Free Short Story: Death is Not a Potato

On more than a few interviews in recent times, I’ve been asked how I got into horror writing and I’ve often mentioned my first attempt at this genre, “Death is Not a Potato”. It was written in response to a call for submissions for a potato-themed horror anthology. It did not find success but it did introduce me to a genre which slowly opened up its arms to welcome me. I can’t believe it’s almost a decade ago since I wrote this story and sadly it has languished in my files pretty much most of that time. I tried a couple of other places but, with no success, gave up. I know, I know, keep sending out but I am a bit (a lot!) rubbish at that sort of thing and do tend to give up after 3 or 4 rejections. Plus, it’s all very well people telling you to keep trying but when the calls are simply not there, what do you do?

After having mentioned this story more than once, I reread it - and I still like it and think it stands up well. It is a historical short story, set during the siege of Leningrad in WWII. I had read a non-fiction book about the city at the time and the privations they had suffered and it had stuck with me. My researches also led me to the Vasilov Institute based there which is focussed on research into plants and held a huge seed collection. During this period of extreme suffering, some scientists who worked in the institute starved to death rather than eat the grains in their collection. They also had to defend the plants from rats. That is the background to this short story. I hope you enjoy it.

Death is Not a Potato

©Stephanie Ellis

It was torture; a different kind of torture to that which Alexei had previously suffered but still torture nonetheless. His stomach growled in protest as he moved reluctantly along the stark, grey corridor. Meals had become extinct. Rationing had stopped. The city was dying. Yet still Alexei went to work and did his duty for Mother Russia. At least his present task took him away from the sound of the relentless bombing being inflicted above ground.

He continued to walk towards the solitary door at the end of the passage, barely able to see its outline in the gloom. The lights were failing again, soon they would go completely. He had remembered to bring a torch but its batteries only held enough power for an hour or two and that would be needed in Store Room 1 of the Vasilov Institute.

“Alexei Alexeyevich!”

Alexei stopped but did not turn round. He already knew who he would see and he did not wish to look at the man’s face any more than he would have to. Instead he merely waited until Comrade Dmitri Ivanov reached his side. Nor did he intend to engage in conversation with his colleague unless it was unavoidable. He meant to conserve what little energy he had left for the task that awaited him on the other side of the door.

“Alexei.”  A shudder ran through him as he felt Dmitri’s skeletal hand grasp his wrist. “You should not be down here alone. You know that is not permitted.”

Alexei sighed. “Georgi is not well. I told him to rest, that I would deal with the rats.”

“Then you should have reported this to Comrade Stchukin. He would’ve assigned someone else to accompany you.”

“You do not trust me?”  A stupid question, thought Alexei even as he voiced it. Why had he wasted his breath when he already knew the answer?  Nobody trusted him, nobody trusted anyone—when it came down to it, they couldn’t even trust themselves.

“Of course not, Comrade,” said Dmitri. “Nothing personal you understand but we must still follow the rules. Nobody is to enter any of the storage rooms unaccompanied … even if they have the best of intentions.”

Alexei merely nodded and resumed his walk to the end of the corridor, Dmitri shadowing him all the way. When they finally reached their destination both men paused.

“It gets harder every time,” said Dmitri quietly.

“I know,” said Alexei. “I don’t know how we’ve held out for so long.”

“I do,” replied Dmitri. “The threat of a bullet can be very persuasive.”

“But we’re starving. The city is starving. How long can we hope to keep on like this?” asked Alexei.

“For as long as it takes,” said Dmitri. “The seed potatoes we have here will ensure that future generations will not go hungry.”

Dmitri’s words were a death sentence. One he had already passed on to Alexei’s mother when Alexei had begged for just a few precious grains to feed her. Dmitri had refused. Alexei’s mother had died that morning.

Alexei hated him then. He grasped the cold metal handle, pushed and stepped into the darkness. Faint scratching sounds could be heard. The enemy was close by. He picked up one of the metal rods that had been left by the door and passed the other to Dmitri. For the present they were on the same side. He switched on his torch and swept its low beam around the room, taking in the rows of boxes neatly stacked and labelled on racks of metal shelving that ran round the room. The store was cold, clean, sterile, but even so the rats still came.

“Kartoshka,” said Alexei almost dreamily, not noticing how his hand had opened one of the boxes of its own accord. Strangely, Dmitri had not tried to stop him. It was as if the open box had exerted a spell over both of them.

“Kartoshka,” repeated Dmitri.

They were both now looking at the potato tubers, beige, nondescript, ugly, yet still beautiful to the men. Entranced, they continued to stare, unaware of the giant rats that had started to circle them—a bizarre congregation worshipping at the altar of the humble potato.

“Death is not a potato,” whispered Alexei as he cradled one of the vegetables in his hand. It had been so long since he had seen or handled food that was natural, food that did not contain sawdust or had been fried in turpentine.

Dmitri glanced at him, noticing the rats for the first time. “But it will be,” he said. “If you do not put that back.”

Alexei ignored him. He did not want to give up his prize. The small piece of ‘bread’ that was his daily ration would not keep him going for much longer. What choice did he have?  It was all going to end in his death, the only question being how would this happen?  The German bombs, the cold or starvation?

A sudden pain shot up his leg. He flicked his torch down, illuminating a small trickle of blood. Potato or human?  Clearly the rats weren’t fussy, nor were they scared. His attackers crouched nearby, gazing fearlessly up at him. Fury took hold, a red rage at how unfair life was. He was only twenty-two years old for God’s sake, not that he believed in God—after all, where was the mercy, the miracle that Leningrad needed?

He lashed out with the metal rod, noticing with satisfaction how easily its sharpened end pierced the creatures’ bodies. Others came then. Scenting blood they swarmed over everything. Alexei swung out wildly, stabbing at anything that moved, a primeval howl erupting from his lips with every kill. Behind him he could hear Dmitri grunting with effort as he too tried to stop the wave of vermin that was threatening to overwhelm them.

A loud crash made Alexei turn and look. His comrade had fallen against some of the shelving bringing it, and the boxes, down. The torn and battered cardboard could not long contain its precious contents. Potato tubers rolled everywhere; food that would sustain life, his life.

Dmitri screamed in fury as he surveyed the chaos. “This … cannot … happen.”

It was a hellish sight. Dmitri scrabbled on his hands and knees, vying with the grey horde for every potato. The rats nipped at the man’s hands and face, blood mingling with the sweat that had begun to flow despite the freezing temperature. Dmitri was fast disappearing beneath a living coat of writhing grey fur. Alexei watched in horror. He knew he should act, yet he waited … and waited. His mother’s face floated in front of him. Glassy-eyed she stared at him sadly. He had been unable to help her. That hadn’t been right. A son should be able to provide for his mother, he should be able to protect her. If nothing else, he could at least revenge her.

A grey mountain started to rise in front of him. Somehow Dmitri had managed to regain his feet, displacing the mass of vermin as he did so.

“For God’s sake …” screamed Dmitri in fury as he continued to bat at his assailants whose nips and scratches had left a latticework of blood across his face and hands.

Instinctively, Alexei grabbed at the rats that still seemed determined to remain attached to his colleague. The feel of their squirming, greasy bodies beneath his fingers made him feel nauseous, yet he swallowed his revulsion and started to prise them off.

“Thank you … comrade,” said Dmitri, dabbing at his cuts with a grubby handkerchief.

“You’d better let the doctor check you over,” said Alexei. “In case of infection.”

“I’ll die of starvation before I die of infection,” said Dmitri.

“Perhaps …” said Alexei as he surveyed the seed potatoes scattered across the floor. “Perhaps that could be arranged.” 

He could feel his mother was with him now. She had tried so hard. When their tiny daily ration of bread had been stopped, she had tried to find sustenance for them both from anywhere and everywhere. Breakfast had been the paste scraped from wallpaper and mixed into boiling water—water obtained by melting the petrol-tainted snow from outside. Neither he nor his mother had been able to keep it down. Every day he had returned home from work dreading what he might find until the day had come when his worst fears had been realised.

He looked at Dmitri with distaste. The rats were circling again. They scented blood. He turned away from his colleague and headed towards the door.

“Alexei!  Alexei Alexeyevich!”

Alexei ignored the call. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the rats regrouping, ready to launch themselves. Dmitri had not followed him.

“Stop!  We must protect the stock,” Dmitri cried. “We must protect our future.”

The rats had moved closer.

“And our mothers?  Should we not protect them also?”

“Mother Russia is the only mother we have, the only loyalty we have,” said Dmitri grimly as he started to fight off the new wave of assault.

Alexei had reached the door, the handle once more firmly in his grasp. He stepped out into the cold grey silence of the corridor and closed the door behind him. He wedged the metal rod that he still held into the handle so that it would not turn. Faint screams reached his ears but as he walked away these sounds were soon drowned out by the overhead noise of Hitler’s bombs. The destruction reaped would only serve to increase the numbers that were starving to death. In the room behind him he knew that for tonight at least, someone or something would not go hungry. His stomach was still grumbling but for once he didn’t mind.

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Note: I cannot get over how a country which has experienced suffering on a grand scale at various moments of its history (through famine, war, enforced mass transfer of populations, purges) can inflict similar on an innocent neighbour. A madness I hope will be stopped sooner rather than later.