choose or understand.
The soldiers in turn felt the healing touch of their mothers, their sisters, their wives, far away. There is a saying that when a soldier is nearing death or great danger, his thoughts always turns to a woman, or to a girl. A mother, a wife, a daughter. As hard as the cruel march was, the kindness of these women reminded them of their women, their girls, and in doing so brought them hope in their time of despair.
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