I did not recognize the woman in the store window.
Her hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes bore little resemblance to the happy secretary in the family portrait by her bed. Grey streaks wound through matted brown hair emerging from her wool cap. She leaned on a battered walking stick, her thin hands clutching it from within the sleeves of a snow-flecked coat that draped over her narrow shoulders.
This was my reflection, 483 days into the German blockade of our once beautiful Leningrad.
My son and husband were on the front lines. My young daughter and mother clung to life in our flat. Only I remained strong enough to walk the streets and scrounge for food.
Two autumns past, we’d watched from our rooftop as the city’s vast food storehouses burned under the rain of Nazi bombs. Days later, the last rail connection to the rest of the Motherland fell. Few realized then the significance of those events. The Germans had closed the circle, locking us away to starve.
By winter’s start, no food remained. We began consuming anything remotely edible — leather book bindings, fur coats, even old wallpaper paste. The brutal subarctic cold made it all the worse, attacking our shriveling bodies. Death ran rampant. People would sit to rest on a bench or under a tree and simply never wake again, their coats and ration cards stolen before their bodies had even cooled.
No pets, rats, or birds were left by spring. Summer and autumn passed with little improvement. Then winter returned.
Had God forgotten us?
Memories of normalcy eroded with every moment, urging us all towards madness. For some, that point was long past. The gaunt boy wandering outside our apartment, repeating “black bread” throughout all hours. Our newlywed neighbor Magda curling up in bed with her sweet husband, whose body froze solid a week ago. In the ration line yesterday, I’d met a surprisingly cheery man dragging a covered children’s sleigh. When the rough blanket caught on a runner, it revealed the bluish corpses of his two twin girls. “Sleeping,” he whispered, hastily recovering them.
We were becoming ghosts. People simply wasting away to nothing — mind and body.
Except for the monsters.
Those who had chosen a path of unimaginable evil. Unlike most beasts of darkness, they remained obvious in a city of living skeletons.
The fat ones.
Rumors abounded of their methods. People lured into dark corners, following strangers with irresistible promises of meat or bread. Children, women, men — suddenly vanishing. Usually it was the healthier ones who were still somewhat strong, sent out to scavenge and never returning to their families. Tales of cooking smells in the dark of night regularly followed each disappearance.
“Madame?”
A man had appeared beside me, his reflection misshapen by a bulky coat and fur hat.
“Could you use something to eat?” he asked softly.
“Comrade, we all could,” I said, studying him. His face was cloaked by a crimson scarf, only his electric blue eyes exposed.
“My sister just passed away. I still have some pork she’d saved. You… look like you could use it.”
I glanced about. There was no one in sight except for a few old women shuffling to and fro, carrying bundles. The bright afternoon yielded no cause for suspicion. He sounded earnest, and the mere thought of real pork sent my mind reeling.
“I accept your kindness, sir.”
He nodded and led me around the corner, down a narrow path between two brick buildings. Boarded windows lined the walls. We stopped before a simple wooden door.
As he calmly undid the locks, a sudden gust loosened his scarf.
What I saw terrified me.
His cheeks were full, the skin pink and supple. In normal times, he would have been a young, athletic man. Now he was a predator, aglow with life in a time of death.
Sucking in a breath, I took a step back, only to freeze in horror. My eyes had inadvertently wandered over a pair of loose boards on a window to my right. In the shadows beyond, marbled slabs of meat dangled from steel hooks. They could have been beef or pork upon cursory inspection, save for the piece ending in a distinct human foot.
So it was true!
The man was oblivious to my reaction. Summoning all the energy within my weakened body, I raised my walking stick and brought it down hard across his neck. He staggered, his forehead striking the door frame. Again I hit him. He fell groaning.
God forgive me, I prayed.
Then I called out.
From around the corners of the path came a group of women, my friends and neighbors. Knives flashed as they unwrapped their cloth bundles. The oldest one, Elena, touched my shoulder and nodded, then silently directed the others. They dragged the prone man inside while I stood watch, just a tired mother resting on a stoop. Sickening, wet sounds escaped the open door.
“I told you he was one of them,” someone hissed.
I glanced over my shoulder. The hooks were empty now. I heard cloth tearing and smelled blood.
Within minutes, the women began filtering out. Each held a noticeably larger bundle. A younger girl stepped outside and vomited in the snow. Recovering, she clutched her own package tightly and kept walking. Each woman calmly went her way, fading into the pedestrian traffic.
Elena emerged last, two bundles under her arm. She handed one to me and walked away.
I looked down at the package, adjusting the wrapping to hide the seeping blood. This was life, I told myself. Life for my daughter and my mother, who would never know its origins.
The sinner had become the fruit of his own labors. But was it a sin to partake of that fruit?
Shuffling home, I prayed for divine guidance. In the stark silence that followed, I believed I found my answer.
What went unseen could not be judged.
God had simply averted His eyes.
Mark Rossmore’s eclectic background includes aviation, creative direction, music, web design, theatre, and video production. Currently an FAA air traffic controller in training, when he’s not talking to modern day flying machines he’s conjuring up stories of times and technology past — and those that could have been. His published work includes short stories as well as non-fiction articles for major aviation publications. 2009 also saw the release of his first album of original rock / steampunk music. Now living in Pensacola, FL, he is currently working on his first novel. Visit his aviation and writing blog at http://PinguinoMalo.BlogSpot.com.
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21 Responses to “DAY 483 • by Mark Rossmore”
Comments
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August 15th, 2009 at 1:18 am
Well written story, but I cannot abide horror stories and had no warning that this fell so deeply into that category. Warning needs to be posted for future stories like this. I would have stayed away, had I known.
August 15th, 2009 at 1:25 am
Brilliantly crafted story. It isn’t a horror story, it may have an exaggerated conclusion but the inhumanity was life for some unfortunate people.
August 15th, 2009 at 2:17 am
Beautifully written, Mark.
August 15th, 2009 at 3:01 am
Very well written; gave me the creeps!
August 15th, 2009 at 3:09 am
Linda: the inhumanity is what made it horror. As an example, I subscribe to two of the three podcasts from Escape Artists: Escape Pod (science fiction) and Podcastle (fantasy). I do not, however, listen to the horror stories on Pseudopod, the third podcast. I don’t doubt they’re well written stories, but it’s just not my thing, AT ALL, to the point that it bothers me greatly. This would have made a great Pseudopod story, I’m sure. But it’s more than I can handle, and I would have appreciated a warning so I could avoid it.
August 15th, 2009 at 3:23 am
The like has happened in many a war and seige past and unfortunately probably future -
August 15th, 2009 at 5:10 am
Powerful and masterfully written.
August 15th, 2009 at 6:18 am
A very interesting, atmospheric story. I thought the darkness and unease was well judged, the ending a perfect example of the boundaries of human behaviour, and all too believable.
August 15th, 2009 at 7:03 am
I didn’t pick this up as being a horror story, unless you consider it showing the horrors man can inflict on his fellow creature. I found this very disturbing and extremely well written. It was disturbing because it is something that probably has already occurred and certainly could again. Really shows desparation and the strength one can find if one possesses the will to survive. Definitely a five.
August 15th, 2009 at 8:27 am
HUGE 5* from me!
August 15th, 2009 at 8:57 am
Grim … gruesome … but I liked it! Very well done. Yes, I think one would have to put it in the “Horror” category, not my favorite but I can take 1000 words of horror OK (even though I might not appreciate a much longer horror piece).
August 15th, 2009 at 10:07 am
That was a wonderful peice, very well written story about the horrofic things that are all too real.
August 15th, 2009 at 10:17 am
As much as I knew it would become “human eating human”, I could not stop reading it. Unfortunately, human nature is made up of “sick” curiousity. The story drew me in with its magnetism and it gave me a nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach. Not because it was poorly written but because of its strength in describing human deprivation and the choices one could be faced with. Well done Mark!
August 15th, 2009 at 10:26 am
Outstanding. EDF is on a roll with the stories this month. A fiver for sure.
August 15th, 2009 at 10:50 am
Very nicely done.
August 16th, 2009 at 4:12 am
Absolutely brilliant, so grim, and the imagery you spread over the tale really made me feel the cold.
August 16th, 2009 at 3:03 pm
Wow! Horrific, grim and all too realistic. I usually don’t like horror, but the realism of this piece, and the desparation made it less horror, and more just grim. It reminds me of that plane crash . . . where they had to eat to survive and they had no other food than the dead. History has told these tales, and yours is well written.
August 17th, 2009 at 4:30 am
Nicely done
August 18th, 2009 at 6:18 pm
I didn’t see it as a horror story at all, although what was going on was horrifying. To me it was a clear reminder of Nazi Germany and the treatment of the Jews. It’s happened before. It’s probably happening now, somewhere else. And it will no doubt happen again, in the future. Mankind is supremely capable of doing some very horrifying things to itself.
A definite 5. One of the most powerful stories EDF has published recently.
September 3rd, 2009 at 3:03 am
Well done, frightening. Don’t like ‘normalcy’ though. Is it even a word? What’s wrong with ‘normality’?
January 15th, 2010 at 5:23 am
I don’t normally leave comments, but, I enjoyed your story very much.