“Yes.”
The voiceover continued. “Dr. Michael Nariovsky-Trent’s mission in Orlisia was not to take life, but to preserve it. He graduated with his medical degree from Harvard Medical School in 2007 with a near-perfect grade point average. After his surgical residency at Massachusetts General, he received job offers from some of the country’s best hospitals. Instead of taking a prestigious hospital position or starting a lucrative private practice, he served a nine-month assignment with Médecins Sans Frontières in central Africa. He was offered a second assignment not long before the war broke out in the country of his birth.”
“You were a soldier.”
The camera cut to Michael, whose green eyes narrowed at the question. He shook his head. “I am a doctor, not a soldier. My job was to save the lives of my comrades.”
“What was it like, working on the front lines of the resistance?”
He took a deep breath, audible on camera.
“It was, as you might expect, very intense. There was mortar fire. Aerial bombardment. Weapons fire. Landmines. My experience with Médecins Sans Frontières in Africa had given me limited experience with battlefield medicine, but this was beyond anything I could have imagined. It leaves a terrible scar on your psyche.” His eyes had a faraway look in them. “It is very difficult to fall sleep at night when you are afraid you may not live until morning.”
“How long did you serve as a field doctor before the Soviets caught up with your resistance cell?”
“Close to two months.”
“What happened then?” As Sophie watched, she shifted around a bit, pressing herself a little closer into Michael’s warm body.
“It was the afternoon of September 10. It had snowed, and the temperatures had fallen below freezing at night. I was on the far side of our compound, walking toward the hospital tent to check on my patients when the planes appeared. The first bomb destroyed the hospital.
“Those of us remaining after the first attack fled into the woods. The Soviets strafed the area, destroying everything we had. It was over in about twenty minutes, air only with no ground troops. Of the hundred of us in this group, maybe fifteen survived.
“We salvaged what little we could from the wreckage and headed south. We were about seventy miles north of the border at this point, having moved steadily south over the last several weeks to avoid Soviet bombings.” He paused, and the camera cut to Sophie, her hand over her eyes as she tried not to cry on camera. That had been the first time she’d heard him speak in such detail of those events, and every word had hurt.
“We decided to head for the border, hoping to locate other members of the resistance. It took nearly two weeks to cover the first twenty miles of the trip. I lost two patients along the way who had been seriously injured in the initial attack. Good men, with families.” On the screen, he looked down at the table in front of them, where his hand held Sophie’s so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. “I was operating in the forest at night with little more than a scalpel and my bare hands. What more could I do?”
In the living room beside them, Signe let out a choked sound.
“After we buried Arno, the second one to die, we could move faster. No more wounded men to slow us down.” His face twisted with grief. “We stayed on the move as much as possible. It got so cold at night that I thought I would never be warm again.
“It became difficult to keep track of the days. We reached the Parnaas area in a week or so, and remained there for several weeks. There were fewer bombings in this region, but greater risk of being caught. Everyone said the Soviets were rounding up Orlisians and putting them in some kind of a camp.”