Jutka, I miss your fingers, the touch I know only now that it is gone.  My
fellow soldier is not deft, puncturing skin as he plies splinters from my
ass, the needle clumsy in his paws.  His idea – a night out of this hole, the
danger receding, safety in disguise.  We dressed like ugly spinsters, but
Soviet dicks are incapable of better judgment than their brains.  Two
repulsive specimens – carbuncles and stinking beards – fancied our shapes,
chased us laughing until our kerchiefs flew, then ran like men hunting
men.  We ducked into a building shredded by shells.  From a window
upstairs, a plank stretched to the street.  We slid bare-assed, skirts riding to
our waists, yanked the plank down in our wake.  Their shouts were aimed
better than their bullets, and Jutka, that was my last escape.  I wait for the
allies to take us and hope we serve better as pawns than as carrion.