It Burns When You Touch It” – German Woman POW’s Hidden Injury Shocked the American Soldier

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A Story of Survival and Humanity

In April 1945, amidst the chaos of war, a muddy field aid station near the Rhine became the setting for an unexpected tale of compassion and resilience. Grier Elsa Becker, a 20-year-old from Munich, was carried in on a stretcher by two medics from the US 45th Infantry Division. She was the sole survivor of a flak battery that had been overrun at dawn. Her uniform was soaked in blood and mud, her face pale and gray, and she had not uttered a word since her capture.

The medic tent was a scene of utter chaos. Wounded soldiers filled every cot, the air thick with the smell of sulfa powder and the stench of gangrene. Corporal Daniel “Dany” Goldstein, a 22-year-old triage nurse from Philadelphia, was knee-deep in the horrors of war. He had fled Berlin with his family in 1938, escaping the very regime that had ensnared Elsa. Overwhelmed by the sheer volume of casualties, Dany had seen too much in the last month, yet he knelt beside Elsa, who flinched at his touch, her eyes wide with terror.

In a gentle voice, Dany spoke soft German, learned from his mother: “I’m a medic. I’m here to help.” Elsa whispered back, her voice barely audible. With careful hands, he cut away her blood-soaked jacket, revealing a gruesome sight. A massive shrapnel gash marred her lower back and hip, infected for days and crawling with maggots. The flesh was black and green, a horrifying testament to her suffering.

Dany had encountered countless wounds in his short life, but none as severe as this one on someone still conscious. Elsa turned her face away, expecting disgust, but Dany’s response was different. He called for morphine, plasma, and the head surgeon. Covering her with a clean blanket, he placed his hand on her shoulder, the only part of her not wounded. “You’re going to be okay,” he assured her in German. “We’re going to fix this.”

Major Frank Miller, the surgeon from Chicago, arrived and took one look at the wound, shaking his head. “Goldstein, she’s septic. We’re overloaded. She’s the enemy. Prioritize our boys.” But Dany wouldn’t let it go. “Sir, with respect, she’s a 20-year-old girl who’s been hiding this for God knows how long. She’s conscious. She’s fighting. We can save her.”

Miller hesitated, but Dany didn’t wait for permission. He started the IV himself, pushed morphine, and began debridement with his own hands. For four hours, they worked in silence, cleaning, cutting, and packing the wound with sulfa. Elsa drifted in and out of consciousness, whispering, “Es brennt, es brennt,” which meant “It burns, it burns.” By 2:00 PM, the surgery was done. She had lost half her left gluteus muscle and part of her hipbone, but she would live.

Dany stayed by her side until dawn, changing dressings and offering water. When Elsa woke at sunrise, she looked at him, her eyes clearer than before. “You touched it?” she whispered, disbelief etched on her face. Dany smiled tiredly. “Yeah, and it didn’t burn me.” Tears streamed down Elsa’s face, quiet and exhausted. Dany took her hand, a silent promise of support.

For the next three weeks, Dany was at her bedside every free moment he could muster. He brought extra rations, taught her English phrases like “Thank you” and “It doesn’t hurt anymore.” He shared stories of Philadelphia cheesesteaks while she told him about the beer gardens of Munich. When the infection finally broke, Elsa was able to sit up and asked for a mirror.

Seeing the massive scar, she expected Dany to look away, but he didn’t. “It’s a survivor scar,” he said. “Wear it proud.” On the day she was to be transferred to a rehabilitation hospital, Elsa made one request: she wanted Dany’s dog tags just to hold for a moment. She pressed them to her lips and then handed them back to him. “You touched the fire for me. I will never forget.”

As the ambulance pulled away, Dany watched, knowing he would never see her again. Yet, every year on April 17th, for the rest of his life, he received an anonymous postcard from Germany. No signature, just one line in careful English: “It doesn’t burn anymore. Thank you for touching it.”

Three weeks after the surgery, the tent was quiet at dawn. Dany was there again, changing the dressing on her hip. The wound was healing, pink new skin replacing the black edges. Elsa watched him work in silence. When he finished, she touched the scar lightly. “It doesn’t burn anymore,” she said softly.

Dany smiled, exhausted but relieved. “Good. That’s the point.” She looked at him, really looked at him. “You’re Jewish,” she stated, a realization dawning. He nodded. “And you saved a German girl.” Dany shrugged, his humility evident. “I’m a medic. I save people.”

Elsa’s eyes filled with tears. “In Germany, they told us you would do things.” Dany met her gaze firmly. “Some people do bad things, some do good. Today, I did good.” He handed her a small mirror from his kit, allowing her to confront her reflection.

She examined the scar, long and jagged, from her hip to her lower back. Expecting to hate it, she instead touched it gently. “It’s ugly,” she said, her voice trembling. Dany shook his head. “It’s proof you lived.”

Over the next month, Dany visited every day. He brought extra rations, read her American comic books, and taught her English swear words, laughing when she practiced them. She taught him Bavarian curses, their laughter echoing in the tent, a small respite from the horrors surrounding them.

One night, when the pain returned, he sat beside her cot, telling stories about the Philadelphia snow and cheesesteaks. “Why do you come every day?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Dany thought for a long moment before answering. “Because when I saw that wound, I knew I had to do something. You deserved a chance.”

Their bond grew stronger, transcending the boundaries of nationality and conflict. In a world torn apart by war, they found solace in each other, a flicker of hope amidst despair.

As the war raged on, the bond between a Jewish medic and a German girl became a testament to the power of compassion and the indomitable spirit of survival. Their story, though marked by pain and loss, was ultimately one of healing, resilience, and the unbreakable connections forged in the darkest of times.