The
Grandmaster
Peter A. Balaskas
Smashwords Edition
©2007 Peter A. Balaskas
Published by Bards and Sages Publishing
Cover art ©2007 John Milner. Used with permission
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Print Book Details ISBN: 978-0-6151-4743-7
. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Pasadena, CA---1989
12/22/89 3:00 AM
The eyes of the demon have returned!
I cannot believe it. I thought they were finally eradicated from my life, and they had been for many years. Then, suddenly, early this morning, the red eyes blazed in the darkness, taunting me. I awoke to a frightful, penetrating scream. I looked around my bedroom, searching for him. To my relief, I realized it was only a nightmare. I was the source of that horrible scream. It was not the demon that somehow, beyond logic, resurrected to finally claim my soul. I find this disconcerting. It has been years since I experienced this nightmare. But Christmas is approaching. The red eyes never appeared in recent years, until now.
I am acting like a typical, neurotic old man. Only a dream. It will never occur again.
J.S.W.
12/23/89 2:00 AM
It has happened again! Darkness, then the red eyes, then a cacophony of music by Wagner, my beloved music. Is it going to be ruined again by this monster? My hands can hardly hold this pen.
A few days ago, I gave all of the employees at the Institute Hanukkah gifts. Yesterday, they expressed their sincerity by giving me Christmas gifts. Out of all of them, Lana’s was the most touching. She gave me a scarf knitted by her own hands. Her husband has been so persistent in trying to get her to pursue a new hobby, anything to keep her mind off of her work. I am pleased she has produced such wonderful results. The diamond, multicolored pattern is so beautiful, a mixture of silver, gold, red, and sky blue. And the softness of the yarn she used; I could almost fall asleep wearing it. I should remind myself to request an afghan from her.
Later today, I must see Jason. Maybe he could prescribe a sleeping drug for me, though I hate them with a passion. Perhaps some herbal treatment, like Valerian root, might do the trick. He always vouched for its success.
Jason is a good, knowledgeable man. And trustworthy. I am very fortunate to have him here at the Institute.
J.S.W
12/24/89 1:00 AM
So much for listening to the Head of the Medical Division at the Institute. I should not blame Jason. I know exactly what my problem is. After all, I am a psychiatrist, as well as a medical doctor. But, and this is the piece of the puzzle which frightens me, why are those eyes coming back now? Why is he coming back now?
From where my writing desk is facing, I can see outside my window. Occasionally, I like to stare from my penthouse level of the Institute, a ten-story high-rise that I financed, built and cultivated like a small sapling—full of potential, hungry for growth. I have always felt more comfortable living in a place where it was high, as if I could escape the evil and horrors of the Earth and fly into the infinity of peace. But the horrors always find you: the horrors from the external and those from within. Oh yes, those unseen, forbidden horrors; those personal demons. It is quite odd, though. Normally, I am not this grim, especially during this time of the year. I know everyone has their own obstacles to face, including myself. But trying to face them, that is the challenge.
I do cherish the view from my window. The beautiful, dark skies—stars radiating with unrestrained clarity like beacons, signaling for any poor, lost soul to find. My imagination, one of the many blessings that I still have, comes alive again. I feel my limited world breaking apart, and I see before me the universe unfolding its infinite mysteries, gently reminding us we are only playing a small part in this play that we call life, as the faithful Bard used to say. But I look at this wonderful sky, pondering a question that has been troubling me for the last hour:
As we grow older, why do certain parts of our anatomy fail us when we need them the most?
I read what I have just written and I could not help but laugh. Not only because of its factual nature, but if I had asked any of my colleagues this question, I would have received a variety of answers leaning dangerously close to the obscene—especially from Nathan with his colorful use of the English language. But as one grows older, a sense of impending mortality approaches with frightening clarity. A few days ago, my vulnerability has shown its ugly head. For the first time in my sixty-nine years of existence, I have been feeling arthritis in my hands. At my age, I should know better than to have any sense of omnipotent power with the talents that I possess. I know I have no right to complain. I am lucky to be in good health at my age without any serious maladies. Except, of course, the ever-growing appearance of more white hair and wrinkles. But with the events that have been occurring lately, I am beginning to wonder if this pain, as well as the recurrence of this old nightmare, is some obscure omen of things to come for everyone here at the Institute.
Lana suggested I should use a word processor for my journal, but I am too old-fashioned. I have written in these tomes since I created the Institute many years ago. Of course, all medical records of my employees and patients are now stored on disk and computer hard drives. But when it comes to my thoughts and feelings, a handwritten journal will never be replaced. However, all things change, including the overall morale here at the Institute, both in a positive and a negative sense.
Although the Institute was formed in 1966, the number and the diversity of the investigators and scientists showed a dramatic increase during the 80's. They are not only diverse in their personal, educational, and professional backgrounds, their powers differ as well. Our success rate in solving crimes and supernatural puzzles has doubled, courtesy of the variety of ESP and other gifts my investigators possess. Our clientele is increasing, as well as the huge donations for more scientific research into the mysteries of the paranormal and supernatural. The future of the Institute, as well as the futures of all of its employees, looked very promising as I dreamed it would.
Now, everything is starting to disintegrate in my hands, which surprises me because my precognitive talents are extremely accurate and I should have been able to see the obstacles that now lie before us. But the reality of the situation is my visions are not like turning on a television set and looking into the future. In some situations, these visions appear when a huge amount of concentration is applied. Oftentimes, they come when they come. I still cannot give an actual explanation for this. I do know that all kinds of accomplishments are usually accompanied by setbacks and disappointments. But the setbacks—tragedies would be a more appropriate word—are so great I feel they might hinder the growth of the Institute.
In a span of ten years:
1) Vincent Poe, my Supervisor in charge of the Psychic Investigation Division, allowed his alcoholism to take control. He linked into a patient’s mind, almost killing her. I negated his powers—preventing him to cause any more damage to himself and to others—and suspended him from active duty in the hope he would seek treatment. Instead, he simply vanished. No evidence of foul play at his apartment, no messages of suicide to the Institute or his wife, nothing. I fear the worst.
2) My good friend’s son was killed by a demon that possessed him. Before this malevolence was banished by the Psychic Investigation Team, it hinted it would return again.
3) Colin Shire, one of my most powerful psychics, attacked another psychic for no other reason than to inflate his own vanity.
4) Madison Fox, another powerful psychic, exhibited signs of extreme paranoia, resulting in him going rogue and abusing his power to the outside world. Fortunately, we finally captured him, but he fought us with such self-destructive delight he ended up in a coma. and, lastly,
5) John Grimaldi, a psychic with the most potential I have ever seen in my life, used telekinesis to attack a fellow employee in the Science Branch because he thought she was endangering his patient. The evidence indicates his paranoid behavior pattern is following that of Fox’s.
I do understand their confusion. They ask themselves, “Are these talents gifts, or curses?” Adjusting to these kinds of powers is hard enough, but learning the responsibility behind them is of equal importance. If my most talented colleagues are beginning to lose their control, and even their sanity, because the scope of their talents is swallowing them up, then how is the Institute going to flourish? How can we, people who have these gifts (they are gifts, not curses or afflictions!) adapt to our world and use them to solve the mysteries of the unknown, including the mysteries of the human psyche? I feel as though everything that I worked so hard for is turning into ash before me.
Ash. That word always makes me shudder. A splinter piercing my brain. No, not a splinter. A reminder. A reminder of a time when a young Jew faced a symbol of hate: a man in shadow, with a maroon swastika outlining his presence like a perverse aura. Two red, burning eyes float above him, watching, searing into my soul. Indeed, what my friends are going through right now is not uncharted territory here at the Institute. I had experienced the same feelings of confusion, doubt, and anger. I faced those same kinds of tests a long time ago. So long ago.
J.S.W.
12/25/89 8PM
Christmas is indeed a quiet fragile time where even the silence of the moment can somehow press on you. Could it be my thoughts of the demon, which appeared once again last night? I wish I could discover how to rid myself of this phantom and actually enjoy the warmth of the holidays.
There is still no progress with Madison. Although he is in a coma, I have an unsettling feeling about his awareness, as though he was hibernating; and when he does wake up again, his hunger for violence will intensify. The heads of both Psychic and Medical Departments have given up their search for Vincent. A majority of the employees at the Institute are on vacation, except for myself and the few who volunteered for the holiday shift.
Little Danny Dracken and his father, Corin, visited last me last night before leaving for their home in Dublin. For an eight-year-old young man, his pencil sketchings are an incredible sight to behold. He has been a comic book collector since he was three and his most recent drawings are proof of his passion. I do swear, the creativity of this unusual medium! Women who create snow from their hands, men show shoot x-ray beams from their eyes, and gigantic monsters made out of fire who rescue damsels in distress! I never read such things at his age. Then again, it was a different time and place. The one thing Danny told me was The Institute reminded him of the superhero groups he reads from these books. I laughed so much!
After the Drackens left, I immediately called Nathan at his home in Irvine and shared with him what was said. My Vice-President suggested we trademark our own group “superhero name” and everyone at the Institute should wear spandex underwear and a cape whenever an assignment was given. We both laughed at this ridiculous vision he created. I only wish what Danny said was that simple. We are far from superheroes. In fact, I believe being a superhero would be considerably easier than the paths we are on. There are the heroes and the villains, with their respective powers, easy to spot. Ours are not. And there are no clear heroes and villains. Nothing is as black and white when it comes to the supernatural and the paranormal.
I wrote so much in the past few days. I am astonished that my hands have not turned into claws of agony. On the contrary, the arthritis has actually disappeared. Is this some kind of benevolent sign; or is it the result of a delusion---a sign of dementia---that an old man like me is supposed to experience? I wonder…
I read my past entries and I realized although I do express my thoughts and feelings, I mostly describe in specific detail about the histories and gifts---both supernatural and non-supernatural---of everyone here at the Institute except one: myself. Perhaps I am afraid of looking into a mirror, only to discover that I am seeing a reflection of a fraud. Surely I cannot be that insecure. I should chronicle my experiences. When I die and my replacement reads this, he or she would feel better knowing who I was, thereby providing validity to my findings, as well as maintaining the overall philosophical foundation here at the Institute. I had never written about the red eyes, Wagner’s music, or anything else about my past. Perhaps I should start now. What a wonderful way to end this decade and begin a new one. And to start on Christmas, of all days.
Since there is a possibility my replacement will read this---and hopefully not anytime in the near future---I will address this portion of my life to you, dear reader; my God, I sound like a chorus from one of the Bard’s plays. So much to tell you. And yet, explaining my history in such specific detail would mean writing an entire book that would take years to write, and writing in simple chronological order is so boring. In the past, I have been writing about the tests my colleagues have been facing with their talents. Perhaps you are one of them. So, I will simply start with my own first test, a test on how I used my powers, my wits, and my compassion towards my fellow human beings. And this test occurred during one of the most turbulent times in our history—the time when I faced that man in the shadows, that symbol of hate whose name was Karl Reinhardt. My hands actually shook at the mere mention of this man. Well, it seems I am about to face another test: trying to write this whole mess out and discover what is wrong with me. And I better write this with swift diligence before the pain in my hands return.
I was born on August 10, 1920, in Berlin, Germany. My father, Eric, was fifty-nine years old and my mother, Heidi, was forty. Eric was a medical doctor; Heidi was a teacher for elementary school. Sadly, I do recall what our country was going through after World War One. Germany was in financial ruin. The homeless, the sick, the disheartened. Germany was paying war damages to France, England, and the United States; and we were in the beginning stages of turning into a third world country, which was so humiliating since we were once a major national power whose heritage was reinforced with pride and strength. We were dying in many ways. Germany’s soul as a sovereign nation slowly depleted and decayed over time. I remember poverty hitting my country like some vicious, unknown plague that remains invisible until it finally strikes. The emaciated children in the streets begging for food, women selling their bodies for additional clothing, men fighting among themselves for anything. Total despair. What was ironic about our plight was Germany fell into a depression because we lost a war, and the United Sates rose to a financial peak; a few years later, the United States went into its own depression because of bad investments, and Germany itself began to rise again—not financially, unfortunately. Power. Mindless power. Throughout our country’s depression, our family was extremely fortunate to function with only the slightest concern of finances. There were always schools for the young ones, especially in a large city such as Berlin. There was never a shortage when it came to the sick. My father had a consistent clientele whose wallets were very thick. He also cured the poor patients, for free if he had to.
His reputation of kindness and goodwill gave him the moniker, “Der Hoffnung Engel”: The Angel of Hope. I was introduced to this term when I was three and it was the first time I was exposed to the utmost goodness and saintliness of this amazing symbol: the angel. And as I grew older, this exposure to my father’s work---the goodness and relief he was providing---made me want to be like him. At the age of six, I discovered I was, in more ways than one.
One day, I visited my father’s office, and I saw him treating an engineer who had a severe work related injury on his forearm. As my father was preparing the wound for the sutures, I heard the patient speak. I moved my eyes from the arm to his face and noticed that his lips were not moving. But I could still hear him: his thoughts about his injury, his family, his concerns and secrets, everything. My father stopped in the middle of his work and looked at me with surprise and slight interest. He knew what I heard and smiled.
Thus, a family secret was revealed to me.
My parents sat me down and told me that certain talents or gifts were very prominent on my father’s side of the family. Now, depending on the individual, the gifts of ESP varied: telepathy, telekinesis, clairvoyance, empathy, and many others. Under rare circumstances, a person can possess many powers at once and the first sign of this potential usually occurs at a very early age. Apparently, my father was one of those rare individuals with a variety of gifts. I, too, was following in his footsteps. He explained since I was still young, my powers would be slow in their appearance. But once I reach puberty, all of my talents would blossom.
And blossomed they did. I grew older and my powers appeared and evolved: telepathy (to hear another’s thoughts), empathy (to sense what another feels), astral projection (the ability for your spirit to leave your body and return again unharmed) and a specific type of telekinesis where it involves a simple energy transference from the person to the desired object, resulting in it being animated. Maintaining the control and discipline in utilizing them, that was another matter. It was extremely difficult, especially when I entered puberty and my hormones were screaming during their evolution. My parents were patient teachers. Even though my mother did not possess any supernatural gifts, she taught me the value of respect for others, which reinforced all that my father taught me. Most importantly, they emphasized never to abuse my talents for personal gain. Their nurturing helped guide me to the wisdom of my newfound abilities.
My father demonstrated to me how he utilized his powers to diagnose, and in some cases, cure his patients. I once saw him draw on his powers of empathy to heal a woman who suffered from a rare facial paralysis. I can still remember being there at his side, how he gave this poor woman a sleeping pill, claiming it would cure her condition. After she fell asleep, he laid hands on her face, closed his eyes, and focused. Being his son, I felt the energies he was generating; waves of a subdued heat swam and blanketed my small form. Her damaged face rippled, as though the deadened nerves were coming back to life. A few minutes later, my father pulled away and the rippling stopped.
The patient slept motionless, and my father crumpled to the floor. His face was covered in his hands. When he began to moan, I pulled his hands away and I stepped back in horror as I saw his face twisted and contorted into a horrifying mask. I was so frightened at this display that I just stood there as though the patient’s paralysis had not only affected my father, but me as well. Moments later, his face transformed back to the handsome man that he was. I was in total awe of his abilities. When the patient woke up and discovered she was healed, my father simply stated the pill had cured her. At the time, I could not understand why he kept his abilities a secret. But as I grew older, I eventually learned the sad, unfortunate practicality behind his reasoning.
In my youth, I was not only fascinated with the treatment of the physical form. I was also interested in the puzzle box called the mind. I had come to realize that we, as a human race, really do not understand its full potential. People were drawn to my father because of his healing gifts and they were drawn to my mother because of her maternal kindness. Soon, they were also drawn to me because I was an attentive listener. I did not read their minds—father taught me early on that reading others’ thoughts without their consent was the equivalent of peeking into a private home. Simply, I felt their waves of various emotions. And by the use of this empathy, I could understand—and feel—their emotional wounds and I would be able help them on a psychological level, more efficiently than the normal therapist.
Thus, began my journey into Medicine and Psychology. I was determined to be a healer of both the body and the mysterious human psyche. Ever since I was a little one, I always excelled in my studies. I was eventually accepted into various universities and I graduated from the University of Munich with degrees in Biology and Psychology. At the age of twenty (the year was 1940), I began medical school at the University of Berlin. And if this had been another time and another place, I would have graduated in four years and followed in my father’s footsteps, working with him as a colleague by healing the sick.
But it was not another time and another place. This was Germany during the 30's and the 40's, and I was a Jew. I was also a man whose powers had to be kept secret from the public. Then, there is the subject of my grandfather. Oh yes, if both secrets had been known, the Nazis would have---without a doubt---conquered the world.
J.S.W.
12/26/89 5:17PM
Alas, dear reader, the demon still persists with his mocking presence. But it seemed weaker; the fires of its eyes slightly dimming. Could this writing be the therapy I needed? Is the demon my own manifestation? I can say this; although the demon is present, the pains in my hands are not. Without a doubt, my writings have eradicated the arthritis. Only an itch remained, an itch to write my story down. I am even tempted to let the staff take over so I can write from morning to night.
Regarding the anti-Semitic laws in Germany, they took into effect in 1933. My family was lucky to be momentarily shielded from any restrictions. It was extremely difficult for my parents to hide their beliefs during this time. We also had to conceal our paranormal powers even more, adding to the pressure of concealing our identities. They were proud people, but they were also practical and wise. If it was known that I was Jewish, I would have been instantly banned from Medical School. So, we concealed our background, focusing on the overall goal of me becoming a doctor.
In 1941, that was not to be. My mother’s brother was a staunch Nazi. His own son had been turned down by the Medical School and was outraged that a Jew would succeed over an Aryan. He betrayed his own sister and revealed our beliefs to the University and to the German High Command. Our family was exposed, Father’s business started to decline, and I was expelled from the University. My hopes were shattered.
During that restless time, my parents still maintained their faith to overcome those obstacles. Father, always an emotional sculptor, glued my soul back together again. He continued my education and I assisted him with his profession. Even though I did not have the credentials, I was a practicing doctor, whether I had a medical degree or not. I have never used my powers to enhance my learning for Medicine during the early development of my tutelage. My father once told me, “What if you lost your powers? How would you heal then? First, learn to walk. Then, you can drive the car.”
The result: I learned everything on the arts of healing without the use of my budding paranormal talents. Later, when my father thought I was ready, he instructed me how to apply my talents to heal, as well as never revealing those abilities to the patient. He had the medical expertise; my mother had the teaching techniques. By mixing those two ingredients together, a dynamic reaction was created. And the by-products were knowledge, experience, and most importantly, wisdom.
For an entire year, we lived in constant ridicule and isolation. Wearing that yellow Jewish star on our clothing…my God, we were treated like lepers. Loyal patients looked away as we walked down the Berlin streets. We were even spat on, in addition to the verbal abuse we had to endure. Those that committed these acts felt as if we deceived them, that we were hiding some evil fact about ourselves. But my parents knew these people were not betrayed or deceived by the evil of my family; they were deceived by the evil within themselves. Not only evil, ignorance.
Constant fear of the Nazis discovering our family secret was equally taxing on our sanity. We all knew if our talents were discovered, we would possibly be the subjects of experimentation and dissected like laboratory animals. We witnessed entire families being thrown out of their homes and sent away to who knows where, but we were determined to stay together and function as a family unit—a machine determined not to be thrown away because we were obsolete in the eyes of hate. How our family was not immediately sent away like the others, I do not know. Was it simple, random chance, or had Father’s profession just delayed the inevitable?
Regardless, we all maintained our calm, composure, and humanity. In fact, my father concluded since we were discovered as Jews, we did not have to hide our beliefs and worship secretly anymore. We attended prayer groups and worshiped with our fellow outcasts. I felt such a sense of belonging, togetherness, and benevolence with my people during those times. The others treated us like part of a family, which gave us a little ounce of hope and faith in the goodness of people.
However, my father taught me that even though our people would not hesitate to help their own, he stressed to never reveal our powers to anybody except the family. “Although they are good,” he said, “their fears about the unknown would drive them to hysteria.”
He told me stories about his travels across Eastern Europe. He described the times he did reveal his powers to help his patients, an act which only resulted in fear and hatred. I could not believe my ears: Jews persecuting other Jews. I always thought certain witches and shamans were respected and revered. But my father corrected me by saying that it was usually the village witches or elders who instigated the panic, claiming we were demons from hell. These elders were afraid of the competition. Ever since those encounters, my father vowed to use his powers discretely and would heal the patient without ever revealing the true source of his talent as a healer. Even so, it angered me that we not only had to face scrutiny from the Germans because of our Jewish heritage, but also from our own people because of the benevolent gifts we possessed.
My Father continued not only my teachings in the medical profession, but also how to hone my powers. I was quite adept with telekinesis. I quickly learned to control the flow of psychic energy within my being. My father once said. “By tapping into that little energy reservoir, you could move mountains. Controlling its use and knowing when to apply it, this is where the true learning begins: understanding the responsibility behind our talents. That is how we grow as a civilized species.”
He taught me how to “shoot” doses of energy into inanimate objects, causing them to come to life. We would spend hours watching my childhood toys—dolls, toy soldiers, toy trucks—spring into action and move around our home. After a while, I was exhausted because I spent too much power, causing me to almost pass out a couple of times. My father warned me about depleting my spiritual resources completely. Like food, our soul energies are what compose our existence, our fuel. If we use up all of that fuel, we would die. He taught me how to measure my limits. My mother contributed by using an “energy percentage” model so I would know when to stop. As time went on, I could pace my energy use like it was second nature to me, similar to breathing.
August, 1942. More families were being sent away. I knew we were to be next. I also knew my father had the ability to experience visions of the future, a talent known as clairvoyance. I asked my father what was in store for us. He only shrugged and remarked he had not seen any vision of our futures. Instinct told me otherwise. My empathic powers were growing and I sensed emotions welling inside him: sorrow, vulnerability, and despair. For the first time, my father’s aura of benevolence had considerably dimmed. Did he see something that was causing this malaise, or was it one of the symptoms of old age? You have to remember my parents had me late in their lives. I was twenty-two during that time; my father was eighty-one and my mother was sixty-two. Yet they always maintained their youthful appearances. This all changed as September approached. My father rapidly aged before us. If he did see our futuristic vision, it destroyed the remnants of his vitality.
And my suspicions were correct. All three of us were thrown out of our homes and we were shipped away to the Warsaw Ghetto in Poland, with only a suitcase for each of us to carry. My father was also allowed to bring his doctor’s bag. While we were hounded and beaten into the trains, my anger brewed. This was the first time I was in direct contact with the Nazis. With my father and other good people like him, I was exposed to the human versions of angels. In the Nazis I saw only devils. Evil, amoral bullies who abused power with no limits. I wanted to kill those SS monsters, but my father was a doctor in the truest sense of the word. He was a pacifist and he forbade me to use my powers for harm.
“If we used our powers against the Nazis, our secrets would be discovered,” he said, trying to quench my vengeful fires. “We would temporarily defeat them, but what about the entire German Army? If I was younger and you were older, we could fight, run, and hide with ease. But I am old and your powers are still immature. They would eventually capture us and find ways to use our powers to win the war. This cannot happen,” he emphasized. I realized he was correct and I restrained myself, holding back my rage.
We spent many months in that dilapidated slum. With each passing day, our limits were constantly tested, physically and emotionally. Father maintained his health, but Mother was very susceptible to respiratory infections. The winter of 1942 was the worst time for her. We were walled up, separated from the rest of the world. Absolutely no access to any medicine. Thanks to the various networking skills I created during my time there, in addition to using telepathy to trick the con artists in the black market---knowing which medicines were good and which were bad, I managed to obtain antibiotics for my mother. She survived, much to our relief.
It did not matter in the end. The New Year appeared and we were sent to the Chelmno Death Camp, west of Warsaw. I heard rumors about similar camps like this one and the fates of their prisoners, but I just could not believe it at the time. When we arrived, they began a process called “The Selection.” The SS officer looked over each person and then pointed to where he or she must go. Fortunately, we were all sent to the right side where the healthy and the strong were kept. Going to the left side would have resulted in our deaths. All of us believed we were safe. How naive we were. But it is important to mention that a majority of my people did not even hear, much less believe, the atrocities that happened to us during those years. We applied reason and logic to a time when chaos reigned. And for myself, it was just the beginning.
One month went by, and we tried our damnedest to survive. My mother was ill again and my father was even frailer than before. One night, I had a fateful dream. I was inside a barn where thousands of hens were sleeping during the night. Suddenly, a dozen weasels crept into the hen house and grabbed various screaming hens. The weasels soothed their prey. I saw them lick their lascivious lips as they became more humanlike, whispering silent promises into their captives’ ears until they finally calmed. When the hens were subdued, the weasels—snickering among themselves because of their victims’ own gullibility—let them go with such gentleness. Their orange eyes glittered as they led the hens out of the barn and into the dense forest. I stood there in total wonder as all of those passive hens slowly walked with their newfound friends, accepting whatever future they were going to face.
The scene quickly changed; it was daytime at a train yard, but the sunlight became distorted, magnified, then bent into a concave shape, like I was in a fish bowl. The second movement of Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony was being played on speakers as I saw the assembly line of hens, with their weasel guides, approaching the train. Both animals evolved even more; they were dressed in clothing: the weasels in Nazi garb and the hens in prison outfits. The weasels continued to laugh and growl out orders, while the hens bowed their heads in defeat as they were escorted up the ramps that led into the endless train cars. I was only ten feet away from all of them and yet I could not move or say a blasted word. I so wanted to scream and yell at these dumb animals to run away. But I was completely paralyzed. The air refused to travel from my lungs to my vocal chords. I was just a passive observer, watching them board the train. The sound of the closing door resonated in my ears so loudly I gritted my teeth because I couldn’t shut out the noise with my hands.
I looked closer at the windows. Feathery, confused heads poked out between the bars. Some squawked as they began to peck rapidly at the wooden walls around them, sounding so much like gunfire. That damn pecking! Over and over again, trying to burrow into my mind. The pain was so agonizing. Squawking turned into cries of despair, blending along with the mournful sounds of the cellos and violins. Then, I heard the soft voice of my father whisper to me, as though his mouth was at my ear: We will always be proud of you. Live and reach your potential and your destiny, no matter what happens to us.
I didn’t know what this meant. It was so irrational to me and the distorted sunlight beating down heightened the confusion even more. As the train started on its way, my head became clear again. I realized what was happening. My paralysis left me and I ran, calling out to them. The air around me was thick with the smoke coming from the engine stacks, causing me to run in slow motion. The train increased in speed at an unearthly rate, hurrying away from me like a doomed spirit. I tried to make contact with my father, but he had bricked up his thoughts from me. When the train finally disappeared into the mist laden distance, I screamed one final time.
I awoke in a sweat. I shook from the winter air and the terrors from my nightmare. I turned to my side and discovered that my parents had disappeared. Even with the coldness covering me like a sheet of ice, I called out to them and searched everywhere. The other prisoners were trying to silence me, fearing the wrath of the Nazi guards. I was so uncontrollable. A fellow inmate had to knock me out to regain the sanity within the barracks.
I recovered the following morning, pain shooting throughout my skull as if it was some tortuous scar that would never heal. It was not so much the injury to my head, but of the dream and the disappearance of my parents. Later in the morning, all puzzles of both instances were solved. While we were sleeping, Nazi guards silently entered the barracks, abducted prisoners that were either old or insane, and escorted them to special trucks: the “Euthanasia trucks,” specially made vehicles that gassed the occupants with its own Carbon Monoxide. The architects of this selection process thought it best to do it at night as a fear tactic. The idea of waking up to see the number slowly dwindle down was an ingenious way for the SS to control the prisoners.
My reasoning had departed as quickly as the train from my nightmare. I didn’t even hear how long the extermination was to go on or if and when I was to be next. Colors left my vision; everything I saw faded to a murky sepia of an aging photograph. But my composure and focus became clear; I wanted to kill…many, many times. Damned with the consequences. These monsters were going to pay and I was not going to die like my people. A week later while the rest of the camp was sleeping during the middle of the night, I had decided to escape and destroy as many Nazis as I could see. But I didn’t know how I was going to perform such a mission. Even though my powers had grown, I realized I needed some advantage—some “wild card”—to increase my chances in survival, not for the sake of living, but for the sake of killing. And during this time of contemplation, I accidentally came across a power that even my father had never possessed.
It happened one day after morning roll call. I was in a stupor, still grieving for my parents. I stopped near the prisoner barracks and saw a guard smoking a cigarette during a break. Surprisingly, no prisoner or guard was watching us. We were totally alone. I hid around the corner of the building, making sure the Nazi did not see me. On an urge, perhaps almost a self-destructive one, I projected my telekinesis energy toward him, just to see if I could somehow push him. I had never used my powers like that before and I was curious. Well, I released my energies on his legs, trying to trip him. Instead, I tapped into his nervous system, resulting in him jumping backwards and landing in the snow. It happened so fast he didn’t even have time to scream.
I was dumbfounded. I barely used a fraction of my energy. I began to wonder what damage I could really do to these monsters.
As he got up, wet from the snow, he looked around to see what mighty force had thrown him, until his eyes caught mine. I was so startled at my actions that I forgot to hide again. When he saw me, he raised his rifle and was about to shoot.
Then, my new power appeared.
While still looking him in the eyes, I directed my energy toward him with only one thought in mind: “Stop!” I did not know how, I just wanted him to stop. Well, and it may sound so horribly simple, but he did. He froze in mid-action, with his gun raised at me, as though time for him had been immobilized. The Nazi was about to gun me down like a dog and I turned him into a statue.
I moved out of his range and walked around him; he was still in a stasis. I waved my hand in front of his face, snapped my fingers, nothing. What was interesting was I still felt an energy link between myself and the guard, like a muscle still in a flexing motion. I started to feel slightly tired from the drain—again, back to the energy percentages my mother taught me. I quickly hid around the corner to the other side of the building where the guard had his back to me, poked my head out and, for lack of a better term, “reeled” in this energy blanket from his mind. The guard moved again and looked at his gun, puzzled. I heard him mumble, “Where is my cigarette?” He looked around and was extremely disorientated. Eventually, he just shook his head and returned to his barracks.
I could not help but smile at my discovery. My revenge can actually be enforced in. I knew this mission would eventually kill me, but at the time, life was pointless and I finally discovered my “wild card.” My parents were the only family I knew. Without them, I had no reason to live. No reason, that is, save one. A type of destructive vengeance the Nazi party cannot even begin to comprehend.
I continued my experiments. I shot my energies towards a guard, blocking his mind and perceptions from the rest of his body. He froze for a while, then I withdrew, leaving him with absolutely no memory of the loss for time. It was very similar to a hypnotic suggestion. I started to practice even more by placing multiple guards in a stasis. For this, I focused on the guards patrolling our barracks during the night shift. I held them for hours. I withdrew, and the guards moved again, disorientated because of the time loss. The only drawback to this technique was the energy depletion. If I controlled too many for too long, my energy reserves would have been completely drained, killing me in the end.
After I felt comfortable and confident enough, I made the decision one night to leave. How powerful I felt with this new talent! I experienced a new type of unconscionable freedom that thrust me into an area of insanity. I rose from my bed, silently walked to the doorway and opened the door. The weather was unusually comfortable; it was cold, but not harsh. The snow was pure and undisturbed. Very calm and passive. It was almost inviting, like death. I had only four to seven guards to take care of within a short period of time. It was such an easy task. I suddenly lost interest in simply stunning a few guards. Instead, I wanted to use powers that would be considerably more lethal.