At Bockenburg Camp, Eva waded through the marshes. The mosquitoes swarmed around her. She batted at them, slapping her skin, but nothing could keep them from biting. Soon, the cold weather would kill them, but then, she would have to fight the freezing temperatures. Eva’s life had become an unending battle against man and nature.
That night, in line for soup, with red welts from the mosquito bites all over her skin, Eva scratched, tormented by the itching.
Helga pulled her arm away. “Stop it. You’ll tear up your skin.”
Bert ripped a piece of his shirt off the bottom and dipped it in his cup of water. He placed it gently on Eva’s skin, relieving, for a second, the intensity of the bites.
Eva smiled at her father. “Thank you, Papa.”
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