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Sins of the Father
SINS OF THE FATHER Not just a cold wind or a cold spot, but the cold had become something
more. It was a state of being from which only temporary relief could
be had. The occasional fires that should have should have provided some
relief was akin to torture. The heat was painful on the skin, yet only
by being so close to the flame that it risked burning was any warmth
felt. Too quickly it was gone, and it made the returning cold that much
harder to bear.
Worst of all was the feeling that it would never end. The summer of 1942
had passed too quickly, and with no escape possible, its temporary warmth
was a tease. Now in January, at least Ivan thought it was January, the
cold simply was. Like the hunger, it gnawed his bones. He felt he would
be hungry for the rest of his days, which at the moment seemed close.
The Nazi's had completed encircling the city in September 1941. Of the two
and a half million residents of Leningrad, nearly six hundred thousand
had escaped before the city was surrounded. The rest? Ivan had no idea
how many were left. The first winter had been hard, but Ivan remembered
it fondly now. His family had still been alive. His grandparents had
fled, but his father had insisted on staying and defending his beloved
city. Now his parents were both dead and his younger brother Nicholi had
been missing for two weeks. Nicholi. Surely he also was dead, killed by
a German artillery shell, or worse.
The shells streaked overhead daily, aimed by the Nazi's seemingly at
random to different sections of the city. Would they never run out of
ammunition? They sat out there across the river, warm and full, killing
them off a few at time. The bastards bombarded the city at all different
hours. Ivan hadn't slept more than an hour or two at a time in over a
month. When he was awake, he hunted for food, wood and clean ice for
drinking water he and his adopted family needed to survive.
The cold bit into his flesh like the teeth of tiny animals. Animals that
no longer lived within a mile of the city. All of the creatures were gone,
from the largest horse to the smallest mouse. Even birds no longer flew
into this city of death.
The pain in his skin was unbearable, but it was nothing compared to
the teeth that tore at his belly. There had been times standing in
the food lines before the war that Ivan had thought he had been hungry,
but in those days he had rarely missed a meal. The first winter in the
besieged city had been hard and he had wept when he had to kill his
dog. He wept harder when his family ate it. Now he would give anything
to have another dog or cat or even a mouse to eat.
The last "meal" he had shared with his new family had been the leather of
old belts and shoes he had taken from the dead, which lined the streets
like the cordwood they also lacked. There was no one left to dig graves
and the ground was too hard anyway.
More bodies piled up until every street was lined. The ration cards got
them only 400 grams of what the government men called bread, made mostly
of sawdust with only some dark grain to hold it together. It was not enough,
not nearly enough, to stay alive. Some people had started boiling glue from
shoes and eating the old worn leather. So was Ivan. He picked over the
dead for belts and shoes. If he got lucky, he might find a ration card missed
by other scavengers.
A week later the bodies had been stripped clean of anything useful. Ivan
had to go farther from home in search of wood to burn. He would walk
for a block and rest, walk a block and rest. He had looked at himself in
the mirror the night before and was shocked at how his body had wasted
away. He had been strong, built like his father and his grandfather
before him. Lately he looked more like the dead in the streets.
He could see part of a house in the block ahead, partially torn down for
its wood, but there was plenty left. He shambled on, not resting until
he was next to the pile of wood. He knew he could not carry much but
hoped to make two more trips before dark. He was not more than a mile
from home, but it seemed as far away as Moscow.
He gathered what pieces he could and went back the way he came. The small
pieces of bread and this firewood must be enough for tonight. Yesterday he
had given his piece to Tanya; the youngest of his new adopted family. He
must keep them safe, must keep them alive. He was sick of hunger and
cold but most of all he was sick of death. The children must make it,
even if he didn't.
Five blocks from his apartment he saw an old man at the door of a building
to his left. The man motioned for him to approach and looked up and down
the street nervously. Ivan didn't want to stop and risk losing his wood,
but the man looked so familiar and so helpless. He struggled up to the
door with his burden and the man motioned him inside. Ivan shook his
head no, to tired to speak.
"That is a lot of wood you have there." Said the old man. Ivan stepped
back. "No. Don't go. I would trade with you."
Ivan looked around, expecting some trick, but the man appeared alone,
and so familiar.
"You are Joseph's son, no? I knew your family. I haven't seen you since
you were a boy."
Ivan nodded and looked more closely at the man's face. He could not
remember the name, but he had seen this man in his father's house
years ago.
"Ivan isn't it? My name is also Ivan, Ivan Chekovich. Your father and
I were close for many years. I was sorry to hear that he and your mother
died. Come," the old man looked up and down the street suspiciously,
"I have a few old potatoes left to trade."
Ivan salivated involuntarily and took a step closer. He had eaten
nothing but boot leather and the small slices of ration bread for weeks.
"Truly? Potatoes?"
"Quiet." The old man hissed. "Do you want the world to know?" He looked
around again, but the streets were deserted.
"They had started to rot and now are frozen solid. I have only a few,
but they are little good to an old man with so few teeth if I can't thaw
them. You are young and strong and can get more wood. I will give you one
potato for all of the wood you carry and two more loads the same size."
Ivan felt weak as a child and was barely able to go more than a few
blocks without resting, but compared to this old man, he must seem young
and vital. Still, a potato, probably small and rotted was worth easily
a few loads of wood. In these coldest days, what good was even a fresh
potato if you froze to death before you could eat it? Ivan nodded and
climbed the small stairs and stepped inside the brick building.
It was completely empty, except for the old man. He gestured weekly to
a makeshift fire pit in the far corner. Ivan shuffled over and dropped
his bundle gratefully. The prospect of food was enticing, but he thought
he would have shared wood with this man simply because he was a link to
a better time. Ivan thought all of his family's friends had either left
or died. His own friends had all joined the army before the siege. Only
Ivan and his brother Nicholi had stayed with his father as part of the
cities defenses.
The old man had a sad faint smile on his face, as if lost in his own
memories of better times. Ivan shuffled past him and down the front
stairs to collect the other two loads.
Ivan had to stop and rest more each trip. He worried he had committed
too much for the trade. What good was even a potato if he couldn't make
it back home tonight? When he dropped his last pile the old man smiled.
"You carried more than I had thought, the trade is not fair and now you
are exhausted. Please, take your last load home with you." Ivan nodded
and smiled his thanks. The old man went to the back of the apartment
and motioned Ivan to follow. Ivan took a deep breath and followed his
father's friend down some stairs.
It felt warmer below ground where no wind could find cracks through which
to blow. Ivan saw the faint glow of candlelight at the far end of the
cellar. Candles were rare these days and it seemed a waste to leave one
burn. The old man motioned Ivan to a box covered in rags and he moved
closer to see his payment. The old man lifted some rags to reveal what
appeared to be four dirty potatoes, each about the size of a child's
closed fist. He felt drool slip down his chin.
"Beautiful." Ivan said.
Hauling the wood had taken precious daylight, but it was worth it. Ivan
could see that they were partially rotten as the old man had said,
but even the rotten parts would taste like sweet nectar.
He heard a sliding across the stone behind him and turned, startled
because he thought himself alone with the old man. A large figure loomed above him holding a huge chunk of timber over
his head, just visible in the weak light. The figure swung down hard,
grunting with the effort and Ivan fell backwards away from the blow
that hit the box instead of him. Ivan called out a warning to the old man
but saw a small knife in his hand and a look of hunger on his old shriveled face.
The hulking figure stepped forward and swung the makeshift club over
his head again and Ivan kicked out as hard as he could with both legs,
catching the enormous man in the knee. He heard a loud crunch and the
hulk grunted and fell to his right, landing hard on top of the old man,
pinning him to the ground. Ivan heard something snap as the larger man
landed and knew the old man was hurt.
The knife fell out of the old man's hand and lay just a few feet from
him. Ivan lunged for it. The giant man tried to regain his feet and hold
onto his club. He slipped once and fell back on the old man. Ivan's hand
found the handle of the thin blade and watched as it drove the knife
into the giant's neck. He felt a spray of hot liquid hit him in the face,
and he screamed in shock and pushed away.
The huge man made it to his feet but was unable to put any weight on
his shattered knee. He pulled the knife from his neck and bellowed in
agony. The thing used the club as a cane and took a step toward Ivan. He
took another and Ivan could just make out the brutish face in the thin
candlelight. He had a thick long beard that hung down to his chest and
grew up almost to his eyes, which were hidden under a heavy brow. The
savage bared its remaining teeth at Ivan and raised the knife high in
his left hand. The giant fell forward and aimed the knife at Ivan's face
and all he could do was curl into a ball and wait for the killing blow.
Ivan felt the full weight of the berserker as he landed on him. He waited
for the blade to enter his face or neck, but the giant didn't move. The
stench of stale sweat and shit filled his nose and he fought the reflex
to gag. Ivan soon realized that the thing was as dead as the old man
seemed to be. He tried to shove off the great bulk, but he couldn't
move. He laughed. He had not laughed in so long, but his bitter laugh
was in recognition that he had miraculously survived being killed by
these two men, only to be trapped beneath one of them where he would
most likely die of thirst or the cold.
Ivan felt a white hot anger at the unfairness of it all. He had to live
in order to protect his new family of abandoned children, and now he
had survived an attack only to die in this stupid way.
No! He could not die like this. He must get back to his family. They
must live. He rocked back and forth. He barely moved an inch at first,
but he was able to move the dead weight back and forth further with each
effort. He felt the thing slip to his right and he heaved with all his
remaining strength. Like an avalanche of flesh, the hulk slid slowly
off him and rolled onto its back.
Ivan took in a deep breath and lay there on the cold floor for a long
time. He realized that he must get back. It must already be dark and Sasha
and the others would fear the worst. He hoped they were smart enough
not to come looking for him. Ivan rolled onto his hands and knees and
pushed himself up. He went to the box and collected the potatoes. There
were seven; three had been hidden deeper in the rags. It was a treasure
trove. He tied them up in a bundle and searched the cellar for a stick
to help carry them and his wood back home.
He went to the candle, hoping to find more then chastising himself for his
greed. He was alive and had more food than he thought was left in all of
Leningrad, and here he was hoping for a pile of candles he couldn't even
carry. Near the candle that he had decided he would take, he saw a large
wood door. He realized that the whole back wall was made of wood instead
of brick so there must be a large room beyond the door. He grabbed up
the candle and a handful of wooden matches, which he put in his pocket.
The wood around the door handle was stained dark. He reached out for the
handle and stopped. He had heard horrible stories and was not sure he
wanted to know what lay beyond the door. He withdrew his hand and turned,
deciding to leave it a mystery better left unknown. He went back to his
would be murderers and retrieved the knife before heading for the stairs.
A faint noise made him turn, afraid another unseen man was attacking
him. There was nothing there and Ivan turned once more to leave when he
heard the noise again. It was a low scraping noise of metal on metal and
it came from behind the door. If he had drunk anything in the last few
hours, Ivan was sure he would have pissed himself, but clean drinking
water was almost as scarce as food, so dehydration saved him from the
shame of it.
The metallic scraping pulled his attention back to the door. He thought
briefly about lighting it on fire, how warm it would be. He approached
the door again and reached for the handle. The scraping noise startled
him. It was much louder now and seemed just beyond the door. With great
effort, he pushed the door open and stepped back. His small candle only
cast long shadows into the room. He stepped forward trying to see more
detail. Finally, sensing no threat, he stepped inside.
Though he thought it impossible, this back room seemed even colder than
outside. He gripped himself to stop from shaking and held his candle
high. In the middle of the long, shallow room was a huge slab of a wooden
table. It was supported by what looked like tree trunks and was as large
as a bed. There was a large cleaver stuck into the center and smaller
knives hung from nails along its edge. Ivan wanted more than ever to
leave this place, but after being through so much, he had to know.
He stepped closer and saw small bits of bone and flesh encrusted into
the top of the table.
He heard the small squeak of metal to his right and lifted his light to see
large chucks of meat hanging from hooks secured to the ceiling. He
stepped closer and could make out human arms, legs and other less
identifiable pieces, all suspended in a canopy of gore. Ivan dry heaved
involuntarily and turned from the spectacle, sure that he had seen all he
ever wanted to see and cursed himself for his curiosity.
He was almost clear of the butcher's room when he stumble. He almost
went down but caught himself on the doorframe, but dropped his candle
in the process and the flame snuffed out. Ivan lowered himself to his
hands and knees and searched for the candle. He heard the heavy door
swing shut and panicked. The thought of being trapped with the "meat"
made him feel faint. He kept sliding his hands back and forth where he
thought he saw it roll but he knew he was disoriented. He lit one of
the precious matches and saw the small candle inches in front of him.
He gratefully picked it up and relit it. The sudden flare hurt his eyes
and it took him a moment to adjust.
Still crouched, he turned back toward the door and looked directly into
the blinking eyes of a woman. He sat back heavily and tried to scream,
but nothing came out. The woman looked as if she was screaming, but no
sound came from her either. Ivan saw that she was chained to the wall
behind the door and his fear changed to concern.
"I won't hurt you." Ivan whispered not wanting to cause her more
fear. "The men that did this to you are dead, they can no longer hurt
you."
The woman continued to stare wide eyed at Ivan. She looked to be older
than him but it was difficult to tell these days when even children looked
old. She was covered in a large blanket up to her neck and her arms were
chained above her head and secured to the wall. Despite his words,
she looked no less frightened, and tried to pull away when he reached
for her. The chains were held in place by an ancient looking padlock.
"One of them must have a key. I will fetch it and free you in no time."
The woman just stared at him, clearly still terrified. Ivan had no idea
how long she had been chained, but the things she must have seen would
horrify anyone.
He went outside to the stairs and searched the large man. He was
gigantic. Almost seven feet tall and weigh easily in excess of four
hundred pounds. Most of that was muscle, and Ivan marveled at the
man's ability to retain so much flesh when so many were wasting away to
nothing. He realized then how many people the huge man would have had to
eat to stay in such condition. He shuddered at the thought and wondered
where they hid all of the bones.
The key was around the old man's neck, secured by a strap of rawhide. Ivan
pulled it free and went back to the room. He opened the door carefully,
not wanting to startle the woman. He bent down to her eye level and eased his hands carefully toward the
lock. He could see now that her arms were raw around the shackles and
there was dried blood on the metal. He put the key in the lock and turned
it one way and then the other until he heard a dull click. The chain around
the woman's left arm slid off the shank of the lock and dropped heavily to
the ground and she fell hard to her side still staring wildly at Ivan. Her other
arm was still trapped in the shackle and Ivan carefully slid out the lock and
lowered her right arm.
She was at an odd angle against the wall and Ivan tried to move her
on her back to a more comfortable position. She was much lighter than
he imagined and she slid around toward him, looking up in his eyes. He
thought she looked less terrified than before and that she was trying
to convey something else with her eyes. She opened her mouth again and
he saw that her tongue had been removed.
"I am so sorry." He tried to help her up and froze. He looked at the wall
and the pile of blankets on top of the woman. She was facing the wall
with her waist just inches from the wood. He pulled the blanket aside
and saw her legs had been removed like her tongue, cut away with little
skill and apparently burned to stop the bleeding. Her stumps had not
completely healed and fluid oozed from the wounds. She was completely
naked under the heavy blanket and it was clear by her condition that
she had been repeatedly raped.
He looked into her eyes and held her limp hand to his lips. Her eyes
held no fear now, only pleading.
"Are you sure?" Ivan barely got out the words.
She nodded yes, closed her eyes and offered her throat to him. Before
he lost his nerve he cut with the small blade that had felled
a giant. Instead of a great spurt, there was only a small trickle of
blood, which pooled onto the floor. Ivan held the woman and sang a song
his mother had sung to him when she had rocked him to sleep a thousand
years ago. The woman looked into Ivan's eyes and smiled. He held her
long after the pool of blood had frozen.
Hans marveled at the winter beauty of rural Germany as he rode in the
back of a very nice limousine through the most breathtaking countryside
as the car climbed up into the mountains. He was a bit anxious about
meeting with such a wealthy prospective client. His architectural firm
had not been doing well as of late and they could really use a large
contract to keep them going.
His instructions had been clear and required complete confidentiality. It
was not the first time a customer had requested absolute secrecy for
a meeting, but Hans had felt bad lying to his wife about the trip. He
liked to take her with him and she had been disappointed.
He had never heard of the client's family before, but the name sounded
Russian, or possible Ukrainian, he could never keep them straight. It still felt a little strange doing business with Russia. The Berlin wall
had been gone for eighteen years, but it had been a constant presence
for most of his life.
A bump in the road jarred him from his revelry and he looked up the
steep drive to see the rooftop of a large mansion. The limo had been a
good sign, but if the roofline was any indication, his new client was
loaded. As the car leveled off and pulled up to the entrance, Hans was
not disappointed. The mansion was beautiful, clearly from last century and
yet restored to its original glory. The chauffer opened his door, ushered
him in, took his overnight bag and showed him to a large reception area.
"Dinner will be served momentarily," said the butler before he took
Hans's bag upstairs.
Hans took a seat and waited. He thought he detected a draft and
shivered. After a few minutes he had to stand up and pace to keep
warm. The butler came back to take him to the dining room. Hans was about
to protest about the temperature, but a fire in the room wouldn't help
much now that he was leaving. He followed the man, thankful to be moving.
Hans's mood improved when he saw the wall hangings. They looked original
and in fine condition. If the rest of the mansion was decorated like this,
there were tens of millions of dollars worth of furnishings alone. They
moved through a great hall and turned right though a vaulted archway
into the formal dining room.
There was a huge fireplace against the left wall, but no fire burned
there. Hans was warmed somewhat by the short walk, but was acutely
aware that if anything, this room was colder than the entryway. A large
extravagant wood table stretched most of the length and width of the
room, with just enough space for servants to move around. At the far
end, seated at the head of the table, was an ancient looking man in
formal attire. Four men and five women closer to Hans's sixty years
flanked him down both sides of the table. They all looked at Hans with
warm open smiles. Hans smiled back involuntarily and a servant pulled
out his chair opposite the old man. It was a place of honor, and he was
flattered to be treated with such courtesy.
Many of the rich people Hans had dealt with over the years saw him as
no better than a scullery maid, and he had many times been asked to come
and go through the servant's entrance. Hans was surprised when a strong
youthful voice escaped the old man's parchment lips.
"You are well met Mr. Silbernagel. Thank you for agreeing to come to
our humble home."
The old man's accent was definitely Russian, though he spoke German
well. Hans looked around again and wondered if this man owned a more
luxurious home elsewhere.
"Thank you sir for inviting me. It is a beautiful home, simply beautiful."
The old man smiled at this and gestured for the servants to bring around
glasses of water. Hans took his glass, aware of just how thirsty he had
become and took a long drink. The water was heavily iced which made him
colder still and had a strange metallic taste that made him wince. Hans
turned it into a smile so as to not offend his host.
"Mr. Silbernagel, is your family from this area?"
"That's right Mr. Josevich my family has lived in the area for many
generations. I couldn't help but notice your accent sir. Where does you
family hail from?" The old man smiled, his eyes bright and alert.
"We hail from St. Petersburg originally. A beautiful city, have you ever
been there?"
"No sir, I have never had the pleasure, though I studied some of the
buildings while getting my architectural degree. I would like to go
sometime, the photos I have seen are magnificent, simply magnificent. May
I ask sir how long you have been here?" Again the old man smiled,
as if he expected the question.
"We took position only five years ago. I had my eye on it for quite some
time and finally talked the former owner into selling it to me. Since
then, we have done a lot of, how do you say? Renovation? Yes that is
the word."
Hans looked around again at the detail of the stone and woodwork. It was
indeed impressive. Hans took another drink of water. He forgot it tasted
foul and this time could not hide his displeasure. The old man nodded
absently and motioned for the staff to proceed with the first course.
"Tell me Mr. Silbernagel, did your father serve in the war?"
Hans felt uncomfortable as he always did when the subject of the war
came up. His father had served on the Russian front and had not liked
to speak of it.
"Please, call me Hans. Yes sir, he did serve as many men did at the time."
"Thank you, Hans, and please you must call me Ivan. Do you know where
he served during the war?"
Hans felt warmer, though no one had started a fire in the hearth. Perhaps
there was some sort of central air.
"No Ivan. My father never spoke of the war, not even near the end. He
died many years ago."
"I am sorry to hear that, very sorry indeed. Would it surprise you to know
your father served in St. Petersburg, what was then called Leningrad?"
Hans stopped smiling at the mention of the old Soviet name. He had heard
his father utter the name a few times. It was always with a mixed look
of sorrow and fear.
"I knew only that he served on the Russian front. He never mentioned
details from the war."
Ivan nodded at that. "Many have tried to forget. I understand the
desire. Though I cannot." Hans felt a bit off as if he were coming down with something. The
servants brought in the first course, a large platter with ornate silver
covers. They removed the covers to reveal what looked like small dirty
potatoes. Hans looked more closely and it appeared that the potato was
partially rotten and there was actual some dirt clinging to the skin.
"Forgive me for not mentioning it sooner Hans, this is a very auspicious
occasion," Ivan said. "Fifty years ago today, we had a great feast that
saved our lives."
Hans looked up to see everyone else at the table digging in with zeal. He
hesitated, then grabbed for his knife and fork, unsure if this was some
sort of prank. No one looked at him as they cut into their potatoes,
which were all in similar condition. After a few bites, Ivan began to
speak again.
"Are you familiar with the Siege of Leningrad, Hans?"
Hans paused; somewhat grateful at being spared a moment before having
to sample the potato.
"I believe so. Wasn't it called the 900 days, or some such thing?"
Ivan smiled, happy that Hans had paid attention in history class.
"Indeed, indeed, the 900 days. It was in truth only 842, but 900 sounds
much better, yes?"
Hans smiled in return. "Yes, much better. What are a few days after all
`eh?"
Ivan stopped smiling but continued to speak.
"Yes, what are a few day here or there. It seems Hans that your father
was a rather humble man for not telling you of the part he played."
"What part was that?" Asked Hans, his smile also faded.
"Your father commanded the entire German contingent which lay siege
to Leningrad for the entire 900 days. Give or take a few days as you
said. A very important man in the German Army, very important indeed."
He had known his father had been a general, but he would not discuss the
war and Hans found it disturbing that his father had led the forces at
Leningrad. He was trying to remember his history, but it was so long ago
and he was having trouble concentrating. He looked up and had a difficult
time focusing on Ivan so far away at the other end of the long table.
"Yes, Hans, your father was a great German warrior. The siege of
Leningrad was something to behold. You cannot appreciate your father's
accomplishments by reading history. It is truly something that must
be experienced."
Hans heard the old man's voice but could no longer see him or anything
else. He felt himself drifting off, and thought he heard far off singing,
then nothing.
Hans could not ever remember being so cold in his life. He woke up in what
appeared to be a barren room in the early morning, the light filtered in
through dirty glass. He was no longer wearing his clothes, but some kind of peasants rag
and a large soiled blanket was wrapped around him. He pushed himself
up into a sitting position. His joints were stiff and he had to pee. He
looked around for some answer as to where here was and how
he had gotten there. He walked stiffly to the front door and opened it. He
appeared to be on a city street, but none he recognized. The buildings
were not German design, but instead looked turn of the century Russian. He
walked down the short flight of stairs and looked up and down the street
for some sign of life. There must be at least ten complete city blocks,
all filled with the same Russian style buildings, but no people.
Instead, he saw a large sign at the end of the street. He walked
toward it, pulling the blanket against his body in a vain attempt to
get warm. He walked around to the front of the sign and stared up in
confusion. The sign said `Leningrad' in large letters, but on the old
looking sign was also what appeared to be a digital display like those
on a scoreboard. There was also a camera and a larger speaker mounted
to the top of the sign.
"Good morning, Hans, I trust you slept well?" It was the voice of the
old man.
"Welcome Hans to Leningrad, or at least the closest facsimile I could
create. You are no doubt wondering why you are here?"
Hans could only stare at the camera. He was too confused and too cold
to even mount a protest. The entire situation simply defied explanation.
"You are the guest of honor, Hans, but you are not alone. You have five
hundred of your countrymen and women with you to keep you company."
The large digital display light up suddenly. It read 842:00:00:00,
and started to roll backwards, counting down.
"For the next 842 days precisely Hans, this will be your home, yours and
all of the descendants of the German officers who were in charge of the
German forces at the Siege of Leningrad. You will be given every courtesy
that your fathers gave to us during those 842 days, even the rations of
bread, which made it through your lines. You will suffer as we suffered
and if you are strong enough, you will survive as we few survived."
Movement broke the spell as Hans turned to see people shuffling toward
him. All were dressed in similar clothing.
"There is one small difference Hans. You will see many cameras in your
new home. There are many survivors of the 900 days who have paid a great
deal of money to view this reality show. And you Hans are the star!"
Hans looked into the bleak hungry faces of his fellow guests and began
to shiver.
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Contributor's Note
This is a sampling of the type of Science Fiction Short Stories which can be found in THE TLO 2008 SCIENCE FICTION SHORT STORY COLLECTION.
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THE 2008 TLO WINTER COLLECTION
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The copyright for this content entitled "Sins of the Father" has been specified by the contributor as:
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This content may not be copied, distributed or adapted by anyone under any circumstances.
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May, 2012
2008
January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December
2009
January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December
2010
January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December
2011
January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December
2012
January, February, March, April, May
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