VOSHN 337

<body><a href="../index.html">HOME</a><br><table summary="315"><tr><td class="etesti">315</td><td class="edate">August 16<sup>th</sup>and after, 1945.</td><td class="eage">15 years old at that time</td></tr><tr><td class="ei_midasi" colspan=3>Morning is the bitterest memory.</td></tr></table><div class="large"><p>Anesthesia was unavailable.  I cried, "O ouch!  Stop!  Stop!"  The army surgeon says, "If I stop, you shall die."  I say, "Even if I must die, please stop it!"  I had such a bitter experience.</p><br><p>Gauze was lacking in those days.  My father washed the gauze once used, boiled it in an earthen pot, dipped it into cooking oil as a substitute of medicine, and finally squeezed it into my wound with a chopstick.</p><br><p>Next morning, he pulled out the gauze.  Festered flesh had been attached to the gauze.  The morning is the bitterest memory to me, through which I feel my flesh ripped off.  Still now I tremble with this terrible memory.</p></div></body>