It is Winter, so dreary and harsh. The washed-out clouds blanket the sky masking the bright beams, not even the slightest crack can let the golden shine squint through. Down the cobblestone path ashen houses hunch, eyes boarded shut and the aged iron gates clasped to the decaying wood posts. No admittance. Nevertheless, a few people wander the lonesome streets; even some dare to take a glance at the brutes who stand legs spread apart and hands held stiff behind the back posing with the tight band of a hooked cross. Around the corner situated in a tight nook is a charming quaint toy shop, a hanging sign positioned reads F.W Woolworth CO. The toy shop is rather out of place, it seems to be a crime to extend such innocent happiness in such a broken world. Inside the owner of the charming toy shop is a joyful old soul, wizened grooved skin and a twinkle in the eyes. Nothing, nothing should take that away.

Listen. An ear-splitting howl travels through the wind and there once more the slightest wisp of joy is gone. Gruff shouts awake the resting trees, the stifle of the naked branches and the magpies take flight squawking as a motor truck pulls up. Silence. A whimpering sob, and when the first tear is set free the rest follow. A ghost-white frail face stares menacing darkness, the lurking evil that has taken so many has replaced the twinkle. Harsh chatter from the brutes is repulsive, the voices are stone-cold, aggressive and throaty, the faces of these men are accustomed with a dangerous smirk. The old man wheezes on all fours bowing, begging for mercy. Another wheeze, the old man lies broken tendering the neck, thick scarlet begins to swell and a new stain soils the dirtied pants. Bundled in a heap the old man is tossed into a confined rusted cage which clicks shut. Splutter, Crank. Roar. 

Evening has passed. Evanescent. A glinting silver orb peaks through the thicket of clouds but the stars are nowhere to be seen. It would be a beautiful night if the circumstances weren’t so foul. Inside the compound masses of people sit in filth. The pungent smell is inescapable, a mixture of urine and bile leaks a stench. In the far corner is a single bucket overflowing with slimy brown sludge. People lie robed with dirty white nightgowns coughing and spluttering. The old will die first from sickness, no more than five cold days. When those days pass the lifeless bodies will lay at rest in the pit. The old are the lucky ones, the young will die as slow as time decides. Death by gas, death by starvation and death by Lead.

 Lifeless. A long hard scan of the room, one body, another, a few more and then the last one. The old man. Imbrued of darkness itself, it paralyses its victims with emptiness. Faces stare no longer frightened of death, instead hoping for a peaceful rest; free of hate and anger. It will be a miracle if this age was erased and neighbours could go back to one another not scared but calm, not vengeful but forgiving. 

You get the prisoners to carry out the dead to throw in the pit. Last is the old man and you watch and when it’s done your legs are locked in place. Empty yet so full, smeared crimson cloth drapes from the victims who are stacked misshapen, limbs sprawled out in a dead weight and the faces, distorted with a silent scream. You. You helped send them there.

Yasmin Christian