Tag: ww2medic

When Heaven Touches Hell

The book is now finally published and purchasable. When Heaven Touches Hell is a book with 40 beautiful poems accompanied by stunning photographs! The in total 75 pages high quality paper comes at a low price (shipping not included). At only 14 years old, Sara Curfs wrote a book with the most impressing poetry in a language not even hers. We are excited to share with you and everyone around the world: When Heaven Touches Hell. (Send a Message through the website to purchase the book)

The book costs €9,95 (euro’s!!!) without shipping.
Costs of the book in The Netherlands are €14,- INCLUDING DELIVERY

While sending an email to purchase the book, please inform us of your residence so we can calculate extra costs including shipping/transport.

The book will be delivered to you in an extra protective envelope to make sure it doesn’t get to you in any damaged way.

When Heaven Touches Hell

When Heaven Touches Hell is my own book, which is filled with poems capturing different sides of war. So have we the medical side, talking about the field medics and nurses, or the side of the soldier himself, the dying and dead, or those who keep on fighting, the home front and front lines, all portrayed through poetry. With every poem comes a fitting re-enactment picture and explanation to the photograph below it. At the end of the book is an About Me which you can find above.

You can buy the book through my website in about 2,5 to 3 weeks. I’ll be sure to keep you posted and talk about the newest changes when it comes to the publishing of the book.

Some poems can be found on this website or on my instagram, which you can find on this page too.

PHOTOGRAPH BY JOOST RITZEN FROM ZIPS-FOTOGRAFIE

http://zipsfotografie.nl

Roermond Bevrijdingsfestival 2019

After Kunstbende, there were many emails asking me if I wanted to read my poems on certain events. On of those was the so called “Bevrijdingsfestival Roermond.” Of course I agreed, because it’s about the liberation of The Netherlands during the Second World War.

That same day I had another event of my re-enacting group. So, dressed in full HBT uniform with my bag and helmet I sat in the train, together with my mother, to Roermond. I had a handful of poems, because they gave m ten minutes, twice.

That’s a lot of time.

I read my poems, and in between I talked about history and small facts, or explained the uniform I was wearing or what the poem meant. That was really amazing to do. I met a veteran, not from WWII, though none the lees very important! He has my utter respect, I invited him to come and watch me reading the poems.

While reading, I noticed him in the back. That truly made me warm at heart, especially because he didn’t have to come watch, but did none the less. When I passed him on my way home, I thanked him once more.

What was also beautiful was this little girl, who loved my poems. After being done with my first 10 minutes I had a break, and decided to walk through the festival. I was gone too fast for her to catch up with me. But after I came back, her grandmother talked to me and told me how much it meant to her granddaughter.

That made my day, easily. I wish I could’ve talked to her, but sadly I didn’t. None the less I hope everyone enjoyed the poems I read. It was a small caravan, none the less it drew people in, and it was a beautiful experience.

A Conversation With Death

I always thought of death as the enemy, this dark figure that would take your hand and never let it go, as he walks with you to the gates of Hell. He’d offer you to go to Heaven, because he already knew that’s what you’d pick, as he waits for you to make your choice, he says:

“You’re free to choose, son, so what’s it going to be?”
“You can either chose heaven or chose heavenly.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” you’d tell him, at last
“Can I have some time to think,or do you need my answer fast?”

“I’ve got all the time in the world,” he’d smirk “so, don’t feel stressed.”
“Just chose whether you want to be worshiped,” he whispered “or blessed.”

“And all the other boys? Can you tell me what they chose?”
“Apologies,” he admitted “but I fear nobody knows.”

“So this is it? I have to pick one of the two, without knowing which holds whom?”
“For one might be my resting place and one may be my doom.”

The devil thought silently, before he muttered under his breath,
Perhaps he shouldn’t live to see what comes right after death?

“Rather I could take you home,” he offered, “if that is what you desire?”
And so the soldier turned his back to that heavenly angels choir

Took the devils hand, and together they walked back
To where the devil had before so ruthlessly attacked.

“Thank you,” the soldier spoke “for yet another day.”
“Don’t mind it, it’s what you deserved,” death would say

We All Fall

I know I’m human, like everyone else, and maybe it’s arrogant of me to say this, but I never expected to get shot. Perhaps the red cross on my arm made me feel safe or was it the unrealistic dream that people knew they weren’t supposed to take me down. I was a medic after all.

Is this what they felt? All the people I’ve helped before, as they lay crippled in the sand, seconds before it’d swallow them whole? This burning ache in their chest, which wouldn’t stop, no matter how hard they screamed, no matter how many prayers they spoke, this was their reality.

My reality.

I think it’s fair to say that I was in pain. I had never understood it, not completely. I had seen people cry out loud for their mother as the torturer stripped them from their breath, and now that he marvelled over me, I couldn’t hold back my grunting.

It was almost funny. It could’ve been a joke, would’ve been a joke if it wasn’t myself laying there. Running towards me, silent but swift, was a medic.

A medic who came to help another medic. 

I told you it could’ve been a joke. And I would’ve laughed, if it hadn’t been for the devil who send acid through my veins. My face flashed in horror and pain, the expression I had seen often enough to know what it looked like.

Was this revenge? From all those I couldn’t save, to make sure I’d respect them more? Because if it was, it worked.

Their history had become my own. Their yesterday my reality. And I’d make sure their tomorrow, would be my today. 

The short story was based on the picture above, of a medic being helped by another medic during D-Day.