Letters From The Front

The uniformed man knocks at her door while winter winds roll down her dusty street. With trembling hands, she takes the letter he holds before her.

Mama,

Do you believe in God?

I did, once.

Beneath our feet, the ground undulates. It reminds me not of an earthquake, but of the moving pictures of blasting mines in the Ruhr, belching forth its acrid breath as hell is summoned to earth by our advances.

I was told they were partisans, lined up for kilometers: Romani, soviets, communists, Juden… rats, all of them. They deserved their fate, but there was more than I imagined possible. They came forth in groups of ten.

At first, they laid them face down in the ravine and shot them through the neck. Then the next ten atop them, then the next…We followed our orders. When the day grew short, they ordered our MGs upon them.

We only paused when our barrel melted; I burnt my hands on the third barrel.

The men went first. They were easy.

The women…they were harder.

My hands shook changing the barrel as the children’s wails echoed over the undead groans emitting from the pit below. I dropped it twice. Pulling the trigger would’ve been easier than standing there watching, staring…

It was a mercy when the wails stopped.

We waited while those few that remained shoveled earth into the ravine that still slithered like a pit of snakes… no, like a pile of maggots.

When they finished, the kommadant executed the final nine with his pistol, until one remained. The boy's eyes were naught pits of endless white, deeper than an endless sky.

After the bullet shattered his skull, the whites of his eyes remained, unblinking.

Those eyes remain. They stare at me through the darkness as I write.

I can no longer stand the whiteness of those eyes. I needed to act.

With the point of my bayonet, I blinded my left eye.

I had not the courage to finish the job. It was foolish to believe removing it might cure my ailment. Half blind, I still see them, unblinking through the darkness consuming and shrouding all color that once existed on God’s green earth.

Mama, what have we done?

Even now, their skeletons grasp upwards through the rents in the earth.

I no longer fear damnation for I know I’m already condemned.

I can only pray this repentance spares me from the eyes. I fear they will stare at me for eternity, in fact I’m certain they will. What did I do to deserve such a fate?

I used to believe in God. Now I know only hell exists.

Goodbye, Mama.

I’m sorry

Tears intermix with dried blood, one last entanglement of mother and son.

The uniformed man tears the letter from her, and with a flick, condemns it to the flames.

“Our great struggle demands sacrifices and secrets. I’m sure you understand. Even still, it would be inhumane to deny his grieving mother his last words.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N:

It is hard to write a letter from imaginary monsters when real ones walk amongst us. I unfortunately missed the anniversary, though such a celebratory word seems wrong in this instance, of the Babi Yar massacre, info below. I also feel obliged to make some form of statement about complacency, collusion, and the depths of our own ignorance, yet no words feel like they can measure up to the moment. I'll leave it to you to educate yourself.

Written for Rick and company's great challenge:

If you've enjoyed this, please leave a like and an insight below. If you really enjoyed this, tips to fuel my coffee addiction are always appreciated. All formatting is designed for desktops. My best stories can be found below: