Dybbuk
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-Transcript-
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There are rules tied to our physical existence that we accept as canon. For example, the law of conservation of energy states that energy can neither be created nor destroyed - only converted from one form to another. That’s lends itself to an interesting discussion about what happens to the energy humans devote to their belief systems? You might not believe in voodoo, but would you cocky enough to stand in the way of a Shaman? You might not believe in the supernatural, but would you mock a Witches practice. You might not even believe in prayer but would you risk cursing the name of someone’s God? The energy we spend contemplating the beyond, worshipping our idols, weaving spells, is energy transformed.
Transformed into what? Well, that’s impossible to tell.
Today The Blackridge Society will be reading a curious entry in a 1942 wartime journal belonging to Robert Wolchek from Warsaw. During service, he had been an executor in the underground resistance. An executor is tasked with carrying out covert executions of people labeled as enemies of the State. Case number 8943 discusses his experiences with: a Dybbuk.
March 21st. 1942.
“It’s been almost three years since those damn Germans took this city and the streets I’ve walked all my life are no longer recognizable. They made themselves comfortable in our homes, while stuffing us into camps and ghettos like livestock. They took our wealth and food, while we scrounge through debris. Worst of all, they reserved peace of mind for those that share their blood and swear allegiance to their cause. How much longer will we be forced to live like this?
They posted another list of names today. Then reiterated that any attack against them will result in these peoples public execution. But it’s all just scare tactic. They’ll kill them regardless. Lucky for them, I’ve got a list too. But the names that I have on it are already dead, they just don’t know it yet.
I arrived at the Minister of Interior’s house. Of course, they hung him in the first few weeks of the occupation. That bastard Heinz Reinefarth took the place as his own. I heard he comes from Poznań. Fucking traitor. Rumor had it he’s getting married today. All this pain. All this death. Can you believe those bastards were having a wedding? Well, I hope you’re having a nice time Heinz, make it a good day to die.
I knocked with my left hand, right hand in my pocket, clutching a grenade. I’d toss the thing through a window, get it over with quick, but protocol says I have to read his sentence. I can’t be the only one to think reading a dead man’s punishment is pointless, but I’m just a foot soldier.
“Open the door!” I yelled in the best German I could muster.
If the terrible accent wouldn’t fool them, the stolen uniform might.
“This is Corporal Franz Fischer on behalf of Commanding General Walter Petzel. I require an audience with the lieutenant general.”
Nothing. No one answered my calls. No sounds of movement. Nothing. Just an eerie silence
“I repeat, I need to speak with lieutenant general Heinz Reinefarth immediately regarding orders of upmost importance.”
The handle began to turn, and the door slinked ajar… seemingly on its own. I pushed it open and step through the threshold. Inside a heavy silence hung in the air mixing with smells of food and wine, tainting it. Perhaps everyone was upstairs?
“This is Corporal Franz Fischer on behalf of Commanding General Walter Petzel. I require an audience with the lieutenant general.” I repeated, my voice booming throughout the loftiness of the empty home.
Yet, as the echo subsided, ominous silence draped itself over once more.
Hm. Strange.
The sound of glass breaking rang from one of the back rooms causing me to draw the hidden grease gun strapped under my coat. I follow the noise to its source, there in front of the sink in one of the bathroom stood a middle-aged man dressed in the attire of a waiter. He was frantically scrubbing away at his hands. They were red, rubbed raw, but he kept on washing them, muttering a prayer in Hebrew under his breath. Dangling from around his neck is a sliver chain with the star of David on it. He’s a Jew. What’s he doing here?
“What’s your name? What happened? Where is everyone?”
I flooded him with questions, but he was lost to mania, nothing was getting through. I place my hand upon the man’s shoulder in an attempt to console him. He turns his head and looks me in the eyes. Sadness meets my gaze and his despair floods into me. Just as words began welling at the tip of his tongue, his eyes glance over my shoulder and his expression shifts to sheer panic. In one swift motion I’m pushed out of the way, and the bathroom door is slammed shut.
I turned around with the gun drawn and my finger over the trigger. There at the base of the staircase stood a woman dressed as a bride. But the white gown she had on was soiled and torn, blotched red and fraying. A murderous grin stretched across her pale face, and her eyes… from in-between the hair hanging over her face, you could see eyes of solid black. Reflecting back at you like mirrors. She stood there staring, swaying, cackling under the breath.
My cover was blown, no amount of half assed German can get it back.
“Marysza Reinefarth.” I said, unsure of the best course of action. “The Special Courts determined you to be a Nazi sympathizer guilty of treason. Both you and your husband Heinz Reinefarth have been sentenced to death. Have you anything to state?”
Nothing.
“Have you anything to state?” I repeated, shaken by her lack of reaction.
Suddenly she drew a large knife from behind her back and lunged at me with an inhuman screech.
(Gunshots ring out.)
The grease gun ripped a series through the air.
Her body thudded to the ground.
Silence fell over the abode once more.
My heart was beating in my throat. I stood motionless, listening. No sounds of panic, no sounds of commotion.
The bathroom door unlocked and glimpsed the coattails of that Jewish man running for the exit. Probably should’ve run as well. The whole block likely heard those shots, but I had to be sure I’m not just abandoning orders. When else would we get the chance to have this many Krauts in one room. So, I inched forward, climbing the stairs to the top. On the second floor was reception room, and from it wafted a smell so rancid it’d make you squint. Everything in my body told me to turn around and leave, but stubbornness carried me inside.
The place was decorated for a wedding, half open presents lined a big table in the center of the room. I froze in place at the sight of dozens of people sitting in lines of chairs facing towards the gifts, away from the door. Though their backs were towards me, I could see they were limp, slumped over, still… very still, not even breathing. Cautiously I stepped forward until their faces were in view. The horror caused a prayer to involuntarily slip my lips. Their mouths hung open, jaws broken, teeth and tongues missing. Where their eyes should have been were large hollow pits, devoid of blood or scarring. Many were repeatably stabbed. Others were frozen in rigor mortis, clutching their head or chest. Some had seemingly had no marks at all. By the head of the table laid a decapitated body. It’s nametag read Heinz Reinefarth. He was laying in a pool of his own blood, each hand clutching a wad of colorful wrapping paper. The same paper which remained still partially wrapped around a mysterious looking stone tablet. On the stone were carved the words “Yemach shemo”.
Before my mind finished processing everything going on, I feel a searing heat hit my thigh, and I turn to see that woman standing behind me, her blade buried in my leg up to it’s hilt. I slammed the butt of my gun against her head, she recoiled but seemed unphased. Squeezing the trigger, I let out another stream of lead. They all connect, center mass, right in the chest, but the thing shrugged it off like it was nothing. Bullet holes littered her dress. From them blood seeped with each movement, painting the white linen an ever darker red, clinging the fabric to her skin. The knife in my leg hurt like hell, but I could still stand, and one thing the army thought me is… just leave it in.
The thing jumped at me. I pulled back on the trigger again, this time I was met with a dry click. The damn gun jammed. Her weight collided with mine, wrestling me around the room. She was screaming… trying to scratch my eyes out, shoving her hands in my mouth, pulling at my teeth. She was far stronger than her physique implied, brushing off punches to the face as if she was fighting a child. I didn’t stand a chance… I had to do something quick. So, I knocked her into a nearby closet, pulled the pin of my grenade, and tossed it in, locking the door.
If they didn’t hear the gunshots, every Nazi within a mile radius must have heard that. Curiosity convinced me to peak inside before I ran. Just as I expected. Nothing left but bits and pieces.
Somehow I got away safely.
My uncle always told me “one should not seek to discover what lies above and what lies below, what comes before and what comes after”. I never understood what he meant until today.
