Holodomor

She looked over at her Andrei’s gaunt old man face. He was only eight. She was his mother in the mother motherland. The great motherland who had abandoned her children and made them starving orphans. Little Viktor had died as a premature skeleton the prior week. Andrei had unknowingly eaten the stew of his brother’s organs to last a week longer. She had nothing left to feed her last living son. The rat feast ended about a month ago. She choked on tears as she remembered little Andrei and Viktor playing in the wheat fields singing “Without a pipe, without a pipe,my feet are walking the wrong way” while the sunshine danced on their cherub cheeks. Now her son was too weak to greet the sun. She sliced into the fleshiest part that was left on herself, and cooked some stew. Andrei could now last another week she hoped.

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