The lance corporal shoved the woman back, nearly toppling her over, then turned to his friend. “What’s this old whore snooping around for?”

“Something to eat,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on the ground. “Bread, or anything.”

The little group stood in the heart of an otherwise deserted street: a lance corporal, a private, a woman clutching an empty sack to her chest, and a girl. The girl couldn’t have been older than fifteen, her eyes wide with fear. The woman, worn and weathered, might’ve been in her twenties or she might’ve been twice that age. Her face was etched with resignation as the two men closed in, the tenements looming over them like silent witnesses.

Constance watched from the safety of the shadows, her heart pounding in her chest. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to flee from the horrors unfolding before her, but fear held her rooted to the spot. The men jeered, their voices echoing through the empty street like a chilling refrain, their laughter dripping with sadistic delight as they reveled in their victims’ humiliation.

“Bread?” The lance corporal scoffed. He was the taller of the two, with a leering smile that reminded Constance of a hyena. “You’re not worth bread,” he taunted. “You’re not worth a boot to the ass!”

“But what’s this?” his friend sneered, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. Short and built like a refrigerator, his gaze fixated on the trembling girl. “Looks like we’ve stumbled on a little treat.”

“She’s not worth the trouble,” the lance corporal told him. “But I reckon she’ll do for a bit of fun.”

The girl shrank back, her eyes pleading for mercy, but the soldiers showed none. With callous disregard, they reached for her, as the other woman begged them to stop. Constance felt bile rise in her throat as the lance corporal started pawing at the girl through her shirt. She tried to pull back but found herself in his friend’s arms. Then both soldiers were kissing her, fondling her. Constance wanted to scream, to intervene, but she could barely bring herself to breathe.

What could she do, after all, but be next?

The two men dragged their prize behind what’d once been a post office.

As Constance leaned against a dumpster, waves of revulsion crashed over her, mingling with the bile she fought to choke down. She pressed her trembling palms against her closed eyes, desperate to banish the haunting images that lingered in her mind. The soldiers’ lecherous grins and the girl’s helpless sobs seemed etched into her consciousness, festering like an open wound. “Thank God,” she whispered to herself, relieved that the perverts hadn’t come in her direction. But even as she uttered the words, she recoiled from the realization of her own selfish relief.

No one deserved such horrors, especially not a teenager.

Clutching her churning stomach, she counted to ten, then to a thousand, but the sickening feeling refused to subside. With a guttural moan, she doubled over and vomited until there was nothing left. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she wondered what to do next when another hand shot out, fastening around her wrist. She shrieked in terror, instinctively pulling back.

“Enough of that,” a voice hissed beside her. “They’ll hear us.”

The hand gripping her was twisted with arthritis, its gnarled fingers surprisingly strong despite their age. Constance’s gaze snapped to the owner of the voice, her eyes widening in surprise. Underneath layers of grime, she could just make out the features of an old woman.

It—she, Constance corrected herself—was wrapped in a tattered blanket, the fabric seeming out of place in the sweltering heat, and brandishing a stick. She grimaced and then, using it as a makeshift cane, waved for Constance to follow before hobbling off. Constance hesitated for a moment, torn between the instinct to flee and simple curiosity. In the end, curiosity won out; with a shaky breath, she followed the mysterious figure into the darkness.

They stopped at the entrance to a dilapidated apartment complex, where the crone brandished her stick at a stray dog. The building rose over them, its once-grand Victorian brickwork now marred by neglect and shrapnel. Constance followed the old woman through the entrance, stepping carefully over the broken glass and debris strewn around the vestibule.

She coughed; the air smelled of mold, and worse. The linoleum was cracked and the interior walls, too, bore the scars of fighting; their peeling paint was marred with what looked like bullet holes. As they ascended the dimly lit stairwell, she couldn’t help but notice certain…stains on the wall. The urinals around here clearly didn’t work. But she had bigger concerns, like falling to her death; the steps creaked ominously beneath her weight, although her companion didn’t seem to notice, and the whole building seemed to tilt as they climbed higher.

Finally reaching the old woman’s apartment, they entered her packed and gloomy kitchen. A tattered dishrag served as the makeshift curtain for a single broken window, barely filtering in the feeble light from outside. Constance fumbled for a light switch and flicked it, but the room remained shrouded in darkness, the dim glow of the fading daylight offering little relief.

“Power’s still out.” The old woman gestured towards a rickety chair. “Sit.”

Constance complied, still too stunned to resist. “I’m Constance.”

The old woman grunted, unimpressed with this revelation. “And I’m not.” Lighting a match under the burner, she placed the kettle on top. Then, relenting, she turned. “You can call me Alice.”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Nodding in acknowledgement, Constance attempted a smile. “Thank you, Alice.”

“For what?” Alice poured water into the kettle, her tone devoid of warmth.

“For….” Constance faltered, her hands clutching the edge of the table as she struggled to find the right words.

“I saw.” Alice’s expression remained impassive.

“We have to help them, though.” Constance’s voice trembled, as she remembered what she’d seen.

“Bah.” Alice waved dismissively. “Happens all the time. Nothing we can do.”

Alice’s disinterest evidently extended to her own surroundings: the apartment reeked of rot, and the sound of dripping water echoed in the cramped space. A cockroach scuttled across the table, disappearing beneath a pile of mail that seemed untouched for years. Alice placed a chipped cup in front of her, before seating herself on the opposite chair. Constance stared at it dubiously, wondering if the cloudy brown liquid was safe to drink.

Alice scrutinized her. “Why are you here?”

The intensity of that gaze made Constance squirm in her seat. “I got lost.”

“Lost?” Alice repeated, her voice sharp with disbelief. “You went to Hell by accident?”

A wave of embarrassment washed over her. “I was looking for the benefits office.”

With a dismissive snort, Alice blew her nose on a foul rag. She inspected the contents, after, with a critical eye. “You walked a mile in the wrong direction,” she commented.

“That woman, she….” Constance glanced toward the window, her voice faltering. “She wasn’t the girl’s mother, was she?”

Alice’s response was blunt, devoid of compassion. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

Constance’s mouth fell open as she stared, incredulous. “How can you say that?”

Alice blew her nose once more, the sound echoing in this hoarder’s paradise of a room, before spitting something onto her saucer that looked like a tooth. “Am I supposed to care about everyone?” From her perspective, apparently, Constance might as well have suggested flying to the moon.

She bit her lip, struggling not to shout that some people in fact did care what happened to other people—and to themselves! Taking a deep breath, she tried again. “The girl, will she be alright?”

Alice took a noisy slurp of her tea, her gaze distant. “You can figure that out.”

A cold finger touched Constance’s spine as she grasped the depths of her companion’s indifference. Her mind had come unhinged over the last few months, due to the horrors of war, either that or she was simply evil. The girl’s cries echoed in Constance’s head, but Alice might as well have changed the channel on a boring sitcom. “No,” she began hesitantly. “What I mean is—

“There’s no guarantee,” Alice interrupted, her voice flat. “She might come back. Or she might not. She might end up in one of their cathouses.”

Constance’s eyes widened in horror, her mind struggling to comprehend Alice’s words. “Their what?”

Alice shook her head in grim disbelief, as if Constance’s ignorance were inconceivable. “Did you just wake up from a coma? You know,” she said, forming a crude circle with her hand and jabbing a finger through it, “where the whores are, bonehead. They’ve opened them all over, our new masters have. Mostly where us undesirables are.” Her eyes gleamed with a twisted amusement as she leaned forward, revealing a mouthful of rotted teeth. “Fresh meat.”

Constance put a hand to her stomach.

“For the soldiers,” Alice continued, her tone cheerful. “For the workers, too, the ones who are strong enough.” She probed at a wound on the back of her hand, which looked like it might be infected. “The soldiers are supposed to go once a week, get their frustrations out. We won’t pay you, sonny,” she added, in a singsong German accent, “but here’s fifteen minutes between the legs of a woman who hates you.” Her hollow cackle filled the room. “Back home, they segregate. The Germans with the Germans, the Irish with the Irish. A Russian, now, he’d have to take me!”

Constance recoiled, aghast the hateful old crone’s words and their horrifying implication. Every fiber of her being screamed for escape, for respite from the grotesque reality of life in the ghetto. “I have to go,” she murmured, her voice trembling with revulsion.

Alice’s frown deepened, her expression a mix of disdain and curiosity. “What do you want with the benefits office?”

Standing, Constance faced her. “I need more food.”

Alice spat. “We all need more food.”

“Our allotment is for two,” Constance explained, with a tinge of desperation. “But there are three of us in the house.”

A sardonic snicker escaped Alice’s cracked lips. “My advice? Find an officer.”

Confusion furrowed Constance’s brow. “A what?”

“An officer,” Alice drawled condescendingly, as if speaking to a child. “You’re young, and you’re okay looking. Find a man of your own, the others leave you alone.” She shrugged. “Usually. Officers, though, they get better food than enlisted. Sausages, real butter, alcohol.” Her voice took on a wistful tone, as she listed their world’s new luxuries. “Ah, that’s the life.”

Constance’s horror grew with each statement, her stomach churning with disgust and disbelief. “They shouldn’t be kidnapping us off the streets!” she protested in outrage.

But Alice seemed unfazed, her eyes fixed on something Constance couldn’t see as she continued her grim counsel. “Better to grin and bear it with one than face dozens,” she muttered. “Officers consider themselves real gentlemen, you know. They might even take you to a restaurant,” she added, with a wistful sigh. “What I wouldn’t give for a drink, or a nice piece of cheesecake.”

“I really have to go,” Constance said, her mind reeling. “I can’t—

“Avoid the the SS,” Alice continued, as though she hadn’t spoken. “The Wehrmacht’s no worse than anyone else but the SS….” Her voice dropped to a sinister whisper. “They’re unnatural, including with each other. If your officer’s one of them, he might decide to pass you around.”

With a surge of revulsion and fear, Constance sprinted from the room.