In the Shadow of Distant Guns
The War Diary of Anna Müller – Stuttgart, Germany, 2026–2034
European Memory Archive – Archivist’s Note
This diary was donated to the European Memory Archive in the spring of 2045 by the family of Anna Müller (b. 1986, Stuttgart; d. 2044, Ulm). It spans the civilian experience of the Pacific War Crisis (2026–2033) from a front desk at a neighborhood GP practice and a kitchen table in Stuttgart. We preserve spelling and tone; minor redactions remove patient names where legally required.
Anna’s diary reflects the experiences of many German and European citizen during a time when major power blocs fought for dominance to establish a new world order. A fighting war was avoided inside what was then the European Union. Nevertheless, the suffering caused by this global power shift was enormous, resulting in many lives lost in Europe and worldwide.
This record serves as a reminder of the suffering that took place in Europe during what came to be known as the Pacific War Crisis.
— Librarian M.K., 2046
Anna Müller some time in 2030 at her front desk in the Stuttgart GP clinic
2026 — Shock
Mon, 9 Mar
Petrol jumps to €2.80. At the practice, Dr. Keller says two patients cancel because they can’t afford the drive. I log the calls and pretend not to notice his jaw clench. Fighter jets pass low at night. Clara covers her ears and asks if bombs are coming. I say no, but my mouth is dry.
Thu, 12 Mar
Markus tries to send money to his sister, Lena. Banking app freezes. He stares at the phone a long time. I put tea in front of him. He doesn’t drink it.
Tue, 24 Mar
News says a U.S. base on Guam is hit. (Note archivist: Guam was a US territory island in the pacific) Convoys roll past the practice. Children on the pavement point and cheer. I feel sick. At lunchtime, our insulin delivery is late. I write down the names of people we need to call back and hope the courier shows.
Sun, 29 Mar
I go through the pantry and count tins. It feels silly and also not silly at all.
Tue, 31 Mar
Three-hour blackout. Phones dead. We register arrivals on paper. Most people are patient. One man shouts about “useless doctors” and storms out. I shake for twenty minutes after he leaves. In the evening news they report that China is at war with Taiwan and all shipping in the area has stopped.
Fri, 10 Apr
Leaflet through the door: “Be Prepared — 10 Days of Supplies.” Markus pins it on the fridge, makes a joke, then stops halfway through the sentence.
Wed, 22 Apr
School asks kids to bring extra snacks “in case of shortages.” Clara is proud of her crackers. I cry later in the car where she can’t see me. Dr. Keller tells me that the casualties in Taiwan are getting him depressed. Many civilians have died.
Mon, 27 Apr
Potatoes are limited to two bags. A woman screams at the cashier and then bursts into tears. No one knows what to do. The US is getting involved in the Taiwan conflict.
Wed, 6 May
Cyberattack on a big bank. ATMs freeze. At the practice our card terminal dies for an hour and a half. A waiting room full of tired faces watches me try to reboot a little grey box that decides everything.
Fri, 22 May
Energy bill doubles. We wear coats at dinner. Clara calls it “camping.” I laugh with her and then cry in the bathroom. The German government is drafting reserve soldiers up to the age of 55 because there are not enough younger recruits.
Tue, 2 Jun
New leaflet: “Civil Defence Shelters to be Maintained.” At work, Frau Becker at the pharmacy shrugs: “We did stockrooms in COVID. We can do it again.” I like her voice. It sounds practical.
Wed, 24 Jun
Ambulance is twenty-three minutes for a suspected stroke. I count the minutes on the desk calendar. The patient’s wife keeps asking me if help is really coming. I say yes, over and over.
Fri, 17 Jul
Bread rationed today. In the queue an older woman faints. For a second everyone freezes; then two people move at once. I feel ashamed I wasn’t one of them.
Sat, 22 Aug
Another shelter notice in the mail. I don’t show Clara. I am tired of bad news.
Wed, 14 Oct
Practice phone lines keep glitching. We miss two calls from the emergency service. I call them back and apologize. I am so tired my voice sounds like someone else’s.
Wed, 16 Dec
No inhalers at the pharmacy; delivery “stuck.” A boy with asthma wheezes in the waiting room. We find one device in the cupboard and give it to his mother. She hugs me like I did something special. I only unlocked a door.
Wed, 30 Dec
We eat by candlelight again. Markus pretends it’s fun for Clara. When she sleeps, he says, “How long?” I say, “I don’t know.”
2027 — Settling into Hard
Sun, 7 Feb
Blackout during morning clinic. We handwrite blood-test forms. Patients are calmer than last year. Everyone learns the drill.
Mon, 15 Mar
At work, an older man says, “I lived through oil shocks. This is different.” He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t need to.
Thu, 8 Apr
School cancels a field trip “until supply issues ease.” Clara rips up the letter. Markus scolds her. I scold him for scolding her. We’re all frayed.
Tue, 4 May
More cars queue at dawn for petrol. Jens cycles in. He locks his bike inside the practice hallway and says, “This is my security policy.” Then terrible news: an atomic bomb exploded in Tel-Aviv killing hundreds of thousands of people.
Sat, 19 Jun
Peace march. Dr. Keller goes for an hour. The on-call doctor covers him. We are short of antibiotics for children. A mum asks me how to split adult tablets. I say she must check with the doctor and she nods, embarrassed. I hate that she has to ask. The war in Israel escalates.
Mon, 5 Jul
Mercedes cuts more shifts. Peter next door is furloughed. His wife cries in the stairwell. We take Clara over with a drawing and a chocolate bar. It feels small and also exactly right.
Tue, 10 Aug
A patient dies at home overnight, not in our care. Family can’t reach the coroner for hours because phone networks are patchy. They stand at our desk, pale and quiet. I call every number I have. Someone picks up at 10:41. I write the time down but don’t really know why because no one will check on this.
Wed, 29 Sep
Card terminal fails again. A man gets angry I won’t take cash for a video consultation the doctor already did. I dislike that sentence even as I say it. Another atomic bomb exploded in Iran. Retaliation by Israel. Taiwan surrenders but now there is a fight over the Philippines. Europe and Australia are helping with food and arms.
Fri, 19 Nov
Cold snap, energy rationing. We move the waiting room seats into the sunnier corner by the window. People thank me as if I gave them something more than a chair. The war in the Middle East es getting worse. There is fighting in Egypt. The Suez canal is closed.
Thu, 23 Dec
We wrap gifts with newspaper. Clara draws stars by hand. I like hers better than shop paper. Despite everything Clara looks happy. She hugged me today and told me she loves me and I started crying again.
2028 — Politics and Thin Shelves
Mon, 10 Jan
Talk about a new party promising “neutrality” and “cheap energy.” Posters look shiny and tired at the same time. The party is called “New Europe”. So far their ideas sound like the same old nonsense.
Wed, 2 Feb
Practice memo: “Use antibiotics only with clear indication.” We already do. It still reads like an accusation. The shortages are getting worse because of closed shipping routes near Taiwan and Egypt.
Fri, 11 Mar
Ambulance is thirty-one minutes for chest pain. Dr. Keller stays on the phone with the family the whole time. I feel proud of him and angry that he has to.
Tue, 3 May
Elections coming. Neighbours argue on the landing and then apologize to each other. We all say, “Long day,” and laugh too loudly. The neighbour shares a bottle of wine with us.
Sun, 12 Jun
Blackout overnight. Clara sits on the balcony and counts stars. She asks if the sky is different now. I tell her the sky is the same.
Thu, 7 Jul
Gas bill triples. We turn off hot water most days. Hair-wash night is an event. Clara says, “I don’t want any more events.” The US and China are now fighting directly in the Pacific. Nato article 5 is activated and Michael, our neighbours son is drafted into the Navy.
Mon, 15 Aug
Peter leaves for Hamburg—work in the shipyards. We hug goodbye in the car park. He jokes about learning the wind again. His wife doesn’t joke.
Fri, 23 Sep
Pharmacies coordinate between themselves and our practice about insulin pens; a little phone tree springs up. It’s clumsy, but by evening everyone on our list has something. I walk home light for once.
Sat, 24 Dec
Dad gets stopped at the Polish border and misses Christmas. Clara tries not to cry. She fails. I fail too. We can’t call him. Phones and internet are down for the whole week because of some cyber attack.
2029 — Frayed and Stubborn
Tue, 10 Jan
School drops two days a month to save heating. Clara spends those days at the practice with headphones and a workbook. Patients smile at her. One leaves a chocolate on my desk “for the assistant.” I put it in a drawer for emergency morale.
Sun, 5 Mar
Protests in Berlin turn violent. Many are arrested. We watch on TV. Markus and I don’t talk during the footage. After, he washes dishes for a long time. Chancellor Merz pushes the 50 hour week through parliament. Dr. Keller is laughing when he hears that: “I already do at least 60 hours week!”
Thu, 13 Apr
We run out of rapid strep tests. We go back to symptoms and judgment. Dr. Keller stands in reception and says, “We can do safe medicine with fewer toys.” He means it. I still miss the toys.
Sat, 8 Jul
Clara turns nine. No flour for cake. I bake rye bread with honey. She smiles and then later whispers, “I miss birthdays with noise.” I say I do too.
Mon, 18 Sep
Letter from Peter. Ship work is heavy and endless. He says he sleeps like a stone. He says Hamburg rain is good for thinking. I read the letter twice and keep it.
Sat, 31 Dec
Fireworks banned again. I don’t mind the quiet; I do mind what it means.
2030 — The Long Year
Mon, 17 Feb
Sabine moves to Switzerland. We stand in the practice doorway, hug one last time and wave as she drives off. I think about the first coffee we had when she started. I think about the last. Later that week Switzerland closes the border with the EU.
Wed, 7 May
A new mother sits at my desk and cries because we don’t have her usual formula brand. Dr. Keller walks to the pharmacy himself and comes back with an alternative. Baby is fine. Mum hugs both of us. We get a letter from the school: this year the summer holidays are not six but ten weeks long. Not enough teachers.
Fri, 11 Jul
Clinic runs on half power for the whole afternoon. It’s bearable until it’s not. People start snapping at each other and then apologizing immediately. We’re becoming experts at apologies. I saw a man die in the street. He just dropped dead, heart attack. A woman dropped her shopping back, then pumped the mans chest and gave mouth to mouth. It took the ambulance over an hour to arrive. I looked after the woman’s daughter, who was watching all this in silence.
Tue, 9 Nov
Christmas market cancelled “to save energy.” Clara says, “What’s the point of December then?” I have no quick line for that.
2031 — First Small Turns
Thu, 17 Feb
TV says talks in Geneva open. I want to be hopeful and also not humiliate myself by being hopeful. I make soup and say nothing. There is a ceasefire in the Pacific. The Philippines are safe. Taiwan was hit bad, sp much destruction, so many dead. Taiwan is now part of China proper.
Tue, 3 May
Shelves look better. Coffee beans appear at three times the old price. I buy a small bag and use it like medicine—one spoon at a time. Israel agrees to a Palestinian state but refuses political claims on Gaza. Thats better than nothing.
Sun, 12 Jun
Ambulance comes after 93 minutes for an elderly fall. I write the time in the diary because it feels like a miracle. The government says that this year more than 2 million people in Europe have died because health services cannot deal with the crisis. Its the worst in the Balkans.
Fri, 23 Sep
Bananas show up. A welcome change. I have not seen Banana in moths. Tiny and expensive. I buy one. Clara eats it slowly, to make it last as long as possible.
Mon, 21 Nov
Pharmacy calls to say insulin deliveries are back on a schedule “most weeks.” I sit down because my knees go soft.
2032 — Talks That Actually Move
Sat, 9 Apr
News says Geneva sessions resume. Delegates look wrecked on screen. I don’t care what they look like if they keep talking. The ceasefire between the US and China is holding. Good. We have enough floods and storms and just don’t need more war.
Mon, 1 Aug
Mercedes adds shifts. Peter writes that he’s coming back. His wife sends a photo of packed boxes and a smiling child missing two front teeth. I cry at my desk and tell patients I have hay fever.
Tue, 30 Aug
Practice staff meeting: we keep the blackout kits, but we start removing the extra chairs from storage. Small optimism: it fits on one trolley.
Tue, 30 Nov
“Framework Peace Agreement signed”. I read the alert twice, then out loud. People in the waiting room clap. A woman wipes her eyes with a sleeve and says, “Good.” Just that—“Good.”
Fri, 9 Dec
We get a normal medicine order. I take a photo of stacked boxes. I almost post it and then decide to keep it for myself.
2033 — The Thaw Feels Real
Sun, 19 Mar
Coffee beans return properly. Markus makes a pot. The smell fills the flat. We don’t speak for a minute; we just breathe.
Tue, 4 Apr
Border checks ease. Dad arrives from Ulm without a delay and brings fresh bread rolls. Clara says the rolls taste “like before.” I agree.
Wed, 5 Jul
Government ends ration credits. People cheer in Königstraße. Someone starts singing badly; others join anyway. It sounds like relief more than music.
Mon, 25 Sep
We retire our paper appointment book except for backup. I put it in a drawer and pat it like a pet. The internet is back, the phones work normally, not the daily interruptions.
Sun, 31 Dec
Fireworks legal again. We stand on the balcony together and watch color climb the sky. I don’t flinch at the bangs. Only the dogs are not happy about it.
2034 — After
Wed, 12 Jan
Borders open fully. I drive to Strasbourg for the day and buy nothing. I just walk.
Fri, 1 Mar
Supermarket looks normal. Prices are still high but not ridiculous. I stand in front of the bananas and take one without thinking. Later I go back and put another in the basket on purpose.
Tue, 23 Apr
At work we remove the “Due to Supply Issues” sign from the reception window. I fold it small and keep it in the drawer with the paper book.
Thu, 10 Oct
Practice audit says response times are stable, ambulance times within targets. I make a pot of coffee for the team and we drink it at the counter, leaning on our elbows, not in a rush.
Tue, 31 Dec
New Year’s Eve. Clara shouts from the balcony, “Happy New Life!” Markus laughs for real. I do too.
January 2035
The practice runs like a practice again. The pharmacy has stock most days. The buses come when the timetable says they will. We still keep candles in a drawer. We still keep a box of snacks in case a child waits too long.
Clara asks why I kept writing when nothing special happens. I tell her this is the special part: getting back to boring things and knowing they are precious. I tell her she can stop being brave now. She says she doesn’t know how. I say we can learn together.
I make coffee. It smells normal. I stand at the window and watch the street, the small business of an ordinary morning, and I let myself believe it stays.