The Book of Revelations

Ivan Turner

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2007 by Ivan Turner

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PROLOGUE

There are some things in this world in which people believe.
And they are bullshit.
There are other things in this world in which people believe.
And they are perceived as bullshit.
But they are not.

PAST LIVES

On July 21st, 1934 in Scranton, Pennsylvania, USA, Archibald Pevney died in his bed in his home at the precise hour of 3:48 am while sleeping peacefully.  Throughout the course of his life, Pevney had abused and murdered twenty four children and, though he had been questioned as a suspect, he was never indicted on any counts and all of those murders remained unsolved.

On March 15th, 2001, just outside Elephant Butte, New Mexico, United States, police discovered a corpse half buried in the sand on the side of the interstate.  They were able to determine right away that the victim had been dead approximately thirty six hours.  He was a black man, later identified as Winston Jones, age sixty seven, residing in Tucson, Arizona with his only living relative, his younger sister.  Despite the fact that the killer or killers had shaved Mr. Jones' entire body and cleaved off his genitals with a serrated blade before binding him and slicing his arteries open so that he might bleed to death, New Mexico police determined that the killing was the result of racial prejudice.   The authorities in Tucson were in full agreement.  Both law enforcement agencies, for one reason or another, discounted the evidence of the curled up piece of paper stuffed into the victim's mouth.  On it were the words, Rot in hell, Pevney.  It was assumed that the paper was used as a gag and nothing more.  The words were deemed insignificant.

No arrest was ever made.

It always starts with the little things.

****

“What's your name?”

“It's Lucy.  I am a woman.”

“All right.  Can you tell me where you are?”

“I am at home.”

“And where is that?”

“Roanoke.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty six.”

“Are you married?”

“Yes and I have two wonderful sons.”

“What are their names?”

“Richard and Devin.”

“Are they with you now?”

“No.”

“Can we go ahead?  To the future?”

“No?”

“What?  Why?”

“I am already dead and the colony is gone.”

****

 “Well known psychiatrist Dr. Simon Palaniewiecz was arrested yesterday afternoon for attacking ten year old Sheila Randolph in Jocelyn, California.

“Just before three o'clock, as the children of Jocelyn Elementary School were leaving the building and boarding buses or being met by their parents, Dr. Palaniewiecz, who has a home in Jocelyn, pulled his car to a stop in the middle of the road, jumped out, and ran at young Miss Randolph.  Startled onlookers backed away from the screaming man.  Witnesses say that they were unaware that he was specifically targeting the girl until he'd actually reached her.  By the time they realized what was happening, it was too late to stall his charge.

“Officer Herbert Lowenstein, who spends most of his weekday afternoons directing traffic around Jocelyn Elementary, was the first to take action.

“'It was the weirdest thing,' said Lowenstein.  'One minute I'm directing a line of cars around the buses and the next there's this maniac running across the street yelling, ‘He killed my mother!  He killed my mother!’

“Officer Lowenstein went on to tell reporters that Dr. Palaniewiecz' cries were what diverted his attention from the victim.  He saw the doctor, but was looking for an adult male target.

“Dr. Palaniewiecz, fifty four, was easily pried away from the girl but not before getting his hands around her throat and causing minor injuries such as skin irritation and a bruised larynx.  We are told she is recovering nicely.

“At this time, the attorneys hired by Dr. Palaniewiecz have yet to make a statement but District Attorney Maten Gerrold is expecting a temporary insanity defense.

“Mrs. Sheila Palaniewiecz, the doctor's mother, was murdered twenty four years ago.  Convicted killer Randolph Marigold was executed just twelve years ago after a long and arduous appeals process.

“No strong connections have been made between Dr. Palaniewiecz and Sheila Randolph.
“The focus of Dr. Palaniewiecz's work...”

****

SUMMONS

Rabbi Guetterman:

You are no doubt familiar with the circumstances of my incarceration and wondering as you read this how I have come to send it to you.  Since the rejection of my insanity plea by the California Supreme Court, I have done much of what you would call soul searching.  In the past months, I have come to understand that the courts were right to reject the plea, as I am not insane.  I was in full control of my faculties throughout the course of my crime.  I don't need medication or the blathering of a criminal psychiatrist.  I am an intelligent man, an educated man, and what I need right now is something that I cannot provide for myself.  That is why I have contacted you.
Please don't be alarmed.  I am aware that we have never met nor spoken nor is there any reason at all why we should know of each other.  But I am a man who uses his time wisely and, as my needs have dictated, I have searched high and low for the greatest spiritual leaders these United States have to offer.  Of all of the priests, rabbis, ministers, reverends, pastors, televangelists, faith healers, and gurus in this country, I have selected only four with whom I would wish to speak.  You, sir, are one of the four.

It is not a distinct honor to be summoned by a criminal all the way across the country for no other reason than to provide some spiritual counsel, however I beg your consideration on this matter not because you should pity me, I am not in need of that, but because I may just be able to teach you something as you help me.

Throughout your service to the Talmud and Torah, you have provided a binding essence to your community which, based on what I've read and researched has proven invaluable to many many people.  Your wisdom walks hand in hand with your knowledge of scripture and it is that wisdom upon which I so humbly call.  I am also aware that you are not a man of means, as no spiritual leader should be, however I am no spiritual leader and my many years of medical practicing has accumulated me great wealth.  I would not dare offer you payment for assisting me; a man such as yourself would be insulted by such an offer.  However, I will pick up all the necessary expenses for your trip including airfare, hotel accommodations, and food, all of which to be chosen and reserved by you with no questions asked by me.

I implore you, Rabbi Guetterman, to join me for a discussion as there is much I need to say and even more that I need to hear.  The enclosed card has all of the information you will need to get in touch with me should you decide to grant my request.  Thank you very much for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,

Dr. Simon Palaniewiecz

****


“Max?”

She was still pretty, even after all of these years, even after three children.  She was still pretty.

He looked up from his reading, staring at her over the flat topped rims of his reading glasses.

“Hmmm?”

“Something wrong?”

And he loved her.  How could he not?  He could not even remember a time in his life when she had not been there, a part of him as essential as his own heart.

“Nothing.  It's nothing.”

She came across the room in seven small steps, the way she always walked, and looked down at her husband sitting in his favorite old recliner with the ripped upholstery and wine stain on the head cushion.

“It's not nothing.  It's that letter.”

And her name was Laura.

“Yes, Laura, it's the letter.”

He admitted it.  Long ago he had learned that not admitting something to Laura, something she already knew anyway, was a waste of time.

“So?  What's in it?”

“It is...”

He hesitated.  How could he explain this to her?  It wasn't so much that he was getting fan mail from crackpots.  It was the fact that he was strongly considering this particular crackpot's request.

“It is an invitation.”

She sat down on his lap and threw her arms around his neck.  Then she kissed him lightly on the lips.  His fifty two year old bones felt her weight and responded much more slowly than they had at one time.  He kissed her back.

“It sounds like you don't want to go.”

“On the contrary.”

He had never been to California.

“What is it?”

She kissed him again.  “Is it a party?”

“It is not a party.”

“A dinner?  A speech?  Do they want you to speak again?”

He smiled at her and said her name.  It was his way of telling her not to play the game.  He was not in the mood.

She sobered up immediately and got up from his lap.  But not before giving him one more kiss.  This last kiss was to tell him that she loved, respected, and admired him.  The man he was.  He appreciated it but it did not bring a smile to his face.

“Will you tell me?”

The question was simple and he could dismiss her if he chose without reprimand not because she was a dutiful wife but because she did, in fact, love, respect, and admire him.  Granting him his privacy was part of that.

“Of course.”

But those feelings were mutual and he couldn't very well hit the coast without letting her know where he was going.

That night, as they got into bed, he handed her the letter, rolled over, and closed his eyes.  She waited, staring at him for thirty minutes, and then read the words as he slept.

****

Joseph Guetterman was approaching his ninetieth birthday.  After Hitler's defeat at the end of World War II, Joseph had been left with no money, no land, and no family.  He'd owned nothing but the dirty fatigues he had worn in the camps and the misery that the Nazis had bestowed upon him by murdering his wife, his parents, his brothers and sisters and their families.  He had seen horrible things to which no one should ever have to bear witness and they had left deep and permanent scars on his psyche.

Still, as a man in his late thirties, he had come to the United States, met an American girl who was almost nine years younger than himself, and started over.  New wife.  New children.  New life.  For a man of almost forty.

His son was a rabbi.

In a world that was teeming with a species guided by its ego, the word of God was becoming a thing of the past.

And Joseph Guetterman had raised a rabbi.

There was nothing in the world that filled him with more pride.

When his son came to see him, as he always did, he was very happy.  The people at the rest home treated him well and showed him the respect and the privacy he deserved, but they were not people to him and he was just an old man to them.  To his family, he was so much more.  As were they to him.

When Max told him that he was going to be traveling out to the west coast, Joseph broke into several verses of California Here I Come.  The nurses and orderlies all thought that that crazy old man was at it again.  But Joseph wasn't crazy.  Most people who are not old are simply afraid of people who are.  It seems to be the most ridiculous of life's ironies.  Why be afraid of someone who hobbles from place to place, is reliant on thirteen pills daily, and may very well wet himself if given the chance?  But the faculties of a ninety year old can be just as sharp as the faculties of a twenty year old.  It's not the difference in intelligence, but the gap in generations that causes a rift between the young and the old.  And even though people are constantly talking about the Generation Gap (It's the Generation Gap, they'll say), they still don't fully realize its impact.

But parents and children can communicate because the gap between them is totally different than the Generation Gap.  Any difference between parents and children is not caused by age.  After all, children are taught by their parents.  Who they become is directly related to who their parents already are.  No that gap is created and determined by the roles that parents and children have to play.  And when parents are old and children are still young, those roles are reversed and the gap which was closes because the children are finally able to realize what it was their parents were doing for all of the years before.

So Joseph Guetterman asked Rabbi Max Guetterman, his son, what it was that was taking him all the way out to California and why it was bothering him so much.  Bothering him so much.  A piece of information the crazy ninety year old man gleaned from just hearing his son tell him that he was going out to California.

So what was bothering him?  What indeed!  Max beat around the bush for a while.  He always did that, fished for opinions.  The trouble with helping so many others with their problems is that he didn't really know how to occupy the other side of the couch.  He always took the position of the helper rather than the helped.  And, as a result, he always worked at getting people to let their feelings out.  That wasn't always productive when it came to solving his own problems.  But after a while, the back and forth with his father found a mousehole and crawled through to the point.  What was bothering him, aside from the fact that he had been summoned by a convict who had assaulted a child, was that this person was not Jewish, yet seeking spiritual advice from a leader of the Jewish community.  Very odd indeed.

So his father explained to him that Judaism is the root of Christianity.  And, when all is said and done, all religions, well monotheistic religions anyway, were pretty much the same.  They all had God in some form or another and they all had a messiah.  Religious people were all afraid of the same thing, though some religions took that fear where it was never supposed to go.  This Dr. Palaniewiecz who had contacted him, said his father, was probably confused and looking for guidance from religion as a whole.  It's not uncommon for prisoners to find God and perhaps the doctor was just exploring his possibilities.  What's more Joseph suggested, instructed actually, that his son make the trip to California and meet with Dr. Simon Palaniewiecz not only because he would probably be able to help but because, as had been stated in the letter, he might find that this criminal doctor who had attacked a young girl of ten years and called her his mother's killer might just have something very important to teach Rabbi Max Guetterman who knew little if anything at all about people who did the kinds of things Dr. Palaniewiecz had done.

And the most important facet of Judaism is that a person looks not only to God for guidance and knowledge, but seeks it from everywhere because God is everywhere and in everything.

A wise man never stops learning.

And Rabbi Guetterman was a very wise man.

****

CALIFORNIA

The flight was arduous.

At the prison, they could sit at a table and talk.

They could shake hands.

“Thank you for coming, Rabbi.  I imagine it was a difficult decision.”

“Coming to see you was not; I wanted to meet with you.  Leaving my family and my community is always a difficult decision.”

“Of course.  I'll get right to the point, then.  I wanted to speak with you about certain spiritual realities that have me confused.”

“Spiritual realities?  That's an odd term, Dr. Palaniewiecz.  Do you mean God?”

“No.  Actually, I don't believe in God and recent events have convinced me of his inexistence.  I see by your face that you are surprised, an atheist asking for spiritual guidance.  And maybe offended?”

“You have a right to your opinion, doctor.”

“I appreciate that.  Not everyone thinks so.”

Dr. Palaniewiecz was balding and the years had been too kind to him.  A mid sized paunch belched from underneath his prison fatigues and his heart beat a thousand beats per second.  Perhaps it wasn't the kind years, but prison life that was doing him ill.

“Do you believe in past lives, Rabbi?”

“I don't.  I guess that you already know that.”

“That's what Father McIlvane said.  So I asked him about Jesus.”

“While it’s not my area of expertise, wasn’t Jesus resurrected?”

“As so stated by the good father.”

“While there are certain allowances and mythos that describe reincarnation, Christianity and Judaism prescribe to the notion of Heaven.  If a soul goes to Heaven when the body dies, there is no room for the concept of past lives.”

“There is no room for the Bible in the annals of history.”

The rabbi cleared his throat uncomfortably.  “Did you call me here to argue with me, Dr. Palaniewiecz?”

“On the contrary.  I called you here to enlighten you.”

“I was under the impression that it was I who was to enlighten you.”

“You are, Rabbi.  You are.  Just not in the way that you think.”

“I don't think I like the way this conversation is going, doctor, and I'm not sure I want to stay.”

The doctor grew quiet as he thought about what the rabbi had said and what it might mean.

“The priest said that as well.  Be assured, Rabbi, that I would not have summoned you three thousand miles to trade insults with you.  I'd like, for a moment, if you could suspend your disbelief and accept the possibility of past lives.

“I do believe in past lives, Rabbi.  In fact I'm sure they exist.  You see, I've done a great deal of work with hypnotic regression therapy and, like many of my predecessors, I have regressed multiple patients into past lives.

“Please allow me to finish.  I was a disbeliever at first.  For all of my life, the concept of anything spiritual left me empty, infuriated almost that people could be so ignorant as to bow down to a God in our modern era.

“The focus of my work, once I discovered the ability to regress patients into past lives, was to expose these sessions as subconscious fantasy.  Essentially, I was hell bent on discrediting those of my colleagues who subscribed to this nonsense.

“I had been toying with a form of therapy during which the psychiatrist could take a more hands on approach with a patient under hypnosis.  Let me preface by saying that there is much of our bodies and minds that is wasted in our lifetimes.  I've done research and published papers on the emotional links that people develop over time and have concluded that this link is more than just a feeling of love.  Love at first sight can be reduced to the simple explanation of two persons' brain waves resonating on a similar frequency.  This therapy I spoke of, it is founded on that principle.  The therapist puts him or herself into a meditative trance that is akin to the frequency of the hypnosis under which he has the patient.  Eventually, I was to apply the method to dream intervention.  We've seen all of the movies and we know what the possibilities are from a science fiction standpoint.  Realistically, the applications of such work are numerous.  With dream intervention, psychiatrists can get to the root of a subconscious problem and actually cure a patient without having to subject the patient to medication that may have harmful side effects.

“But my experimentation went awry.

“Once I was able to share in the patient's hypnosis, I discovered that past lives are not frauds.  They are not subconscious fabrications.  They are actual memories.”

“And you think this little girl was the man who murdered your mother in a past life?”

“I'm sure of it.”

“Did you hypnotize the little girl?”

“You mock me.  As with all techniques, improvements were there to be discovered.  The meditative state is extremely malleable.  I can detect the resonance of normal brain waves and actually see a person’s memories.”

“Suspension of disbelief is one thing, doctor, but what you're asking me to accept borders on pure fantasy.”

Dr. Palaniewiecz smiled.  “That is not the first time I've heard that.  Humans know of five senses, Rabbi Guetterman.  Sight, hearing, taste, touch, and smell.  But there are others.  The brain and the body are capable of so much more than we attempt.  One of these senses is the ability to translate the electrical impulses of other people's brains.”

“Doctor Palaniewiecz...”

“Please let me finish.  Over time, the procedure became more refined.  Hypnotism of the subject became less and less necessary until such time as I could actually resonate with their waking brainwaves.  Of course, it is easiest to read the minds of those for whom the memories of past lives could be considered recent.”

“In other words, children.”

“Exactly.  I was actually on my way back from the maternity ward at the local hospital and decided to pass near the school because they were letting out.  The encounter with Miss Randolph was an unfortunate coincidence forcing me into action.”

“You mean you felt compelled to attack her.”

“Yes.  And that is precisely why I asked you to visit me.”

“I don't understand.”

“You still don't believe.”

“I won't lie to you about that, doctor.  I don't imagine you'll be able to convince me of the accuracy of your claims.”

“Don't be so sure, Rabbi.  Given the proper preparation, I could even probably read a past life of yours.  But that is not why I brought you here.  I brought you here for your learned, spiritual opinion. Randolph Marigold was executed for murdering my mother yet he lives again in the body of Sheila Randolph.  Does he not deserve to be punished?”

“She's just a little girl.”

“Don't look so horrified, Rabbi.  A killer is a killer.”

“There's no reason to believe she's a killer.”

“Except that she was Randolph Marigold in a past life.”

There was a bit of silence.

“Rabbi, I'm asking you to accept it as fact for a hypothetical moral question.”

“But it's not hypothetical and if I tell you that it's okay to go out and punish the guilty, even if their guilt is from a past life, I'm condoning your actions and encouraging your psychosis.”

“I'll ignore your choice of words, Rabbi.  The question is simple.  Assuming the reality of past lives, should someone be punished for crimes committed by them during one of those lives?”

“No.”

“Are you saying that because you believe it or because you don't want to 'encourage my psychosis'?”

“Dr. Palaniewiecz, there's a reason we live and a reason we die.  If there is such a thing as reincarnation then it is so a person can begin with a clean slate, forget the sins of the past, and try to furnish a good life out of the new opportunity.”

“I'm afraid I disagree with you.  Some people commit horrendous crimes and live out their lives without ever being punished.  Don't you think justice demands that their crimes catch up with them?  Even in the next life?”

“But Randolph Marigold was executed for his crimes.”

“After years of appeal and millions of dollars wasted on trials and keeping him housed.”

“It's not for us to say.”

“For whom then?”

“If we are to have new lives after the old then God decides what lives we are to have.  They can be a punishment or a forgiveness.  Either way, it is God's decision.”

“I told you I don't believe in God.”

“I told you I don't believe in past lives.”

“You've been brainwashed by the Bible and thousands of years of cowering before the might of a fake God.”

“My traditions are handed down for generations, Dr. Palaniewiecz.  Jews do not brainwash like some backwards teenaged cult.  I'm leaving now.”

“But, Rabbi, don't you even want the proof?”

“I don't think so.”

“Aren't you curious about your past life?”

“Good luck with your future, doctor.”

“Tomorrow, Rabbi.  It takes time to put myself into the proper mental state, but I could tell you who you were.  Tomorrow.  Perhaps then you would believe me.”

“We won't see each other again, doctor.  Tomorrow I'm flying back to New York and I'm going to put this nonsense out of my mind and concentrate on my rabbinical duties.”

“We'll see, Rabbi.”

“Goodbye, doctor.”

****

It could be ten degrees in New York City, cloudy, raining (or snowing more likely) and just plain ugly but in California it's always sunny.

Rabbi Guetterman had, at one time, considered moving to California.  That was way back, just after he had met Laura and before they had gotten serious.  But that would have left Joseph Guetterman, not a well man even then, all by himself in the big city.  Even if the rabbi had been willing to go, his father would have made no bones about guilting him into staying.

New York City is the best city in the world.  What kind of a Jewish community are you going to find out in California?  It's all drug runners and prostitutes.

Precisely the type of people who need spiritual guidance.

Unlike Dr. Simon Palaniewiecz.

He needed psychiatric guidance.

And if he thought Rabbi Max Guetterman was going to pay him a second visit at the prison that would be his home for quite some time to come, he had another thing coming.

He was thinking this as his cab pulled up in front of the airport.

It was one of those small airports with one airstrip that only catered to charter flights and airlinks.  Before this trip, the rabbi had never been on one of those small planes.  They only had eleven rows and the last row was all along the back of the plane reminding him of a city bus.  The cab driver, a suntanned young fellow who was nothing like the cab drivers in New York, did not help him with his bags.  That was the thing about New York.  Everyone's under the impression that New Yorkers are rude and nasty people, but his wife had been born in New York and she was the best woman he had ever known, the people of his congregation were there for the Temple and for each other, and the cab drivers always helped him with his bags when they dropped him off at the airport.

****

Some people believe that New York courtesy is a myth.

And that is bullshit.

New York courtesy is simply the best kept secret since Roswell, New Mexico.

And Rabbi Guetterman had never been to California.

So Rabbi Guetterman had already checked in with the plane and checked his bags when it occurred to him that he had let his anger get the better of him.  Perhaps Dr. Palaniewiecz had just been testing him.  Not like a test from God.  Comparing Simon Palaniewiecz to God was like comparing apples and oranges.  Palaniewiecz hadn't been testing his faith or his devotion to his chosen lifestyle.  He had been testing his sincerity.  His integrity.  He'd been testing to see how far he could push.  Dr. Palaniewiecz needed help.  Psychiatric help, surely.  Help that Rabbi Guetterman could not provide.  But how could a man of God, a man of wisdom, walk away from someone in need?

So he needed to get himself onto a later flight.

No more than three hours.

But we're about to board.  Your bag is already on the plane.

A quick conversation that ended with a please and a fee that Dr. Palaniewiecz would surely cover.

And Rabbi Guetterman was on his way back to prison.

****

It was a short visit.  It didn’t take the rabbi long to discover the inaccuracy of his own assessment.  Apparently he had not been pushed far enough.

Dr. Palaniewiecz looked far more haggard this afternoon than he had the last.

“Did something happen?”

“It’s the meditation.  Part of me is practically asleep.  I’m actually improving on the effects daily.  One day soon, it won’t be evident at all.”

Interesting.  Rabbi Guetterman did not doubt the sincerity of the doctor’s words.  Whatever he thought of the man, he could not deny his education, his training, or his skill.  If he said he was putting himself into a meditative state, then that’s what he was doing.  But Rabbi Guetterman believed that this state did not unlock the past lives of those around him.  Instead he felt that Dr. Palaniewiecz was, under these conditions, suffering from self induced hallucinations.

But that did not make the consequences any less real.

“Are you ready, Rabbi?”

“If this will help you?”

“First you must answer my question.  That will help me.”

“Which question?”

“Should the guilty be punished in the next life?”

“That’s up to God.”

“I don’t believe in God.”

“Doctor, my opinion is my opinion.  What’s the matter?  You suddenly don’t look well.”

“You...Ahem!  You should go.”

“I won’t go.  Something’s wrong.”

“Terribly wrong.  I would never have guessed.”

“Do you need medical attention?”

“Rabbi, please...no...you must, though...  You must answer my question.”

“My answer hasn’t changed.”

“Are you sure?”

“Is this about me?  What you’ve seen?  What have you seen, doctor?  Who was I that you’re suddenly flushed and irritated?”

“You...No.  You have to go.  I have to think.”

“I’m not going.  I’m not going anywhere.”

“Please.  Don’t do this to yourself.  It will be better...”

“What?  You’ve seen something you don’t like and you want to spare me.  Don’t you see, doctor, that that’s a symptom of your desire to abandon the fantasy.  Stop trying to lay blame for all of your anger.”

“You presumptuous prick.  I’m not trying to spare you.  I’d kill you right here and now if I thought I could succeed.  Your past is enmeshed in hate and prejudice.  You’re the worst monster this world has ever faced.”

There was silence between them, a departure from vocal communication as their hate and anger built and they took their time to occupy the same level.

“You were Adolf Hitler.”

A race to find the words.

A race the rabbi won.

Other inmates and all of the guards turned to watch and listen as this holy man, this man of wisdom, let loose on the doctor with all of the venom of which a single human being was capable.

There was a lot of How dare you?! And a fair amount of You’re sick.  But the rabbi could convey no solid argument; he could barely congregate his thoughts, could hardly articulate.

“You have dragged me three thousand miles only to deal me an insult that cuts to the core of my heritage?”

“I only tell what I see.”

“The state should have accepted your insanity plea.”

“Perhaps.  Or perhaps this is God’s way of punishing you.”

“Go to hell.”

****

The plane trip from LAX to LaGuardia airport took just over five hours from take off to disembarking.

Rabbi Guetterman was tremendously upset as he entered the cab which took him from the prison where Dr. Palaniewiecz would die to the airlink.

He was entombed in rage and could not coordinate a thought as the small plane took him on a twenty two minute trip into LAX.  His bag had gone on ahead on the original flight.  It would be waiting for him at LaGuardia when he got there.

As he took his seat aboard the large passenger plane, he found himself becoming less and less angry.  He was beginning to realize that his rage was not directed at Dr. Palaniewiecz, whose years of working with those mentally afflicted had left him emotionally withered and even depraved, but with himself for not realizing the extent of the doctor’s mania and his reaction to the ridiculous, almost infantile, accusations made of him.

As he grew calm, he was able to think better.  And it became more and more clear that Dr. Palaniewiecz had been setting him up the whole time.  If the rabbi had validated the doctor’s beliefs, perhaps things would have gone differently.  But since he had held fast to his own convictions and imposed them over Dr. Palaniewiecz’ claims, the doctor had lashed out, using his assertions to belittle his antagonist.

It was the simplest, most rational explanation and its existence in Rabbi Guetterman’s mind lasted right up until the moment he saw his wife.

****

Laura had a way of dragging the truth out of his subconscious just by smiling at him.  Maybe it was her love.  Maybe it was that the electrical impulses emanating from each of their brains resonated on such a frequency that it was impossible for him, in her presence, to keep secrets from himself.

Regardless, from that moment on, Rabbi Guetterman was unable to fool himself into believing that what Dr. Palaniewiecz had said had not invaded his mind like a disease and taken root.  And there was no cure.

****

And the little things grow.

****

LUNCH

Vincent Anthony Macchio was a very powerful man in his own right.  He was almost sixty seven years old but still when even the young punks saw him coming, they ceased their mischief, greeted him politely, and went on about their business.

There was never any talk behind his back.

Vincent had grown very accustomed to his importance in recent years, accepting the ease with which he was able to glide through life and feeling that he had earned his place.  As a small boy in Italy, he had worked hard to make sure there was food for his Mama and his four baby sisters.  They were all dead now.  Mama had refused to leave Europe during the war, but had sent him and his sisters to America with their Uncle Vito.  He had never heard from her again.

Life in the States had been tough as well.  Vito had disappeared shortly after their arrival, his disappearance still a mystery, though a rival family had been wiped out in response.  Vincent and his sisters had been adopted by the community, taken in as children of the Castellis.  One night, a long time ago, an assassin had broken into the house while they slept and cut the throats of everyone inside from ear to ear.  Only Vincent had survived.  Richie Castelli, his adopted father's brother, had said it was because Vincent was tough like a bull.  Vincent still bore the scar from that attack, a jagged white line that smiled across his neck like an extra pair of lips.  It had grown soft and hung oddly as his jowls shook when he walked.

Raised a Catholic, Vincent had always had religion in his life.  It was one of those things that buoyed him in the deep waters of turmoil and clothed him during the freezing winters of decisive action.  But religion to him meant more than just what was written in the New Testament and what had been taught to him by the vicious nuns who had schooled him.  Catholicism was just the avenue on which he walked.  Religion was the entire world.  And that meant that he believed and spoke of tolerance of all religions.  A belief in God, to Vincent Castelli, was a belief in God.  Period.  God made man, he had been saying throughout all of his life.  But faith in God made man great.

So the faithful were among the greatest people ever born.  But only the truly faithful.  Men who used faith to gain wealth or power were evil men whose casual disrespect for God would haunt their souls throughout existence.  Vincent had gained his power through blood and strength and perseverance.  Faith had been his armor, his secret courage never to be used as a weapon.

And here he was.

His faith in God and his definition of Faith were why he loved and respected Rabbi Guetterman so much.  His favorite day of the week was Tuesday because on Tuesdays he and the rabbi met for lunch at the Kosher deli and ate the best cold cuts known to man and talked about a variety of topics which were of the utmost importance in their facetiousness.

Vincent always got there first.  He liked to be seated, his eyes on the door when the rabbi arrived.  Most people believed it was because he was an Italian, a mobster.  Never sit with your back to the door.  But out here in this neighborhood, he had little to worry about.  None of his enemies would dare hit him while at a Jewish deli.  Too many people to piss off.  Including the five guys outside who earned the big bucks to keep their eyes open and, if the need should arise, eat a bullet for him.  No, he believed the rabbi to be a very special man.  Good of heart.  Wise of mind.  A saint, if a Jewish saint could have ever existed.  And Vincent liked to see him arrive, watch him walk through the door, look around the whole place as if he didn't know that Vincent would already be there at the same table he sat at every Tuesday afternoon.  Then he would smile.  And Vincent would smile back.

“It's good to see you again, my friend.”

Vincent always said that.  As if they saw each other only once every ten years.

“How was your trip?”

“It was awful.  He said I was Hitler.”

“Hitler?!”

Now bear in mind that these two men were sitting and having lunch in a Jewish deli.  Hitler is not the exclamation of choice for that environment.  Even in the proper context, the name is something that turns heads.  Even toward Vincent Macchio.

“What are you all looking at?  My friend and I are having a private conversation.”

“Vincent.”

“What, Max?  I am entitled to my privacy.”

Heads turned away.

A waiter came over and took their order.  Vincent ordered a lot of food.  He loved Kosher deli.  It was the one genre of food the Italians had not conquered.  And it was good for them.

“So, Max.  He called you Hitler.  An odd choice of words.”

“He believes in past lives.  He believes he can see other people's past lives.”

“So he actually thinks you are Hitler.”

The rabbi nodded.

Vincent shook his head.

“And this disturbs you?”

“What if you found out you were Mussolini in a past life?”

Vincent laughed.  When Vincent laughed it was not the booming, hearty laughter expected of a man of his girth and his station in life.  Instead, his expression of joy was a wheezing, scraping sound like the sound of a man afflicted by multiple cancers.  It was not a happy sound, not the sound of laughter.  But Vincent was not a smoker and for a fat, fat man, he was tremendously healthy.

“Mussolini was still alive when I was born, sir.”

“Well Hitler was dead already when my mother had me.”

Vincent laughed again.

“My friend, all of the saints and angels in heaven could not drain the black from that man's heart.  He could never be you as surely as you could never be him.”

“I know that.  But Dr. Palaniewiecz was convinced.  And when you are faced with the convictions of another, it's difficult to be entirely doubtful.”

“Madness.”

“For you and for me...”

“For me.  For you, my friend, I see the madness creeps in.”

Rabbi Guetterman lowered his head.

“I can't resolve it in my head.  I may have to fly back and confront him again.”

Nodding, Vincent shoved a kosher pickle into his mouth.  There were always pickles and cole slaw before the meal.  Food before a meal is like the preview before the movie.

“Then you will be attending his funeral.”

Astonishment.

“What?!  Vincent, what are you saying?”

At that table there sat two men who knew each other, two men who respected each other.  But their lives never converged except at this point.  There were things they discussed and other things they did not.

“I am saying he is dead.  And his nonsense dies with him.”

“Dead?  How can that be?  How could you know that?”

“I have a friend in that prison.  A friend unjustly convicted, I might add.”

The rabbi's voice dropped in volume.

“Vincent, I'm disturbed.  If this was done on my behalf...”

The food came but Vincent was now too insulted to eat.  What was the rabbi suggesting?

“Done?  Rabbi, after our years of friendship, you can question my integrity?”

“Moreso when you talk to me like a godfather.”

“My friend and I are in constant communication.  Guillermo is his name.  I spoke with him yesterday and names were mentioned.  He was amazed at the coincidence because several hours earlier your Dr. Palaniewiecz had a heart attack in his cell.”

****

Rabbi Guetterman was troubled after that.  He could not concentrate on his prayers or his studies or his life.  He knew that Vincent was a criminal.  That was the way he told it to himself.  Vincent is a criminal.  After all, sugarcoating the truth can not justify the lie.  So Vincent was a criminal and the rabbi was aware.  But they never discussed Vincent’s criminal activities.  When there was such illegal activity going on, Vincent would just skirt the issue, change the subject.  Because subject changing is the way master criminals get away with the crimes they commit.  And who was Max Guetterman to question his good friend when nothing forthright concerning any sort of underhanded circumstances was ever introduced into evidence?

The simple fact that Vincent had outright denied having anything to do with the death of Simon Palaniewiecz convinced Rabbi Guetterman that Vincent had nothing to do with the death of Simon Palaniewiecz.

But a heart attack?

Very suspicious.

An investigator from the prison in California where Dr. Palaniewiecz had died contacted the rabbi at the synagogue.

It was standard procedure.  Rabbi Guetterman had been the last person outside the guards and other inmates to speak with the deceased.  Several of the other inmates observed strange behavior including reclusiveness and apparent fatigue.  Did Rabbi Guetterman notice either of those characteristics?  Did Dr. Palaniewiecz say anything to Rabbi Guetterman to indicate that he might be physically unwell?  Did Rabbi Guetterman leave the prison with the impression that Dr. Palaniewiecz might have some terrible illness which he was choosing to hide from the community at large?

That’s a lot of questions.

And the rabbi answered no to most of them.  The fatigue, he knew, was caused by the meditative state into which Dr. Palaniewiecz had placed himself so that he could allegedly see into the rabbi’s past.  Rabbi Guetterman explained that to the investigator, Mr. Cromwell, and also gave him as many details about the two visits as possible.  He also recommended that Mr. Cromwell get in touch with the other spiritual leaders with which the doctor had been in contact.  Rabbi Guetterman’s impression was that Dr. Palaniewiecz was meeting with frustration and disappointment in his quest for justification and that, coupled with his prison sentence may very well have caused his stress level to rise to an intolerable limit.

Boom.

Heart attack.

Sure, sure, and thanks, Rabbi.



And that was that.  Dr. Simon Palaniewiecz was dead, just as Vincent had told him.

****

But his legacy lived on.

****

ROBERT

Laura was on the front porch talking with a nice young police officer.  The officer was a woman, maybe twenty four but probably not even so old.  She was a rookie for sure and her partner, a portly older man, was leaning on the railing support and giving it a run for its money with his body weight.  The young lady officer had blonde hair tied back behind her head in a pony tail.  Lots of lady police officers wear pony tails and that makes sense.  It keeps the hair out of their faces and allows them to work unfettered.  Her uniform didn't do her justice.  She was very pretty and probably very thin but between the way the police force tailored its pants and the heavy belt with all sorts of equipment strapped on, you could never tell.

Laura was still pretty.

Even after all these years.

Even with the streaks on her face from where she had been crying.

Laura did not cry often.  She was a strong woman, stronger than most the rabbi had met in his years.  When she did cry it was never out of fright or shock.  She was not prone to uncontrollable emotions.  But when there was grief or sadness, she encouraged crying.  When she felt that tears could solve problems, Laura called them up to her and used them to soothe not only her own troubles, but the troubles of others.

She was a remarkable woman.

And if she had shed tears it was probably due to the giant red swastika painted on their front door.

****

Enter Robert Falcone.

Eighteen years prior, four boys ages eleven through thirteen who had been raised as good Catholics but steered wrong by hateful influences, had vandalized the Jewish Temple where Rabbi Guetterman held his services.  All four boys had been caught by the police and, under the rabbi’s direction, had been given the option of helping to repair the damage they had done or being placed in a juvenile facility.

All four chose the first.

Three did not complete the task.

The first was discovered sabotaging their efforts and immediately sent off to juvenile detention where he made many of the wrong friends and was shot to death during a burglary attempt nine years later.

The second worked hard because he was afraid to go to juvenile hall but got involved in a gang and was knifed by a member of a rival gang.  A paraplegic, he was entered, by his parents, into a home for the handicapped where he remained.

The third boy, a scared and mixed up child, was so afraid of his father that being sent to juvenile prison seemed like his best way out.  So, despite his choice (imposed upon him by the old man), he slacked off, didn’t show, and wound up having his fears justified when his dear old dad beat him into a coma.  Seventeen months later he died and his father spent the remainder of his years upstate in prison.

The fourth boy was Robert Falcone.

Robert was unique in many ways.  To begin with, his remorse was sincere and profound.  He worked diligently with Rabbi Guetterman to undo the damage that had been done.  Though he had become more and more devout a Catholic as the years went by, his respect for the rabbi never waned and he continued to offer his services and his money to the temple whenever it was needed.  He had learned a valuable lesson about hate and about goodness and morality issues became very clear in his mind.

Robert was a stock broker, a very wealthy man.  His devotion to a second religion seemed odd to most others but Rabbi Guetterman was a progressive man, an open minded man.  This relationship made him proud.  God did not put billions of different people on the Earth so that they should all remain separate.  It was in His plan that, one day, all people should come together and remember all of the traditions of their forefathers while forging new traditions for later generations to remember with pride.

That was why hate crimes such as these disturbed him at his roots.  They were in direct violation of what he believed to be God’s will.  This vandalism piled up on top of his confrontation with Dr. Palaniewiecz like butterscotch on ice cream.  It filled his stomach with dread and it was Laura who comforted him that night until the phone rang and she answered it.

It was Robert.

Robert Falcone.

Speak of the devil.

“Hello, Robert.”

He heard.

Of course.  After an hour, everyone had heard.

Robert wanted to know if it had been covered up yet.

“Some paint from the shed.  It took five minutes.”

Not good enough.  He’s coming over to do the job right.

“Totally unnecessary.”

Totally necessary.

“Robert, please….”

He already has the paint and he’s on his way.  You won’t even know he’s there.

****

But they shared some coffee and talked while Robert painted and when Rabbi Guetterman tried to pitch in and help he would hear nothing of it.  So, by ten o'clock that evening there was a fresh color on the door and no sign of Hitler's atrocities.

The two men sat together on the porch, sipping coffee and staring out at the street.

Rabbi Guetterman glanced at his watch.  “It’s late.”

“It’s ten o’clock.  The company can do without me for a couple of hours tomorrow morning.”

“Robert, you didn’t have to do this.  You could have at least let me help.”

Robert sipped at his coffee.  “Nonsense.  You saved my life.”

The two men shared a laugh.

“Now that is nonsense.”

Robert said nothing for a while, simply staring off into space, wondering why his friend would think that.

“Max, have I ever told you about my parents?”

“Only that they were good Catholics.”

“The best.  They gave time and money to the Church and were revered by the community.”

“But?”

“But they were filled with hate.  They hated blacks and Hispanics and Jews and everyone who wasn’t white and Christian.  Where do you think I learned to hate?”

“Robert, you are not a man who hates.”

“Eighteen years ago, I was painting swastikas on Temples.  Do you remember?”

“Of course I remember. “

“You gave me a choice back then, showed me the man behind the religion.”

“And is that how I saved your life?”

“I was able to banish the hate, Max.  Hate breeds hate.  It never goes away.  Once the hate is inside of you, it travels with you from year to year, even from life to life.

The rabbi looked quickly at his friend.  “Robert, do you believe that?”

“I do.  I’ve seen so much hate, Max.  People hate each other for no reason at all.”

“Don’t you believe in absolution?”

Robert shook his head sadly.  “No.  It doesn’t go away.”

“What about you?  I gave you a second chance and you became a good person.”

“I was always a good person, Max, just like you are.  But I had all of the wrong influences until I met you.    That’s how you saved my life.  I could have been corrupted and once corrupted, you can never go back.”

“Not even in your next life?”

Robert laughed and put a hand on the rabbi’s shoulder.  He could see how much this conversation was upsetting him, but didn’t understand why.  “Max, don’t take it all so personally.”

“Robert, you know that man I went to see in California?”

“That guy in prison, sure.”

“He claimed to see into my past, my past lives.”

“What did he say?”  Now Robert seemed disturbed.

“He said the worst thing anyone could ever say to a rabbi, a Jew, a person.”

The rabbi hesitated, lowering his head into his hands.  He couldn’t believe how much the words of Dr. Palaniewiecz had affected him.

“Max, what did he say?”

“He said that I was Adolph Hitler before I was Max Guetterman.”

“Max…don’t…that can’t be true.”

“Of course it can’t be true!  But it can be true, can’t it?  It’s so ridiculous, but it’s not.”

“Max…”

“I’m sorry, Robert.  I don’t mean to shout.  You’re my dear friend and you are a guta-n’shoma.  Your opinion means more to me than almost anyone’s.  That hate from Hitler…if it’s in me…”

But Robert stood up, moving to the porch steps.  Now he was upset more than he could control.

“It can’t be, Max!  It can’t be!”

“I’m sorry, Robert.  Don’t be upset.”

“Of course I’m upset.  You’re upset.  Who is this criminal?  I have half a mind to go out there and confront him myself.”

“He’s dead.  He died in prison last night after I left him.”

“Well, good.  Good, it’s settled then.”

“But the swastika…”

“It’s nothing, Max.  Vandals.  Jew haters.  You’ve dealt with them before.  The police will catch them.”

He looked at his watch.

“It’s late.”

Grabbing the paint tray and the roller, he moved down the steps and threw them into the outdoor garbage can.

“Keep the paint.  It’s the color for your door.”

“Okay.  Thank you, Robert.”

“Good night, Max.”

As Robert walked off down the street, Rabbi Guetterman stared after him, confused now more than before and suddenly afraid.  This “nonsense” was becoming anything but.

****


TEXAS

Hitler.

Hitler on the mind.

Hitler in Texas.

There was a man in Texas who went by the name of Jebediah Ewing.  His real name, the name given to him by his mother on the eve of his birth, was Herbert Knowlan but he never ever mentioned that to anyone and when his mother had died, he had gone to the hall of records, had his name legally changed, and forgotten that Herbert Knowlan, named for his grandfather, ever existed.

Fine.

So Jebediah Ewing, who lived down in Texas, was the leader of a struggling group of Nazis.  They held meetings every week during which a bunch of shaven headed dopes would show up, drink beer, and dance around singing the praises of the master race.  And Jebediah Ewing, who believed in Hitler's preaching with all of his righteous heart, considered them to be exactly what they were.  Uneducated, ignorant trash who wouldn't know the master race if it started in their bedrooms and ended at their toilets.

He wanted more.

In his group there was one young kid with great potential.

“Stay in school, Kevin.”

“Don't ever forsake your education.”

“It's your brain that will triumph, not your brawn.”

Kevin didn't come to all the meetings.  In fact, he showed up at a very few.  His parents were liberals (well, liberals for Texans anyway) and they were raising him to be a liberal even though he had seen the truth through his own experiences.  Fourteen years worth of experiences.

Kevin had met with Jebediah Ewing through one of the kids in the group that went to the same school.  This boy was nineteen, still a junior in high school and unwilling to give it up.  Bully for him.  Too bad they couldn't cram a novel's worth of knowledge into his comic book sized brain.  Jebediah Ewing was sometimes amazed the bastard could read.  But this boy, Razor, had started his relationship with Kevin by attempting to bully him out of some money once or twice a week.  Kevin was smart and he was ruthless and after two months of planning and waiting, he sprung his trap and made Razor look like the dullard he truly was.  But in so doing he had tipped his hand and even Razor was smart enough to realize that Jebediah Ewing would love to meet him.

At sixteen Jebediah Ewing had dropped out of high school.  It had been his first opportunity to do so and he’d taken it like a beggar takes a dollar bill.  For six years, he did nothing constructive, drinking beer and doing small jobs.  He was a loser, a waste of life.  But a Protestant Pastor had given him the Bible and though Jebediah Ewing was religious only in the sense that he believed in God and he believed in God's will, he was not the praying type.  But he read that Bible because it was the only book he owned.  And he found, much to his delight, that reading was something that he could enjoy and it was something that made him a smarter person.  A better person.  It took him almost another eight years to realize the full potential of his intelligence and he didn't want Kevin, who could have the world at his fingertips, to lose that time.

When he had first heard about the Jury, Jebediah Ewing had dismissed it as zealot crap.  Whoever heard of a group of fanatics running around punishing those who were guilty of crimes in their past lives?  Nonsense.  But this was a movement that was growing.  Even Kevin was a believer and Kevin was no fanatic.  In fact, he had stated on various occasions that a belief in God was a belief in primitive tribalism and it was something the human race would ultimately be forced to abandon or face its own demise.

Pretty heavy thoughts for a fourteen year old.

So, past lives?  Maybe bullshit.  Probably not.  There could be any number of scientific explanations for the transmission of a soul into another body.  Those were the explanations that people like Kevin, were they to subscribe to the past life notion to begin with, were likely to accept.  But Jebediah Ewing, though not religious, not religious at all, did believe in God.  How could you not?  There was evidence of God in every walk of life.  God had created man in his own image.  But in so creating, God had erred.  Sure, it was blasphemy to think that God could fuck up, but hey, it was a tough universe and accidents happen.  In His quest for the perfect reflection of His greatness, God had experimented.  And like all experimentation, this had met with some failures.  The blacks.  The Jews.  Pretty much all of Asia.  And the diaper heads.  They were the worst.  And it was the job of the master race to eliminate the failed experiments and cleanse the Earth so that it would be the way God intended it.

And this was the thought process of Jebediah Ewing.

But the whole idea of the Jury and what it represented troubled him.  Especially the part concerning Rabbi Guetterman.

Rabbi Guetterman.

A Jew.

Housing the spirit of Hitler himself.

God's finest creation.

Imagine!

Careful steps needed to be taken in order to insure that this situation resolve itself correctly.  Already most of Jebediah Ewing's select group of Nazi enthusiasts, ignorant animals though they were, were enamored with the ideals of the Jury.

Punish the guilty.

That's always fun.

Whether they are guilty in this life or another.

That's always fun.

But there were steps to be taken.  Strategies to be exercised.  And painting a friggin' swastika on the front door of their target, virtually alerting him to the presence of what he might mistakenly consider hostiles was not part of the plan.

Jebediah Ewing kept telling himself that Guetterman would never be able to associate the defacing with its true meaning.  Being a rabbi in New York, he and the police would simply categorize it as an act of racist driven vandalism.  But there was this nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach, the feeling that the rabbi was a step ahead of them.  Despite the inferiority of his breed, he did house the soul of the greatest leader ever known to mankind.  Hitler.  And Hitler's genius would certainly transcend time and physical being.  So this rabbi, though clueless, might be able to reach into the great portion of himself and discover the truth.

Discover the Jury.

Which was out to hang him.

But which, for all intents and purposes did not even exist.

Even those people associated with the Jury, people like Kevin and now Jebediah Ewing himself, did not know the origin of the Jury, who its leaders were or from whose great mind it had sprung.  How even the rabbi could know about it was a mystery to Jebediah Ewing.

But the rabbi did know about it.

In some small way.

Jebediah Ewing knew it in his gut.


****

GOD’S BUSINESS

“What if it's true?”

The one question all people ask of themselves or others when the most ridiculous of allegations with the most severe of consequences is made.  What if it's true?  What then?  What now?  What of it?  What if Grant really isn't buried in Grant's tomb?  What if George Washington's white horse was a different color altogether?

What then?

What now?

What of it?

How many people in other countries, in this country had asked that very same question during World War II?  What if there really are death camps in Nazi Germany?  What if they really are rounding up Jews and Gypsies and Gays and God knows who else and burning them, gassing them, performing medical experiments on them?  What if it's true?

What then?

What now?

What of it?

Rabbi Guetterman's father and his entire family had been the victims of those endless musings and nonexistent results.

What if it's true?

“It's preposterous.”

That's a big word, preposterous.  Stupid, ridiculous, and insane are pretty much the public's words of choice when it comes to the outrageous.  Preposterous is the kind of word used by those who are not only flabbergasted by the unbelievable news they've just heard but offended by it.  Angered by it.

“That's what they said in 1936.  In Poland.  In  Czheckoslovakia, Yugoslavia, and a dozen other countries.

“In the United States.”

“I won't even discuss it, Max.”

“But, Pop, the swastika.”

“You're a rabbi and you're well known.  In this world, unfortunately, that makes you somebody's target.”

Ninety years of coughing.

“I wasn't even going to tell you about it.  I felt you'd react this way.”

“I'm sorry you went.  I'm sorry I told you to go.”

“But I did go, Pop.  And the question was raised.”

Joseph Guetterman straightened himself up in his bed.  He spent a lot of time in his bed nowadays and not a whole lot of that time straightening himself up.  He was tired.

“There is no question.  I'm tired.”

“You're not.  That's an old man's trick and I'm ashamed of you for pulling it.”

“Fine.  I'm not tired.”

“Stop it.”

“I'll stop when you stop.”

“Acting like a child is just another old man's trick.  I deserve more than that, Pop.”

Joseph thought about that.  Though his bones always ached and his muscles had abandoned him long ago, his mind was still his mind and he had not been born to play the part of an old man.  He just couldn't stomach the role.

“God punishes the guilty.”

“What if this is God's punishment?”

“What do you mean?”

“We don't believe in hell, Pop, so how does God punish us?”

“That's God's business.”

“Well maybe they’ve discovered God's business.”

Joseph laughed now, a deep booming laughter that was the total antithesis of Vincent Anthony Macchio's.  As was Joseph himself in every conceivable way.  How Rabbi Guetterman could love, like, and respect both men as much as he did was unfathomable.

“Are you a rabbi or one of them now?”

“Who are they?”

“The ignorant masses.  The young and the foolish who are seeking to learn everything there is to be learned.”

“We learn, too, Pop.  It's part of our heritage.”

A shaking fist, the skin stretched out over the bone, fine white hairs poking from the knuckles.

“But we have respect for what is God's!  We do not meddle into His affairs.”

“But God made us curious.”

“And it is that curiosity which drove us from the Garden of Eden.  Shall we risk the Earth as well?”

“So maybe this is God's punishment.”

“God is punishing you?”

“God is punishing Hitler.  What greater punishment for an evil man than to force him to become that which he loathes the most?”

“Preposterous.”

“What greater punishment than the further knowledge of his past sins life after life after life?”

“Preposterous.”

“What greater punishment than to have his shame known publicly, to have his identity a mystery to no one?”

“Preposterous!”

“What greater punishment than to have to live in fear of both himself and his enemies in every life?”

“Preposterous!  Max, stop it!”

“Aren't you the least bit curious, Pop?”

The old man breathed in and out because it was the only thing at the moment on which he felt able to focus.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  This was his life, his world, the past he had tried like hell to leave behind.  This punishment was not only bestowed upon Max.

Why was Joseph to be punished as well?

“What if you're sitting across from the greatest threat the Jewish people have ever known?  Worse even than Pharaoh.”

“Hitler was not worse than Pharaoh.  Hitler and Pharaoh were just the same.”

“And maybe now God has found a way to stifle that evil.”

For the first time in his life, Joseph Guetterman could not look his son in the eye.  He was ashamed of himself.  The temptation was so strong.

“Do you hate me now, Pop?”

He could not answer.  The tears had clouded his vision.  His emotions had bottled up in his throat.  His nose began to run.  His lungs.  His heart.  His brain.

For a moment so brief that only God Himself could distinguish it from all the others, Joseph Guetterman died.  After almost ninety years of being the same person, struggling through adversity, persevering to create a new and blessed life, Joseph Guetterman had ceased to exist.  His soul fled and his empty body sat on the bed in the retirement home and stared vacantly at the skinny legs covered in white hair.

Until that soul returned and the empty body whose heart had actually stopped, whose lungs had actually deflated, whose brain had actually shut down, filled with the essence of the man and lifted its head.

“I cannot hate you, Max.  You are my son and I am proud of you.”

“But...”

“No buts.  I cannot accept what you are suggesting and we will never speak of it again.”



The letter was from Texas.

Laura did not open it because it was addressed to Max and to Max only so, as part of her respect for his privacy, though she was his wife and he her husband, she did not open it.  Max would never have been mad but upon seeing his name on the envelope he would have wondered why Laura, so out of character, would read the letter that was addressed to him and only him so she did not open it.

****

dear hitler i don't know how i don't know why but you are back and you must die i will be there to break your bones i will be there to burn your home i am the justice you never saw i am the bringer of g-ds law!


He showed the letter to the police.

It arrived on Wednesday and he could not sleep that night.  When Laura asked him about it, he had refused to tell her.

Trying to hide a truth that she already knew existed was normally futile.

She had a very subtle way of persisting.

Rabbi Guetterman raised his voice.

“Stop asking me!”

On Thursday, because Laura would not let him leave the house on the Wednesday he read it, he brought it to the police.  He got up early in the morning and went right to the police station where he showed it to the desk sergeant.

They knew him.  He was friendly with several of the officers at the precinct because he had been there during the vandalisms at the temple and he had been a victim of such vandalism himself just the other night.

Of course, two such incidents gave pause to the officers in charge.  It established that someone was targeting Rabbi Guetterman and his family.  And the tone of the letter was indeed threatening.

“But what’s all of this Hitler nonsense?”

So he told them.  He didn’t tell them that he believed it himself, which was both true and false at the same time.  In fact, he was quite adamant in his persecution of the accusation, which presented him as a liar, though the officers didn’t know it.

Since Dr. Palaniewiecz, though alive at the time, had been in prison when the letter was sent there was no possible way he could have sent it himself and have it arrive with a Texas postmark.  No connection between the doctor and anyone from Texas or the surrounding states could be established.  It was likely that someone in the vicinity, who had a connection with someone in Texas, had come into knowledge of what had transpired between the rabbi and Dr. Palaniewiecz and was using that knowledge to mount an assault of terror on the Guettermans.  The officers politely asked the rabbi to recount his time to them since his return to New York, which he did.  When he told them of his conversation with Vincent, some eyeballs rolled and some heads turned.  Vincent Macchio was very well known in the police department and he would be the crux of their investigation.  Rabbi Guetterman recognized that right away and tied a mental string around his finger reminding himself to warn his friend of the upcoming onslaught of questions.

“It’s just a formality, Mr. Macchio.  It has nothing to do with the fact that we’ve been trying to nail you for fifteen years. “

Well Rabbi Guetterman was quite clear on one thing, and vocal about it so there would be no mistake.  Vincent was an old friend and a good one at that.  Their conversations were private, an escape from the everyday grind for Vincent and there was no possibility that he was behind or responsible for the horrifying events of the past two days.

“But the swastika was painted on your door on Tuesday, after your weekly lunch with Mr. Macchio.”

So he realized there would be no help from the police who would try to link these attacks to the rabbi’s friend just because they had been trying to link him to something for so long.  Well they would get no help from Max Guetterman who would now have to fend for himself.

****

“It's the rabbi.”

“Nonsense.  Rabbi Max and I only see each other on Tuesdays.”

“It's not Tuesday.”

“I, of course, am aware that it is not Tuesday.  Therefore, I am wondering why you would tell me that Rabbi Max is here to see me at my home.”

---

“Why don't you show the rabbi in, please?”

****

Rabbi Guetterman looked agitated, frightened even.  Many people were frightened in the presence of Vincent Macchio.  That fear was an extension of any of several emotions these many people were experiencing.  Hate.  Anger.  Awe.  Or, maybe, just plain old fear.  In all cases, though, this or these emotions was or were directed at Vincent himself.  But, unless he had read his friend completely wrong and his friend was not actually his friend, then this fear, for genuine fear it was, stemmed from some other source.

“Do you have the note, Max?”

There was no room for formalities here.  No space for niceties.  Friends though they were, this was not a setting of friendship.  Rabbi Guetterman had not been invited to the Macchio home.  He had not called ahead to announce his intent.

And he was the source of an investigation into Vincent Macchio that was as insulting as it was troublesome.

“I'm sorry, Vincent.  The police kept it. They are trying to do a handwriting analysis.”

Vincent retreated behind a great oaken desk, polished to a fine texture and shine, and sat in a comfortable leather chair.  Two other chairs sat on the other side of the desk, the side on which Rabbi Guetterman stood.  They were leather, mostly, and red.  Not a deep red like the red of a rose petal or a ripe strawberry or blood or blood or blood.  But more the red of a cherry that has just come off of George Washington's tree.  More the red of a grape or a very fine wine or a wine or a wine.  The arms of the chair, unupholstered, were of a delicate wood that the rabbi could not identify, though he was sure Robert Falcone would have been able to.  There was an intricate carving running along their length and words that, when sounded out phonetically, sounded Italian.  But all of the letters were capital and some of them didn't even correspond to the symbols Rabbi Guetterman had been taught in school.

They were Latin.

And Latin was for doctors and Catholics of which Rabbi Max Guetterman was neither.

“You look worried, my friend.”

“I'm terrified, Vincent.”

“Have you no faith in God?”

“My faith is strong, but God's will is His own.  He brings about terrible tragedies whose purposes you and I can't understand.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

That was a mistake and Vincent knew it.  But he had to be sure.  A man in his position can never be too careful.  A man in his position has to know his friends and he must continuously test their loyalty.

But...

“That's ridiculous (not preposterous).  Why would I be afraid of you?”

One of the great things about Max Guetterman was his ability to dismiss the threat.  Vincent's simple statement, uttered to ninety percent of the rest of New York's great and diverse population would have spelled out a threat so formidable that ninety percent of that ninety percent would have fallen to their knees begging for their lives.

Or the end of them.

But these are things Vincent and Max did not discuss over deli.

And, therefore, never discussed them at all.

Until now.

Vincent smiled a broad smile but did not laugh because even he knew that his laugh was a great dispeller of terrific moods.

“What is it you need from me, my friend?”

Now Rabbi Guetterman sat, breathing a little more easily because his friend was acting a little bit more like his friend and a little bit less like the gangster whose reputation he had earned.

“We banter, Vincent, but the truth is the truth.”

Vincent didn't entirely understand but he nodded anyway.  This was business.  A favor for a friend, sure, but he could see that this favor was going to be very important.  Like business.

The rabbi kneaded his hands restlessly in his lap.  His fear was palpable and it hurt Vincent to see him this way.

He offered him a drink.

Some fine Italian wine.

No, it was not Kosher.

“Kosher wine, you'll pardon, is made from the piss of a grape.”

“Yes, I'll have some.”

Even though it was not Kosher.

It was a fine vintage, a wine that the rabbi had never tasted and never would again.  But he enjoyed it nonetheless and made a silent prayer and silent apology for needing it so badly.

“So?”

“So I'm afraid that the police aren't going to do anything.”

“They will send a regular car by your house.”

“I don't think it'll be enough.  That letter was a threat on my life, Vincent.”

“This is not lunch, Max.  I have had much experience with threats.  Most of them are false.”

“You have to understand.  This isn't an isolated event.  Palaniewiecz, the swastika, and the letter are all related.”

“Someone who knows of your conversation with the dear departed doctor is playing with you.”

“I don't think so.  Do you know something about it?”

“I told you I do not.”

“But that was at lunch.”

Vincent drummed his fingers on the desk.  The noise from his fleshy fingers hitting the polished wood was barely audible.

“I do not.”

“Can you learn anything?”

“You mean about the note or the swastika?”

Rabbi Guetterman nodded.

“About all of it.”

“About the lunatics who think you were Adolf Hitler?”

“I'm begging you, Vincent.  I'm afraid for my family.”

“Ah!”

Family.  The single greatest unit represented by humanity.  A close family is stronger than an army.

“You will ask no questions?”

“Questions?  What kind of questions?”

Vincent smiled again.

“That, my friend, is a question.”

****

NEW YORK

The flight into JFK from Texas cost $892 with two stopovers.



****

FASANO

 “Car.”

Three men sitting in a battered old Chevy slunk down in their seats.  In contrast to the car itself, these three men wore expensive suits with expensive ties, expensive jewelry, and expensive underwear.  These men were high rolling individuals with upper class tastes who didn't want to be noticed by the squad cars going by every hour.  That's why they had chosen the old Chevy as their disguise while they sat outside the Guetterman home at two in the morning.

Inside his pocket, the man sitting in the passenger seat felt a slight vibration.  This man was tall and just the perfect weight for his height.  At thirty one years old he was old enough to be smart and young enough to be effective.  He commanded great respect from those around him whether they were his superiors, of which there were few, or his subordinates, of which there were many.

The vibration was his cellular phone.

He answered the phone quietly.

“Fasano.”

“Comin' up the street.”

The car had already passed, a police car as they had expected.  That meant it would be an hour before another one came by.  Just the perfect time for an assault upon the Guetterman family.

Fasano opened his door silently.  Joey S. had done a complete workup on the Chevy that afternoon to make sure that nothing squeaked, rattled, or groaned.  For a '74, the car was in perfect shape.  Except the body, which was the disguise.

Fasano's cohorts followed him out, each straightening the jackets of their suits as they stood erect.  They stayed in the shadows, their dark suits providing them cover.  There was a broken streetlight where they had parked so they were all but invisible.

The fellow coming up the street was also tall, but not as tall as Fasano himself.  And he was much thinner.  Lanky and gawky.  Though the expression on his face was unreadable, his hair, what was left of it, was grown long and wild.  Just what they had expected.

“Do you think he's alone?”

Fasano nodded.

He didn't know what it was all about, though he was familiar with Rabbi Guetterman.  Orders are orders.  But experience had shown him that this dirty, ragged excuse for humanity was on a mission of his own self defined righteousness, all by his little lonesome.

God damned zealots.

The walker passed their position and started up the Guetterman's walk, a ten foot stretch of pavement that led to a short, two step stoop, a narrow porch,  and a freshly painted front door.

Fasano deployed his troops, the two men, and started up the middle of the street, finally allowing himself to be highlighted by the functional streetlamps up and down the block.

The scraggly walker halted halfway up the path, his back to them but his senses alerted.  Fasano stopped, too, though his companions continued their advance.  The walker's sensing of them had alarmed him, impressed him.  Had he underestimated him?

Fasano's two men emerged just as their quarry was about to bolt.  Like a rabbit, this guy's sense of danger was uncanny.  But he only got as far as the tensing of his muscles before he was grabbed by both arms and wrestled to the ground.

No one made noise

No one wanted to get caught.

Fasano finished crossing the street and started up the path.  Wordlessly, he ordered his two men to drag their captive to the Chevy.  That's where they would conduct the interrogation.  That's where it would all happen.

He was handed a knife, a mean looking carving blade.  The walker had been armed.  His mission had been murder.

The phone vibrated.

“Fasano.”

“Beat cop.”

He hung up the phone and put it back in his pocket.

“Get him into the car.”

They struggled their prisoner into the Chevy and pushed him to the floor.  Already they could hear the footsteps of the officer patrolling the neighborhood on foot.  It would be almost five minutes before they could begin the interrogation.

The time passed slowly.  In the back seat, the two men held the walker on the floor.  In the front, Fasano sat slouched in the passenger seat, wishing he could light a cigarette.  The only sound was the exaggerated breathing of their hostage.

“Clear.”

It was a whispered assertion that the cop was gone and they could begin.

The man who had been driving got out of the back seat and into the front.  Starting the car, he looked at Fasano.

“Drive.”

Fasano pulled his phone out of his pocket and hit some numbers.  He waited for maybe three seconds until someone answered.

“Relief.”

And that was the entirety of his conversation with whoever was on the other side of the phone.

Not twenty seconds after they had left the street on which Rabbi Guetterman lived, another car, this time a battered Plymouth, pulled into their spot and sat with the engine off and the three men inside hunched over.

****

“Out.”

The walker got out of the car and stood a little ways away.  He could run, he knew, but what would be the point?  He was sure they had guns.  These guys were prepared.  They were professional.  Some fuckin' profession.

What did it matter anyway?  They were all on the same side.

Fasano held up the knife.  “What were you going to do with this?”

The walker threw his arms into the air.

“It's cool, man.  I'm with the Jury, too.”

The two men looked at each other but Fasano kept his eyes locked on the walker's.  He didn't know what the Jury was.  He didn't know anything.  He didn't need to know.

Stepping closer, he brought his arm around in a wide arc and slashed the knife across the walker's right arm.  It was a small cut, took out mostly the walker's sleeve.  Fasano hadn't wanted to wound him.  Just hurt him.

“Owww!  Hey, man!  What the fuck?!”

The remnants of his sleeve turned quickly red.

“What were you going to do with this?”

Though the blade was still clean.

“I was gonna gut the fucker.  What do you think?”

Fasano turned his back on the walker and strode quietly to the end of the pier.  This time of night, everything was deserted.  Even the homeless didn't come here.  It was still chilly some nights and they liked to stay under cover.  Looking at the long blade in his hand and thinking of the word jury, he gave great consideration to what he knew, what he didn't know, and what he should be able to learn.

He threw the knife into the river.

“Willy.”

The driver left the walker and their last companion alone and came to stand next to Fasano.

“What is it, Nate?”

“Take Ralph and take the car and go for a drive.”

“Sure thing, Nate.”

“Pick me up in an hour.”

Willy glanced over his shoulder at the walker, who was pressing his left palm up against his right bicep.

“You think you'll need that long?”

“If you see him when you pull up, then drive away and give me another half hour.  Clear?”

“Clear, Nate.”

Fasano stood and stared out at the Hudson.  He kept his back turned until he heard the car start, the gears shift, and the thrum of the engine as it accelerated away.

****


SABBATH EVE

Friday evening began the Sabbath.

On Friday morning, Rabbi Guetterman habitually went to the kitchen in his sweat pants and t-shirt and sat at the kitchen table writing a sermon for the faithful for that Friday evening.

Sometimes the sermon did not come out the way he hoped.  He crumpled up his latest effort and tossed it into the garbage can.

 “What’s that?”

It was Judith, his eldest daughter, standing at the kitchen doorway wearing a long flannel nightgown.  She had her mother’s hair and her mother’s eyes.  But she had her father’s good humor and open mind.

“It was an idea I had for a sermon.”

“What was wrong with it?”

“It wasn’t very…rabbinical.”

She began to make toast, her eyes never leaving her father for too long a time.

“Mom said you have to go out today.”

“I have to go meet with a cantor.  He lives up in Queens.”

“Is Cantor Moskowitz very sick?”

“He has throat cancer.  He can’t sing anymore.  It’s a pity on him.”

“We don’t have any school today.  Maybe I’ll take the girls to see him.”

The rabbi smiled with pride.  “He’d like that.”

“And then maybe we can go over to King’s Plaza Mall?”

His smile grew.  “One day, Judith, you will be a politician and forget all about being a rabbi’s daughter.”

“Is that a yes?”

Perhaps she was more like her mother than he gave her credit for.

“Of course.  But take care of your sisters.”

She hugged him.

“Thanks, Daddy.”

****

The rabbi had to travel, by subway, into Queens.

Laura went shopping in the neighborhood.

The girls went to visit the cantor and then to Kings Plaza.

All of them met with incident.

****

Laura liked to use Fridays to shop for household items.  She always shopped at the local stores.  She knew all of the store's owners and workers.  It was comfortable for her.  It was a pleasant experience.

he saw hitlers wife as she was coming up the street  he knew where she lived and he knew her routines  this was the big one  if he played his cards right hed get made a foreman for sure

Fasano ordered Willy to go inside the store and Ralph to wait at the end of the block and back them up.  He'd handle this one himself.  He'd have to or things might get too screwed up for him to correct.  The three jurors were already coming down the street, already heading toward Laura Guetterman.  If Fasano wanted this to all turn out properly he'd have to have some blood to show for it.

Laura was thinking about her husband.  He was agitated about this Hitler business.  She could understand that.  She wished that he would put it behind him though.  If he couldn't come to terms with it then it would drive him mad.  Maybe tomorrow she would go and see his father.  Joseph always had a way of putting things into perspective.  Maybe the two of them together could get Max to see things the way they really were.  Then he would finally move on.

he saw the man in the suit out of the corner of his eye but he wasn't too worried  nothing would stand in the way this time  he wouldn't have hitler because someone else had drawn that job but he would get the bastards wife  she'd burn in hell right beside him

Fasano was sure the walker had seen him.

he slowed allowing the woman to enter the store ahead of him  if she noticed him she didnt let on  it wouldnt have mattered anyway

The store was practically empty.  Laura hardly noticed.  She was too caught up in her own thoughts.  She began to shop routinely as her mind continued to work out the problem that confronted her husband.

Directing Ralph to approach from up the block, Fasano hurried across the street and entered the grocery just behind the walker.  Things were getting tight now.  The moves would come quickly and he would have to be smart.

the fucking suit had come in just behind him  damn  he didnt like the way this was going  the two people with him fanned out  they had standing orders to get the woman and take her where they had been told to take her  he was the front man and as much as he wanted to be there with her for every bit of the torture he knew he had to stay behind and make sure that she was gotten out of there

The air in the store seemed to change.  Even Laura noticed it.  She looked up.  At one end of the aisle there was a man in a suit.  He was a middle aged man.  He was balding on top.  He looked nervous.  At the other end of the aisle was his polar opposite.  This other man was in dirty clothing.  His hair was mussed.  His beard grew long.  They both moved toward her.

Above shelf tops, Fasano saw Willy move toward Laura Guetterman.  One of the walker's men was moving toward her as well.  They would fight for sure and the walker's guy would lose that battle quickly.  That didn't matter.  It was the walker himself who had to get away.  If he should be caught, it would all go to hell.

he moved quickly up the parallel aisle and intercepted his second partner at the top  the other guy was toast for sure but they could still get the woman while he was distracted  he saw the lead suit giving signals and used that as his opportunity to strike

Fasano gave Willy the signal to draw his weapon.

Laura saw the man in the suit draw a pistol.

guns were drawn

As Ralph stepped through the door, Fasano sent him to the far end of the market and covered the door.  Ralph's job was to keep clerks and customers out of the way while they did their business.  No one else was getting in or out of this place.

The man in the suit took aim with his gun.  Laura was so frightened.  She didn't know what to think.  She batted his hand aside on instinct.  The dirty man took the opportunity.  He shot forward.  He grabbed the man in the suit around the waist.  The two men wrestled.

that was great  the bitch had actually made it easier for them to capture her by distracting the suit  the walkers guy was brawling with the bastard in the middle of the aisle and the woman was just standing there helpless  the walker nodded to his other partner

Fasano saw what was going on and started away from the door.

A second dirty man was approaching.  Laura didn't know what was going on.  She turned to head away.  He came on fast.  Before she knew it he had grabbed her around the waist and was dragging her away.  She struggled.  He was too strong.  There was another man in a suit coming toward them.  He made a motion to intercept.  The dirty man batted him aside like a ragdoll.  Laura was dragged into the street.

there was a gunshot and the walker knew that the man fighting with the suit had finally punched his ticket  whatever  the woman was gotten and taken away  it was time for him to make his getaway

Fasano was distracted by the struggle between Willy and his attacker but, under normal circumstances, he would never have let himself get caught with such a sucker punch.  The walker himself was heading for the back but he'd never make it.  Ralph followed him into the storeroom at a dead run.  Fasano heard a gunshot.

the walker turned as the door opened behind him  it was a mistake  he probably could have made the outside door if he hadnt done that  this last suit was a big ass dude and he plowed into the walker like a freight train  the two of them went down in a jumble limbs and fists  the walker felt himself becoming bruised and broken and smelled the blood in his nose  the suit stood away from him when he felt he was beaten up enough  the walker tried to explain that they were on the same side but the suit drew his gun and the walker knew that his time had come

****

“Did you get him?”

“I got him, Nate.  Something' funny, though.  Ain't this the guy we nabbed the other night?”

“You know what your problem is, Ralph?”

“What's that, Nate?”

“You ask too many fucking questions.”

****

Like he had told his daughter, Rabbi Guetterman had to meet with a man who would hopefully become his temple's cantor.  Their old cantor, Moskowitz, had developed throat cancer earlier in the year and was rapidly losing the ability to sing.

It was a pity on him.

It made the rabbi wonder, What do I think of God?

On the weekends, the New York City Subway is like the sleeping bear.

The bear is awake during the week, but the schools were out and many people had taken long weekends.

The bear was drowsy.

If he timed it right, Rabbi Guetterman figured he'd be able to get to Queens and the new cantor within forty minutes.  No crowds.  No delays.

He kissed Laura before he left.  It was a signal that he loved her and he appreciated her even though he had been reticent the past few days.  His problems were his own and he needed to sort them out.

He did not take notice of the battered old Chevy sitting out in front of his house.

He did not take notice of the men following him…

…down into the tunnels.

Rabbi Guetterman needed to get to the N train in order to get where he was going in Queens, but there was no N station near where he lived.  He could have taken a bus but it was easier to start on the closest train and transfer at Borough Hall in Brooklyn.

As expected, the subway station was not very crowded.

One woman with two children and an armload of packages.  Odd at his station because there was little shopping in the area and for her to be travelling from there with packages was out of place.  She must have received them from a relative.

Another was a man he recognized from his Temple.  Yussef was a religious man in his early thirties.  If Rabbi Guetterman remembered right, he had just started seeing a girl that Mrs. Rosen had introduced him to and things were going well.  Yussef was a little old to be unwed, but Rabbi Guetterman did not subscribe to the old stigma.  The world was a changing place and it was up to mankind to progress and still keep God in his heart.

Yussef was a fine young man.

They greeted, but Yussef was involved in a book and gave no indications that he would prefer conversation.  Rabbi Guetterman did not press the issue.

Everyone on the platform boarded the train when it arrived, found seats in separate areas of the separate cars, and continued on alone with their thoughts.

As the train made its regular stops, people got on and people got off.  The rabbi took no notice of them.  There had been no further notes or threats or evidence of anyone interested in his past life.  But he was still out of sorts, his thoughts drifting.  He only hoped his interview with the cantor would not be hindered by his own preoccupation with it.  His conversation with Vincent had left him uneasy.  He had hoped Vincent would allay some of his fears, but there had been no news from that end.  The police drove or walked by his house often and he felt protected if not safe.  All he could do at this point was continue on with his daily affairs.

Yussef got off three stops before Borough Hall.

Rabbi Guetterman waited for the train to come to a complete stop at his station and then exited.  A couple of flights of stairs and he was standing on the platform for the R and N lines.

The R and N run parallel for some distance.

There must have been a convention.  The platform was crowded and Rabbi Guetterman stood back behind the throng by the benches.  Though everyone would rush to get into the train when it arrived, there would be no need.  Everyone always seemed to make it in on time.  His only regret was forfeiting the seat.

A man approached him.

At first, the rabbi didn't even take notice of him.  People approached other people, perfect strangers, all the time on the subway.  Most of the time they weren't even approaching each other, just sort of walking in the opposite direction, passing one another and never seeing each other again.

Such was life.

But this man was actually approaching Rabbi Guetterman with the intention of interacting with him.  The man was fairly average, dressed in a mid-range business suit and subtly patterned tie.  He could have been anyone.  A doctor.  A lawyer.  A stock broker.  A cop.  A man coming from an affair.  Going to a funeral.

“Rabbi Guetterman?”

That was what he said.  Just to be sure.  After all, you don't want to approach the wrong man.

And though Rabbi Guetterman didn't say yes, didn't say anything at all actually, he acknowledged this stranger, betrayed whatever anonymity he may have had.

“Adolf Hitler?”

It was hard to believe that this average, sane looking man could have been responsible for the notes.  But there he was, calling the rabbi by the name Dr. Palaniewiecz had given him and reaching into his jacket.

And nobody seemed to take any notice.

Nobody seemed to take any notice.

“Max!”

Who was this now?  He looked like a gangster, dressed in his expensive suit with his sunglasses in the subway tunnels.  But he had a bright smile on his face and he slid in between the rabbi and his antagonist as if he’d been there all along.

“You don’t remember me, Max?  Tommy!  Vincent introduced us.”

Vincent!  Thank God for Vincent!

“Oh!  Of course.”

Tommy smiled a comfortable smile as he looked suspiciously at the other man.

“Who’s your friend?”

“You should go.”

Tommy’s smile disappeared then, like some specter that had never been.  Reaching up, he took his sunglasses from his face and placed one earpiece up against the man’s chest.

“Take a walk, pal.”

“I don’t think you understand.”

The knife under the man’s coat became clear for just an instant.  Tommy seemed unfazed, didn’t see the need to show his weapon.

“Buddy, do you know what happens to the guy who brings a knife to a gunfight?”

In the rabbi’s mind, that’s the kind of statement that ends a fight before it begins.  Everyone is afraid of guns.  But this man who hunted him because he was Hitler was not to be dissuaded.  Maybe he thought he was faster than Tommy.  Maybe he thought he was protected by his Holy Mission.  But he pulled his knife and Tommy, to his credit, did not bother to pull his gun.

The third man looked the type to have painted the swastika, sent the note.  More the type.  He was tall and thin, but powerful looking all the same.  His face was ruddy and pockmarked from spending too much time in a harsh sun.  On his feet were cowboy boots, the kind made of hard leather.  They did not look comfortable and he did not imagine they were easy to slide on.  The man wore jeans.  The faded kind.  And a work shirt.  The ratty kind.

But his hair was kempt and his eyes were clear and focused.  He wore a fading gray coat over his shoulders and he, too, was reaching for the rabbi.

The train was pulling into the station.

“Come on.”

A southern accent.

Texas.

The man pulled the rabbi toward the train, pocketing a gun and pushing through the crowd. The rabbi faltered, led by the tugging of his sleeve.  It was all so quick, he didn’t even see what had happened between Tommy and the other man.  His mind could not process what it was experiencing.

“But that’s a friend.”

“I’m your friend.”

Then they were on the train, the doors had closed, and the train was moving.

“But…”

“There’s no time.  There are more of them.”

The man was not looking at the rabbi.  He was looking at all of the faces of all of the people on the car.

“More of who?”

“The Jurors.”

The faces of normal people.  Average people.  People in business suits and people with babies.  People in denim jeans with cowboy boots.  The uncomfortable kind.

The train rumbled into the Whitehall Station.

“Don't worry, though.”

Don't worry.  Was he not being hunted?  He had left his house with the specific intention of meeting with a cantor and he had met with a hunter.

“There are more of us, too.”

More of us.

“Who are you?”

A question that he definitely wanted answered but ideally from the safety of his own home.  Over the phone, maybe.  From a police officer.

Yes, Rabbi, we've caught all of the perpetrators.  You won't have to worry about any more swastikas, threatening notes, or hunters  in the subway.  What's that?  Who were they?

“The Nazis.”

“Come again?”

“The Nazis.  We're here to protect you from the Jurors.”

“You do know I'm a rabbi.”

Not the right thing to say.  He could see that reminding this man of his Judaism was just a twist of the knife, the reminder that he was wrestling with a dilemma he simply could not resolve.  It was not a welcome reminder.

“We have to get off here.”

They had breezed through Rector Street and Cortlandt Street, two stops very close together.  The rabbi often missed them completely in his travels, their existence inconsequential.  They had now reached City Hall.  A good place to transfer.

As the doors opened, the Nazi stepped first onto the platform, then looked back.  He dragged the rabbi out and started forward, looking at every face in the crowd.  Subtly, almost beneath notice, he made a fist at his throat and dragged it down his torso to his belt line.  Then he held up three fingers.

“What?”

“It's not for you.”

Several men in the crowd seemed to react as one, their movements instantly separating them from everyone else, like green neon lights on a sign filled with nothing.

The rabbi faltered, looked back.  He saw them now, saw them all.  He could pick out the Nazis and the Jurors, though he couldn't discern which were which.  But three men in ties stopped dead in their tracks, also noticing the army converging on them.  Rabbi Guetterman recognized one of the men.  He had been on the train with him, and the rabbi had taken notice because he was so tall.  He had actually had to stand stooped on the train.

But that man had been alone.

Or had he?

“Keep moving.”

The three men in ties had been swallowed up in the crowd.  The crowd of Nazis.

Rabbi Guetterman could not stop.  He was afraid.  There were people trying to kill him because they believed he was Hitler.  It was nonsense.  It was preposterous.

Like his father had said.

But so many people knew and believed and had learned it in so short a time.  How could it not be true?  And if it were true, how could he avoid punishment?  He was responsible for deaths in his own family.

Rabbi Guetterman could stop.  He was no longer afraid.

The Nazi stopped, too.  “What are you doing?”

“Is it true?”

“We have to continue on.”

“Am I Hitler?”

“Don't worry.  We'll protect you.”

“I don’t want protection!  I want the truth!”

“Is everything all right here, sir?”

A transit cop.

Good for the rabbi.

Bad for Mr. Texas.

“Fine, Officer.”

“Everything is not fine.  Those men are trying to kill me and this man has other men trying to kill the men who are trying to kill me.”

The cop went for his radio, not that he understood what the rabbi had said.  But he had heard the word kill three times and that indicates backup necessary.

“And why?  Because of something they think I was before I was even born!”

The cop’s hand froze in mid reach and changed course, heading for the gun instead of the radio.  “Rabbi Guetterman?”

Did he know this man?

The man in the cowboy boots leaped forward, grabbing the cop’s wrist just as his hand was lifting his gun out of its holster.  People around them jumped back as they went to the ground struggling.

The rabbi turned to run; he wanted no part of this.  But someone grabbed him from behind, someone new.  “Sorry, Rabbi.  I’ll pray for you.”

“Pray for yourself.”

Worthless defiance.

Or not so worthless.  The new person fell away, a spurt of something flashing across the rabbi’s cheek.  He reached up and found that it was blood.  He looked and saw Tommy holstering his weapon.  Oh, good.  The mafia had arrived.

The man in the cowboy boots chose that moment to return, brandishing the cop’s weapon.  He fired once toward Tommy and the gangster fell.  The sound of gunfire, absent when Tommy had shot his weapon, rang through the subway station just as a new train entered.  All sounds were drowned in the roar.  Grabbing the rabbi by the arm, he asked for forgiveness, and then yanked him from the scene, dragging him toward another train.  They boarded and Rabbi Guetterman was thrust into a seat and made to stay there.

The rabbi dipped his head into his hands and sobbed.

“All this is about me?”

The Nazi squatted in front of him and looked up at him.

“What I do is about you.  What the Jurors do is about everyone.”

“The Jurors.  What do they do?”

“What Jurors do.”

“What's that?”

“They punish the guilty.”

“And I am guilty.”

“You're the greatest leader the world has ever known.  Your guilt is painted on you by a clouded history.”

They reached the next stop and the rabbi tried to stand but his protector pushed him back into his seat.

“We don't get off here.”

He didn't even see the names of the streets anymore.  They were heading uptown, he thought.  Maybe to the Bronx.  Maybe to Queens.

He would miss his appointment.

The cantor would think, What kind of rabbi misses an appointment with a cantor without even calling to say he was going to be unable to attend?

He would look like a fool.

Then again, as Hitler, he would likely just condemn the cantor for his practices and order him killed where he stood.

But as Rabbi Guetterman he would not.

Who was he?

Who am I?

“Who are you?”

Looking around.

“My name is Jebediah Ewing, sir.”

“Did you send me that letter?”

“What letter?”

He was Rabbi Max Guetterman.

I am Rabbi Max Guetterman.

“Now see...”

Ewing put up a hand to silence him.

“Here.  We get off here.”

Times Square.  Just great.  The rabbi was in Times Square on a Friday afternoon being led forward by a Nazi claiming to be his protector.

The motel they went to was a dive, rooms rented out by the hour to prostitutes and their tricks.  There were people living in that motel, people whose lives had been disrupted by excess.  It's one thing to indulge in luxuries, pleasure.  It's quite another to be consumed by it.  It turns on you in a heartbeat, robs you of your drive, ambition, and will to go on.  Everything has a price.

There was a small boy sitting on the floor as they passed through the lobby and went to the stairs.  His name was Edward.  Or maybe it was Warren.  Or Malcolm.  Or Jesse.  He was a black boy with a practically shaven head.  He was thin and there were dark circles underneath his eyes.  He didn't look healthy and he didn't look happy.  Then again, he didn't look unhealthy and he didn't look unhappy.  He looked just like a boy sitting on a ratty carpet in a roach infested dump playing with a rusted toy car from 1976.  In his short life he would learn nothing and he would be nothing.  He would take drugs and he would lay with diseased women and he would die young.  And maybe his life would be better than that of the man who goes to school, works a job, marries a woman, has a child, and dies at eighty.  And maybe it would be worse.

The question was which one of them would the Jurors come for in the next life?

****

The room was as the motel.  It was dirty with a bed and a chair and a nightstand and a lamp and a bathroom.  There was no television.  Not that the rabbi was in the mood to watch television.  Not that he was in the mood to sit on the bed or in the chair and speak any further with Jebediah Ewing.  How had this happened?  How had this mad Jury started and spread so quickly?  And how had he become their primary target?

Ewing inspected the room quickly, making sure that it was empty.  Almost immediately there came a knock at the door.  When Ewing opened, there stood a large mad with a shaved head.

“Wait here until I return.  IF he tries to leave, stop him.  Gently.”

“It’s afternoon.  I need to prepare for tonight’s Sabbath.”

“That life is over.  There will always be people who hunt you now.  Get some rest.”

He left then, pulling the door shut behind him.  Rabbi Guetterman took a glance around the room, looking for a phone, something.  Maybe Jebediah Ewing was right.  After all, a policeman had attacked him.  Who else believed he was Hitler?  He thought of his father, who had lost so many in the camps.

Finally, he could take no more thinking.  He sat on the bed, refusing to lay in the filth that coated it, and put his face into his hands to sob.

****

“Where is she, Nathan?”

(Where is she, Nathan?)

“I won't ask you again.”

(I won't ask you again.)

“I don't know where she is.”

(I don't know where she is.)

Vincent smacked Fasano across the side of his head and sent him reeling to the carpeted floor in a jangle of dancing limbs that simply could not withstand the power of the older man's fury directed at them with the righteousness of a thousand years' experience earned through the blood of family, friends, and enemies.

There was a cut on his lip.

“You've betrayed me.”

(Betrayal.)

“And defied me.”

(Defiance.)

“One is redeemable and the other forgivable.  Together they are intolerable.”

Willy bounced nervously on the balls of his feet, standing far in the corner, as far away from the altercation as he could be without actually leaving the room.  He was afraid of Vincent and he was afraid of Fasano and yet they were both his friends and his family.  But he had never seen Vincent as angry.  He had seen Vincent cut a man's throat with a smile.  He had seen Vincent beat the pulp out of a man who had scuffed up his shoe with a careless step.  He had seen Vincent do horrible things to people who deserved it and to some that did not.  He had learned that Vincent's wrath was the wrath of God and to be avoided under threat of dear life.

Fasano should also have learned that.

“Vincent.”

Fasano spoke the name with dignity.  He would not again try to claim that he did not know what had happened to Laura Guetterman and he would not again make any excuse for his failure and he would not again speak like a child who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

He was a man

with convictions

and something to say

and something to prove.

“Vincent, why do you hand me the responsibility you hand me?”

“Where is she, Nathan?”

“It's because you trust my judgment.”

“Where is she?”

“You have faith that I will have our best interests at heart.”

“Nathan.”

“That I'll do the right thing.”

Vincent pulled a gun from inside of his coat and aimed it at Fasano.

And this, in and of itself, was a victory for Fasano.  To reduce the powerful Vincent Anthony Macchio to using a weapon that was not an extension of his own power was a feat of tremendous importance.  An importance that only the two of them understood.

He stood slowly, daring to defy Vincent by rejecting the position into which he'd been forced.

The two men stood nose to nose.

“She's Hitler's wife.”

Vincent's expression hardened and Willy was sure as sure can be that he was going to shoot.  He steeled himself against the shock of the boom from the gun and the spurt of blood that would come from Fasano's back as the bullet or bullets punched through his torso.

But Willy didn't know Vincent the way Fasano knew Vincent.

 And the gun fell to the floor.

And Vincent raised a hand into the air.

And Vincent smacked Fasano hard across the head one more time, sending him to his knees one more time.

Then he kicked the gun away and gave it not another thought.

Through blood and tears, Fasano looked up at the man who had taught him respect.  Not only for himself but for his friends and friends' friends.  And most especially his enemies.  Now they were enemies.

“You old fool!  You don't see the truth before your eyes.  This is bigger than you.”

“I thought you had a mind of your own, Nathan.  I'm very disappointed.”

Fasano looked away, bloody drool dripping from his split lips to the carpet beneath him.

Vincent ignored it.

“William?”

Willy looked up, unhappy to be there and despondent at the thought of having to become involved in what would most assuredly come next.

“Before you go out and find Laura Guetterman, please have Reginald join us for the interview.”

Willy gulped in air once and hesitated.  Vincent forgave him his defiance, understanding the confusion he felt.  But the moment passed and Willy realized that he had used up his share of Vincent's patience.  He left the room, knowing it was the last time he would ever see Fasano.

He did not say goodbye.

****

“Nathan, I'm going to have Reginald ask you one question.  That question is, 'Where is Rabbi Guetterman's wife?’.  I will consider that question answered when she is safely at home.  I hope, for your sake, that she is nearby.”

****

Once upon a time there were three girls, and older girl, a middle girl, and a younger girl.

They were sisters.

And their father was Max Guetterman.

Now Friday evening was the start of the Jewish Sabbath so they spent the morning in preparation and the evening in Temple.  During the afternoon, they wanted to go shopping at the mall.

Kings Plaza Mall.

Like any other mall, Kings Plaza is a reasonably public place.

While traveling through the mall, the three girls met a man.

His name was Robert Falcone.

The younger girl had never met him.

The middle girl didn't know him all that well.

But the older girl had met him many times and liked him very much.  In fact there was a time when she'd had a crush on him.

So when they saw Robert Falcone, they were inclined to trust him and listen to him when he said their father wanted them home right away.

He put them into a taxi cab, paid the driver, and told him to take them to their home.

The cab sped away.

And the three girls lived happily ever after.

****

“You men should leave now; the girls are gone.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“I'm a Foreman and I'm telling you that the girls are gone and not to be tried or punished.”

“You're a Foreman?  What's your name?”

“I'm a Foreman.  You can go”.

“And the girls are free?  Just like that?  Hitler's daughters?”

“Take a walk, gentlemen.  Just because you're Jurors, it doesn't make you immune to trial.  Go now or I'll find out who you were.”

****

And since no one can be entirely sure of who or what he or she was in a previous life, no one was going to challenge a Foreman who had the ability to find such a thing out.

The Jurors went home.

****

Sitting across from each other, one on the bed, one on the chair, studying each other like two great chess players, or players of some other equally challenging game, like a contest of wills, telepathically trying to outdo one another, trying to understand one another but not for the purpose of learning, not for the purpose of knowledge, but for the purpose of defeating the other who was his opponent, his greatest adversary in the game of war of life, which had been redefined as something that continued on and on and on, and something into which you carried all of your sins and none of your triumphs.

One a rabbi.

“So you believe in all of this nonsense?”

The other a hater of all things rabbinical.

“I have learned the Resonance.”

“The Resonance?”

“I can see into people's pasts.  I know who they were.”

“But you're not a Juror?”

“The Jury is a ridiculous group of fanatics.  Once you return to yourself, the racial cleansing will continue where it left off.  When, for generations, there have only been perfect people, there will be no reason to look into the past.”

“When I return to myself?”

“We must bring out the Hitler in you.  When it's safe.”

“How?  How will you do it?”

“Hypnosis, regression.  It may take several sessions but eventually the dominant soul will suppress the inferior one.”

“You can't hypnotize someone against his will.”

“We can.  You'll see.”

“You're no better than they are.”

“You shouldn't sound so smug.  I'm the one protecting you after all.”

“I'm sorry.  I don't mean to laugh at you but I'm a rabbi who's been rescued by Nazis from the people who are trying to kill me because they think I'm Hitler.  Don't you think that's a little ironic?”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“He certainly does.”

“Don't mock me, Max.”

“Don't call me Max.  You've got no right.”

“I saved your life.”

“For what?  Do you think I'm going to sit here and accept this nonsense about my being Hitler in a past life?  I'm a rabbi in case you haven't noticed.”

“I have noticed.”

“Don't sound so disgusted.”

“I am disgusted.  You're inferior.  You're a leader of inferior people.”

“But I'm Hitler.  The leader of the superior people.  So I'm superior and maybe you're inferior.  Maybe you were a Jew in a past life.  Maybe you were my grandfather who died in Dachau.”

“I was never a Jew.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because Jews are inferior and inferior souls can't inhabit superior bodies.  I was always just what I am now.”

“And yet I'm Hitler?”

“That's right.  And it's a terrible goddamn sin that you are, that you had to subject yourself to this.”

“Then why would I do it?”

“Because we were defeated and we needed to know why.  And what better way to defeat one's enemy than to infiltrate his ranks disguised as one of his own?”

“And how's it going to look when I come back as the great Changer of Mankind and some schmuck discovers that I was a rabbi in a previous life?”

Jebediah Ewing fell silent, felt his anger rising.  He could not reconcile within himself the notion that he was talking to both a Jew and Hitler.  He wanted to lash out, teach this Jew bastard just what it meant to be part of the Master Race, but he knew that he would secure his place in Hell by doing so.  This was Hitler.  Hitler!  And yet the physical part of him, the dirty part of him, the part of him that was a Jew seemed to have control.

This world didn't need a self righteous Jewish Hitler.

This world needed Hitler himself.

“I know what I have to do now.”

And Rabbi Guetterman felt his anger diminishing in the face of realization, in the face of the fear he now felt.  He had gone too far.  He had antagonized this person who held him captive despite saving his life.  Rabbi Guetterman didn't believe in all of this past life nonsense and deep down inside he understood that this ignorant Nazi buffoon would eventually give in to his baser urges and simply eliminate the Jew.

“Because once the Jew is gone...”

“...Hitler will be free to return.”

Jebediah Ewing pulled the pistol he’d gotten off the transit cop from his coat pocket.

Where had the day gone?  The sun was already setting, casting its orangey hue over the city.  Rabbi Guetterman looked to his right, out the grimy window.  It was the last sunset he would ever see and it would be seen through the dirty, greasy, stained window of this pay-by-the-hour estate.

Not a very fitting end for a man who was so well respected.

“You can't shoot me.”

“I'm paving the way for the new world.”

“You'll be the man who killed Hitler.”

“I'll be the man who saved Hitler.”

****

The door came crashing in.

The large man with the shaved head followed suit.

People came rushing forward.

Jebediah Ewing stood.

Rabbi Guetterman stood.

There were gunshots.

Some of them were loud booms.

Others were just muffled pops.

The room grew crowded and noisy.

The rabbi leapt to his feet.

There were Jurors here.

There were Nazis here.

This was no place for a rabbi.

This was no place for Hitler.

****

Behind him he could hear the shouts as his aging feet drew him down the filthy hall and his aging lungs sucked in the foul air and his aging heart pounded the beat of pagan drums.

He prayed to God.

He prayed that he would be able to escape.

He prayed that he would be able to return to his home.

He prayed that he would be able to see and touch Laura once again.

He prayed that it was all untrue.

Amen.

****

Rabbi Guetterman burst into the stairwell and nearly tumbled down the first flight.  Finding his feet at the last moment, he wondered how long it would take for Jebediah Ewing to realize he was gone from all of that commotion.

As he pulled up around the second flight, he saw a group of young boys sitting on the steps blocking the way.

“What are you supposed to be?”

“Please help me.  I’m a rabbi.”

“Is that like a priest?”

There came the slam of a door at the top of the stairs.  All eyes turned that way.

“Please!”

“Get behind us, rabbi.”

Jebediah Ewing appeared on the landing, the transit cop’s gun in his hand.

“Take a walk, fool.  You ain’t going nowhere with that thing.”

“You’re out of your league.”

That was the moment Jebediah Ewing became a murderer.  He fired the gun at the lead teen point blank, the bullet punching into his head and knocking him backward.  Rabbi Guetterman took off at a sprint as the other boys converged on the Nazi leader.

“Jonah!  Otto!  He’s coming your way!”

The rabbi reached the bottom of the stairs just behind the sound of Ewing’s voice, Jonah and Otto already ready for him.  Jonah was a small man with thick arms and legs, and hands that looked as if they could crush a cannonball like tin paper.  Otto was taller, but not nearly as well built.  Otto had gotten married the weak before to a trailer park girl named Belle.  Belle was the kind of girl that had been passed around the trailer park for most of her adolescence.  Otto was the kind of guy that never got a turn.  They were a perfect match.

Otto used his gangly limbs very well, entangling the rabbi as if he were in a spider web.  Jonah came forward then with two meaty fists, ready to knock him out.  But a presence taller than Otto and greater than Jonah filled the stairwell like smoke.  Jonah’s last cry was something that sounds more like the squawk of a chicken as his head was twisted and his body crumpled to the ground like an unstuffed bear.  Upon seeing this, Otto disengaged, his limbs retracting into their proper sockets as he stumbled up the stairs.

So there truly were angels.

“Vincent?”

“I am sorry you had to see this, Max.  I fear our friendship will never be the same.”

Willie came in behind him and started up the stairs.

Vincent barely gave him a glance as he shouted orders.

“Be quick.  The police will arrive shortly.  Max, there is a car waiting for you outside.”

The rabbi hesitated briefly, but Vincent nudged him into the lobby and then started up the stairs.  He moved quickly then, running through the lobby as fast as his legs would carry him.  As he came out onto the street, the sun already falling behind the horizon, he noticed an old black Plymouth idling at the curb.  A man in a suit stood next to it.

“Rabbi?  I’ll be your…”

His words were cut off by the crack of a gunshot, and he disappeared from sight, felled by the bullet.  Instinctively, the rabbi turned and looked up.  There, hanging out of a second floor window, was Jebediah Ewing, aiming the policeman’s gun.

Rabbi Guetterman made a dash for the hotel, hoping to find protection from Vincent.  But two men came rushing out the doors straight for him.  He didn’t know whether they were Nazis or Jurors but they were certainly not his friends.  Skidding into a turn, he stumbled his way to the open car door, a bullet hitting the sidewalk behind him.  He practically fell into the car, pulling away with a squeal of tires, the open door swinging until his finally regained the presence of mind to close it.

As Vincent came out of the hotel with Willie in tow, he noticed his dead driver on the ground and two more cars falling in behind the rabbi’s.  He did not notice Jebediah Ewing slipping out the door behind him.

“Now we must go.”

****

“Jesus!”

The cell phone had almost fallen out of his hand as he cut the wheel.  The person on the other end kept asking what was happening but his attention was entirely devoted to regaining control of the car.  Just as he thought he had it, men piled out of the sleezy motel and into four other cars.  These cars, too, pulled into the roadway without the slightest regard for other traffic.

Apparently he had discovered a genuine bonafide car chase.

Very very cool.

He lifted the phone back to his ear as he hit the gas.

“Dear diary.  The coolest thing just happened to me.”

Once again, he was being asked what the hell was going on and what the hell he was talking about.

“Okay, wait.  Here we go.  That's definitely one of the four cars that started chasing that first one.  Looks like an old Chevy.  And I mean old.  It's got that seventies look and it's probably a V8.  How they get those things to pass inspection, I'll never know.

“Yup, there's another one.  They're heading up 34th, toward the FDR drive.

“Holy crap!  I see the leader and he just almost got crunched running a red light.  Hold on, I've got to see if I can keep up.

“What do you mean I should give it up?  No freakin' way.  This is the coolest thing I've seen since Randazzo taught me how to pull the wings off flies when I was eight years old.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.  It's bad karma to revel in the troubles of others.  I'll pay for it in my next life.

“The leader's in a green sedan.  It looks like the other four are trailing him.  He just cut up the service road and out of sight.  I hope these guys don't notice me keeping up.  I wonder if it's a police chase.  Probably not.  These don't look like cop cars.

“I'm getting on the FDR now.  They're way ahead of me but I can still see their tail lights weaving back and forth up ahead.

“Whoa!

“Somebody just spun out and hit the divider.  That's gonna leave a mark.

“There's some traffic up ahead which ought to slow them down.  Maybe I can catch up.  Hold on while I...

“I am not!

“Here we go.  I just passed one of the four.  The guys inside are definitely not cops.  Some of them look like businessmen and others look like gang bangers.  I've got a bad feeling about this.

“There's something coming up fast in my rearview mirror.  Maybe a cop, but I don't see any lights.  Here he comes.  Nope, not a cop.  Looks like a rented car.

“What do you mean how do I know it's a rented car?  What the hell do I do for a living?  Jeez, you'd think we just met.

“This is some friggin' chase, I'll tell you.  I kinda wish you were here but you'd be bugging me about my driving for the rest of my life.

“Hey!

“Son of a bitch cut me off big time.  Now there's six cars trailing this one.  The traffic's thinning out up ahead.  It looks like the Brooklyn Bridge is closed.  That lead car is going to get a decent chance for a getaway if he's smart.

“Uh oh.  He cut into the right lane to get away from the line of traffic.  He's going to go right through those cones if he doesn't stop.  Two of the cars just followed him over.  I don't believe it!  He's getting on the bridge!  I've gotta see some more of this.  Hold on while I...

“Oh, shit!”

****

Guess you'll pay for it sooner than you think.

****

The rabbi's car stalled unexpectedly in the middle of the bridge.

That kind of figures.

It’s what you get when you’re a car stealing rabbi.

And now it had stalled.

Unexpectedly.

He tried and tried and tried to get it restarted.  Getting onto the bridge had been his best idea yet.  After all, the worst that could happen was that he would draw the attention of the authorities which would be good for him despite the fact that he had driven onto a closed bridge.

Why it was a closed was a mystery.  There were no work crews despite work vehicles and equipment arranged neatly in the right lane.

It didn't matter.  He had gone from heavy traffic into a closed area.  The police would be there soon.

Even as he was thinking this, headlights appeared in his rearview mirror.  He stopped trying to start the car he had stolen; maybe it had some sort of complicated anti-theft device.  Lojack was too much to ask for.  Instead, he got out of the car and looked back down to the entrance of the bridge, trying to gauge the style of the lights.

They were not the police.

The rabbi's first thought was to get back in the car and get out of there but he doubted he'd be able to get it running.  And when he looked forward, he saw more headlights anyway.  One pair, coming slowly at them.  He retreated to the right lane where it was darkest and where there was equipment, where he could hide.

Three cars came to a halt by his own stalled automobile.  Men got out of them.  Men in suits.  Men in jeans.  Men in leather and men in khakis.  The same men that had been at the motel.  The same men that had been on the subway.

The Jurors.

And two more cars followed.

“Come out, Nazi scum.”

Rabbi Guetterman cowered.  He could see in their hands the guns that they carried.  He could see in their hearts, the anger that they bore.  A misguided righteous anger.  An anger that grew from the same roots as the inspiration for the Crusades and the Inquisition.

“You're a rabbi.”

They taunted him.

“Don't you want this justice?”

And he couldn't resist the bait.

“And what happens during my next life?  Will you hunt me again?  Can I ever escape this?”

But they gave him no answer to that question.  Of course.  There was no answer to give.

Now they had almost zeroed in on him.  His voice had betrayed his location, his own self righteous indignation had made it possible for those against whom his ire was strongest to confront him directly.

They'd have killed him surely.

If not, once again, for the deluded aid of Jebediah Ewing.  The two following cars were filled with Nazis and they came to a halt just a few feet behind the cars of the Jurors.  As they poured out of every door of each car, it was like the motel room all over again.  Loud bangs and muted pops.  Men fighting with guns.  Men diving for cover.  Men getting hit.

Men dying.

Rabbi Guetterman retreated from the fighting, noticing that those lights advancing from the other end of the bridge had halted their approach.  Not the police.

When, as will eventually happen in all gunfights, the firing stopped, there was but the echo of the shouts and the moans of pain.  Looking across the pavement, Rabbi Guetterman could see no one standing.  Yet he stayed hidden.

“Rabbi!”

It was a troubled voice, a pained voice.  And still the utter abhorrence came through in both syllables of the one word.  It was Jebediah Ewing.  So he had survived.

Rabbi Guetterman was not surprised.

“What do you think of God, Rabbi?”

The question was so out of place that it caught him off guard.  It was the very question which had accompanied him from the house that morning.

“I have my faith.”

It was a simple answer come from the shadows.

“Even after all of this?  You have your Jewish faith?”

There was the pop of a silenced gun, the end of someone’s suffering.

“God often provides questions but seldom answers.”

Ewing coughed a wet cough and there was another pop.

“Man provides his own answers these days, making God’s word valueless.”

“Eventually, man's learning will guide him back to God's warmth like a child to a parent.”

“Do you think then, Rabbi, that every new wonder we invent or discover is a gift from God?  Another bite of the apple so to speak?”

“I would hate to believe it.  If man cannot accomplish things on his own then he is hardly worthy of the image in which he was created.”

“But look at what we've accomplished.  How can we possibly learn enough to build trains and skyscrapers and spaceships in our finite lifetimes?  Our souls must carry on.”

A last pop and Jebediah Ewing stood up and appeared under the halo of a streetlamp.  His shirt was soaked but it was impossible to tell where the blood was coming from.  He looked weakened but that fire was still in his eyes.

“Face me, Rabbi.  It's just us now.”

And against his better judgment, Rabbi Guetterman did as he was bade.  He stood out from his concealment and accepted what was to happen to him as if it were meant to be.

Jebediah Ewing threw his arms out in pride.

“Then it is predestiny, eh Rabbi?”

Stepping forward.

“God guides us along a path.  If we choose to stray than we must accept responsibility for that choice.”

“How very...sophomoric.

The word sounded ridiculous in his Texas accent.

A car door opened and closed.  They both looked but the approaching lights had disappeared, doused now that the car was off.  The man stepping out of the car was young and handsome.  Confident.

“Rabbi?”

“Robert?  How did you find me?”

“It wasn't hard.  Who's your friend?”

Jebediah Ewing raised his gun toward Robert, but said nothing.

“A self important leader of the Nazi party.”

Robert looked him over.  

“That a fact?”

Finally, in the face of Robert’s calm, Ewing could contain himself no longer.  “You're one of them!”

Robert laughed.

“A proclamation from the self important leader of the Nazi party.  One of what,, Mr. Ewing?  A Jew?”

Jebediah Ewing faltered slightly.  This man knew his name.  How could that be?  How could anyone he had never met know his name?

Robert began to move forward, striding confidently toward Jebediah Ewing and his gun with its jury rigged silencer.  Was he insane?

(Does he think I won't shoot him?)

“You're out of bullets.”

Jebediah Ewing fired.

And there was a click where there should have been a pop.

Rabbi Guetterman, who believed there was no way that Robert Falcone could have known that that gun was empty, began to laugh.  It was a stifled snort at first, but snow balled into raucous hysterics.

“Don't mock me, Rabbi!”

Now Jebediah Ewing's high society enlightenment was crumbling around him.  He was forgetting himself and he was beginning to transform into the redneck racist that was buried in his heart.  It didn't matter that he believed in past lives and that he believed that Max Guetterman had been Adolf Hitler.  All that mattered was that this filthy inferior creature was laughing at him.

He moved to silence him.

And Robert Falcone intercepted.

And killed him.

The rabbi stopped laughing abruptly.  Had he actually seen what he thought he had just seen?  Had Robert Falcone killed a man?  Had Robert Falcone killed a man simply by intercepting his path?  Was the gun really empty?

“Robert?”

“Come here, Max.”

A derisive fear crept into his gut and he froze in place, shrinking from his friend's outstretched arm.

“Are you one of them?”

“They're not just after you, you know.  They want you to suffer and die, not just die.”

“What do you mean?”

Robert looked at his shoes, looked out across the Hudson, looked up at the bridge's superstructure.

“Before they killed you, they would've told you that they'd killed your family.”

“Laura...”

It was just a gurgling whine.

“She's safe.”

“The girls?”

“Also safe.”

Now the rabbi moved forward and allowed his friend to put an arm around him.

“You?”

Robert nodded, leading him to the light at the railing.

“I have a great deal of power in the Jury.  I've seen to it that your family is safe.”

Rabbi Guetterman leaned out over the railing and looked down below at the water.  Removing his arm, Robert stepped a pace to the side and leaned out as well.

“Robert, I just don't understand all of this.”

Robert shook his head.

“It's a lot to take.”

“But if you're one of them, why are you helping me?”

“We're friends, Rabbi.  We've been friends for a long time.  What would I be without you?”

“And what about what I was?”

“I can separate that.  That's why I arranged it so that no one would ever harm your family for what you did.”

Rabbi Guetterman nodded, understanding, thanking Robert even as the younger man leaned in and hitched his fingers into the waistline of his pants, even as he hoisted him up and over the side.  And he heard Robert whisper, once again, that they were friends.

****

Willy was driving as they pulled up to the scene.  

“That's not him, Mr. Macchio.  I don't see him.”

Vincent sighed and got out of the car, dragging his girth forward tiredly.

Robert Falcone turned his head and dashed the tear from his cheek.

“I couldn't stop it, Vincent.”

There was no question that Rabbi Max had found his way over the side of the Brooklyn Bridge.  Vincent studied the scene and scratched his head.  He steepled his hands in front of his nose and tried to recreate the events.

Robert indicated Jebediah Ewing's body laying the road.

“He was already going back to the car by the time I arrived.”

Vincent looked unconvinced.

“You look tired.  Rattled.”

“He was my friend.”

Vincent nodded.

“He was my friend as well, Robert.  I will miss him very much.”

Robert just nodded back, feeling the remorse as much as he said he felt it.  It's one thing to have a cause.  It's quite another thing when your cause and your closest friends and influences conflict.  But deep down he was proud of himself and proud of his actions.  It takes a bold and courageous man to step up and do what's right despite his emotional involvement with the obstacles.

“The police will be here shortly.  You should go, Robert.”

In an uncharacteristic display of emotion, Robert turned and hugged Vincent close.

“I'm sorry, Vincent.”

There were tears in his voice.

Vincent said nothing, suddenly realizing that his Tuesday afternoons would never be the same, never be quite as satisfying.  He felt pity for Robert Falcone.  Since he had met him, through Rabbi Guetterman though their relationship had been kept from the rabbi, he had liked him.  Robert was one of those strong fellows whose convictions drove him forward, shoving aside all questions.

Vincent, too, felt the ball of despair in his throat.

Ultimately, Robert released him and stepped away, not looking back.  He got into his car and turned it around, finally facing the right way on the wrong side of the bridge, and drove away.

“Mr. Macchio?”

Vincent turned to Willy, responded to his indications.

“Yes, we should go also.”

They got into the car, Willy helping Vincent manage himself through the door.

“William?”

“Yes, Mr. Macchio?”

“You know I like Robert very much.”

The city lights dwindled behind them.  The sound of sirens, which had been growing louder, grew ever more faint.

“Yes, Mr. Macchio.”

“Do it quickly, then.”

“I will.”

“But make sure he knows why.”

“Don't you worry, Mr. Macchio.  I'll do the job right.”

****


CORRESPONDENCE


Dear Father McIlvane,

It has come to my attention that some months ago you met with a Dr. Simon Palaniewiecz concerning the spiritual nature of his attack upon a little girl, the reason for his incarceration.

There's no need to bore you with explanations; we both know what it is about which I am writing.  A short time after you met with Dr. Palaniewiecz, a good friend of mine, Rabbi Max Guetterman, also met with the doctor.  According to my friend's account, he reacted to the doctor's theories with doubt, as would any sane man.

However our world is not populated by sane men.

My friend is dead.  Dr. Palaniewiecz applied his theory to him and determined that he was Adolf Hitler in a past life.  This news seemed to spread amongst a group of radical vigilantes who call themselves the Jury.  Another very close friend was a high member of this group and was directly involved with Rabbi Guetterman's death.  This friend is also dead.  It seems that the members of this Jury have no idea of its origins; Dr. Palaniewiecz, who is also dead, has covered his tracks well.  Yet they grow, punishing the innocent for crimes they allegedly committed in their past lives.

Now, Father, I know you disagree with this possibility.  I am a Catholic and I understand that there is no room for reincarnation in the Catholic religion, only resurrection.  But good Catholics are few and far between nowadays, as are good Jews, Protestants, Lutherans, and any of the other major religions.  People are looking for scapegoats and I foresee terrible trouble if this continues.  I write you this letter to ask your opinion and your advice.

How far can this go before man realizes his error?

How far can this go before too many lives are lost?

How far can this go before God himself intervenes?

Father, I am a man of some wealth and some power.  Though you live far away, you may even have heard of me.  But I am afraid.  I am afraid for the future.  Please, Father, ease my fears.

Sincerely,



Vincent Anthony Macchio



Dear Mr. Macchio,

I am in receipt of your letter and, yes, I have heard of you.  If you're guilty of half the things of which you are accused you are hardly a good Catholic.  But I can tell that your faith in the Lord is strong and, yes, I believe in His judgment above all.

I have not heard of your friend, Rabbi Guetterman, but I did meet with Dr. Palaniewiecz as you know.  His theories were unfounded and, as he originally suspected, I believe that he discovered areas of the subconscious mind which disguise themselves as past lives.  We are all dreamers and sometimes the dreams can seem very real.  When others invade those dreams they are just as vulnerable to that reality as we are ourselves.

To date, I have heard of no such group called the Jury.  It would seem unlikely that there would be a mass movement of people acting out of vengeance against crimes committed in past lives.  That, Mr. Macchio, would be insane.  But again, I refuse to pass judgment because that is God's territory.  I will say this, though.  You ask how long it would take before God Himself intervened in such an event.  Perhaps, Mr. Macchio, you should consider that He already has.  If this type of movement were to grow, as you suggest, eventually we will have anarchy.  We are none of us saints at heart and these people who can read our minds will find volumes of crimes for which to punish us.  It is only a matter of time before they turn on each other and still less time before the boundaries of social order are broken down violently.

In short, Mr. Macchio, you are looking at a man made armageddon.

Perhaps God is with us after all.

Most sincerely and God Bless,



Father Augustus McIlvane

****

It only starts with the little things.

****


EPILOGUE

Hank Washington had been a hermit now for twelve years.  After his father, a poor black man from Los Angeles, had been killed by the Jurors for having been a petty thief in a past life, Hank had lost all faith in mankind and society.

And in God.

Where was there justice while things like this were allowed to go on?

The police turned their heads.  Of course, they were controlled by the Jurors.

Congress was controlled by the Jurors.

Parliament was controlled by the Jurors.

The newly formed Russian Senate was controlled by the Jurors.

The Chinese Prime Minister was rumored to be a Foreman.

It was all so hopeless.

So Hank had left before some asshole had decided that he had been a purse snatcher or a child molester or a con artist or the Ayatola.

He was making breakfast on the third of the month when there came a knock upon his door.

A knock upon his door was an odd thing because he was a hermit with no friends and no family.

But he answered it because he was a good man who had spent his entire life praying for humanity.

A small boy stood outside.  He was Asian, this boy, Chinese, Hank thought, about eleven or twelve years old.

Hank looked about for an adult but could see none.  The boy was dressed warmly and had worn hiking boots on his feet.  There was a sack slung over his shoulders and he glared up at Hank with such malign intent that he recoiled.

“Henry Washington?”

“Who are you?”

The boy shrugged.  He did not have a Chinese accent.  “Sometimes even I cannot pronounce my own name.”

“What do you want?”

“I was born with a gift, Mr. Washington.  The gift to see into the past.”

“You're one of them?”

The boy stepped inside, past Hank.  “I am not.  I came to tell you that I was there at the beginning.  That I saw it all begin.”

“What?”

“The death.  The violence.  The Jury.”

“And what do you want from me?”

“I want to give you a message.”

Hank was afraid now.  He backed away from this child as if he were a starving bear.  “What message?  I don't want any part of the Jury?”

“I'm not from the Jury.”

“Then who are you?”

“No, Henry, that is the wrong question.  The question is, who are you?”

“No!  I'm Hank Washington.  That's all I am and that's all I've ever been.  Take your insanity someplace else.”

Now the boy laughed and when he did so it was the scraping sound of a man afflicted by multiple cancers.  “Your name was Dr. Simon Palaniewiecz, Henry Washington.  And you started this.”

“That's a lie!”

“You are responsible for each and every execution performed by the Jury including your sister's and your father's.  This is my judgment, Henry Washington.  This is how I punish you for causing all of this.”

And the small Chinese boy turned around and walked out the still open door, his small frame retreating into the trees beyond.

Hank sat open mouthed for an hour after that, just staring into the forest, waiting for the boy to come back and tell him that it was all a lie.  But the boy never returned.  Ever.  And eventually, Hank just lowered his face into his hands, and sobbed.



****



If you enjoyed The Book of Revelations please take a few minutes to read the included short story, Life Broker.  Life Broker is about a man’s attempt to negotiate the terms of his upcoming life without paying the terrible price exacted during his previous one.



Life Broker
Ivan Turner

Jimmy’s office was small with a plain desk and an old yet comfortable office chair that squeaked whenever he leaned back.  In front of the desk was a standard wooden chair.  To either side there was a standing lamp.  Each lamp was lit as each had been lit for eternity and they gave the room all the light it needed.  The room was painted white.  Jimmy himself was not too young and not too old.  His skin was a neutral cream color and his hair was a neutral brown with streaks of early grey setting in.  He was dressed in a white shirt and slacks.  His tie, knot down by the third button of his shirt, was also neutral.  Jimmy looked a little tired.

Through the one door came Mr. Davis, looking tentatively back the way he came.  He was confused and, frankly, somewhat put out.  He was only in his upper fifties so this whole thing seemed premature.  In many ways, he mirrored Jimmy, or at least looked like an older version.  He wore a business suit, but he had also pulled down his tie.  There was more grey in his hair than in Jimmy’s.  And there was less hair.  Jimmy was still thin.  Mr. Davis was pushing his belt line.

“Mr. Davis?” Jimmy greeted, standing and shaking the other man’s hand.

“That’s right,” Mr. Davis said.

Jimmy smiled a reassuring smile.  “Please take a seat.”

Mr. Davis took the wooden chair.

“I'm Jimmy.  It's a pleasure to meet you.  I'm sorry for the wait but we've been backed up for quite some time.”

“I'm afraid I don't understand.”

Jimmy pulled a brief frown.  “Didn't my secretary discuss this with you?”

“No.  I...”

The frown settled into place.  “Damn.  If I told her once, I told her a thousand times...  I'll try to explain everything to you as quickly as possible.  Not that I mean to rush you.  We'll take all the time that we need to iron out the best possible contract.”

“Contract?”

“That's right.  You at least know that your life as Mr. Davis has ended.”

Mr. Davis hesitated, an act of futile hopefulness.  “Yes, they told me that much.  What did you say your name was?”

“Jimmy.  I'm your broker.”

”Broker.  Right.  That's what they didn't explain.  Is this for a place in Heaven?”

Jimmy’s smile returned.  “Heaven?  No, nothing like that.”

Mr. Davis looked suddenly stricken.  “You mean I'm going to hell?”

“No, Mr. Davis.  Please just give me a moment to explain.  You see yours is a human soul and human souls belong on Earth or they're wasted.  Now God, He doesn't like to waste souls so he sends them back to Earth when the bodies die out.  Now my job, and yours too at this point, is to determine basically what kind of life you're going to live out next.”

“What?  Doesn't God take care of that?”

”No, quite the contrary.  God is very busy with overseeing the contracts that I and my fellow brokers make.  He is also overwhelmed with the manufacture of new souls.  You humans sure breed fast.”

“So I still don't understand.”

”It's very simple, Mr. Davis.  In order to prevent certain uncontrollable events on Earth, the brokers and the souls sit down together before the souls are sent or, as in your case, returned to the planet and negotiate a deal for the course of life.”

“My whole life?  We take care of it right here and now?”

“That's right,” Jimmy said through a broad grin.  “We'll start with the basic package, go over your options for change, and establish a binding contract.”

“Binding?”

”Yes, of course.  God will be obligated to steer events in the course dictated by the contract and you'll be obligated to live out that life until it is complete as dictated by the contract.”

“You're talking about predestiny.”

“Not exactly.  Predestiny is actually the belief that God takes control of every life and dictates its course.  Though everything is taken care of right here and now, you're actually in almost total control of everything that happens to you.”

“But if you do it all now, what's the point of living?  Why try when I know what's going to happen?”

Jimmy waved his hand.  “Oh, Mr. Davis, that's a common mistake.  We don’t sort out the details here.  Events happen as they happen.  We just plan out the general course of your life.  Besides which, you'll have no knowledge of our meeting once you're returned to Earth.”

“But what if I don't like my life?”

For once, Jimmy seemed nonplussed.  “Well...I would hope that you wouldn't negotiate a life that you would find dissatisfying.”

“Well,” Mr. Davis answered tentatively, put off by what appeared to be an accusation.  “I mean, I don’t really know anything about putting a life together.  Did I put my last life together?”

“Yes, you did, although I wasn’t your broker.”

“My life wasn’t exactly great, especially at the end.”

“That’s why I’m here.  I want to make sure that you’re one hundred percent satisfied with your contract.  Let’s get started, shall we.”  Jimmy reached into a side drawer and pulled out a file.  He flipped through it until he found the paper he was looking for.  “The basic package at your level includes two parents, an uneventful childhood, regular if not spectacular employment, and a spouse.  There’s a free option for up to three children and you can choose your gender.  Oh!”  He brightened.  “This is new.  You have a selection of nationalities.”

Jimmy turned the paper around and Mr. Davis looked it over.  “This is it?  This is my package?”

“This is the basic package.  If you’re looking for something more… extravagant, we can peruse some options.”

Mr. Davis glanced up at him just under his eyelids.  “What kind of options?” he asked with a bit of the sinister in his tone.

Jimmy smiled, reaching back into the drawer.  “Well let’s take a look at your last contract.”  He took a moment to read through several pages.  “Hmmm.  It looks here like you took the basic package with a few modifications last time out.  Wow, in record time, too.”

“Did the basic package include me dying of cancer at the age of fifty eight?”

Jimmy looked hurt.  “Let’s not be hasty in our judgments.  You had a particularly attractive wife.  That must have been extra.  Oh, she was nice, too.”

“What do you mean, extra?”

“When you add to the pleasure of your life, there’s a cost involved.  I’d guess that your wife contracted for a less attractive husband and gained something for it.  Did you leave her a lot of money?”

Mr. Davis looked unhappy.  “There was a life insurance policy.”

“Oh!  You see?” Jimmy said with a grin.  “There you go.”

Mr. Davis shook his head.  “Wait a minute.  You mean to tell me that I suffered through cancer because my wife traded me for an inheritance?”

Jimmy shook his head.  “It’s not that simple, Mr. Davis.  I don’t imagine the insurance policy was large enough to warrant that kind of payment.”

“What kind of payment?!”

“Cancer, of course.  She contracted for the money which would have worked out better if you had contracted to be rich.  But you didn’t so she had to get the money some other way.  She probably got the money because you’re unattractive.”

“Thanks,” Mr. Davis said.

Jimmy seemed confused.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Davis, but you are who you make yourself out to be.  It says right here that you traded your own looks for an attractive wife.  Your appearance caused you problems in high school and college.  If you ask me, it’s a pretty steep price to pay but it was your choice.”

“It wasn’t my choice.  It was the choice of whoever I was before I became me.”

Jimmy shook a finger.  “You’re the same soul no matter what life you choose, Mr. Davis, even if you don’t remember it.  If you think you would like a different life, then by all means negotiate a different deal.”

“I will,” Mr. Davis said with determination.  “I think I want to be attractive this time, with lots of women.  A womanizer.”

“I see.  I see.”  Jimmy pulled out some blank sheets and a pencil and began scribbling some notes.  “That’s not cheap, Mr. Davis.”

“And no wife.  I don’t want some woman handing me cancer for an inheritance.”

“Not so fast.  Like I said, cancer is a bit expensive for a life insurance policy.  I doubt that she was directly responsible.”

“What did it cost then?  I certainly didn’t get anything in my life that was worth having cancer?”

“No, certainly not.”

Mr. Davis leaned forward.  “Then why?  Why did I get cancer?”

Jimmy leaned back, showed his palms.  “Oh, I couldn’t tell you that.  It would be unethical.”

“Unethical?  Someone bargained me into a death sentence and you’re worried about ethics?”

“Very well, then.  But I warn you, this is not easy.  The only people who can pay for something off of someone else’s contract are people in the immediate family, or rather people who will be in the immediate family.  Are you sure you want to know?  I don’t like to make contracts with angry people.  These things tend to snowball into misery.”

“Tell me.”

“All right, then, let’s investigate.  It seems your son is going to invent something.”

“My son?  My son?”  Mr. Davis looked stricken.  “But he wouldn’t…”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions.”  Jimmy dug back into his drawer and found another folder.  He looked through its contents.  By now his desk was covered with folders and papers.  “Oh, this is interesting.  Your son is due to be very successful.  He seems to have gotten an awful lot.”

“On my back,” Mr. Davis said through gritted teeth.  “I paid for his success.”

“Well, it doesn’t actually say that here, but it doesn’t not say it.”  There was a pause, Mr. Davis considering his options, Jimmy waiting expectantly.

“How do I return the favor?” Mr. Davis asked.

“I’m sorry,” Jimmy said.  “You can’t, really.  He’s not your son anymore.  If families stuck together life after life, we’d have nothing but revenge contracts.  Of course, you could bargain with the lives of your future children.  That is, assuming you contract for future children.”

Mr. Davis looked defeated.  “So that’s it?  He kills me with cancer and I can’t do anything about it?”

“What’s done is done.  You’re already here,” he said as he continued to scan the younger Davis’ contract.  He brightened suddenly.  “Well, look at this!”

“What?”

“It seems your former son’s broker was a wily one.”

Mr. Davis leaned forward to try and see, but the scribbling on the contract was incomprehensible.

“Your son seems to have paid for some of his success with an unnamed tragedy.”

“What?  What does that mean?”

“It means that he agreed to a blank line in his contract where something bad should be.”  Jimmy looked up at Mr. Davis with a sinister grin.  “We could certainly do a lot with that blank line.”

“We could?” Mr. Davis’ anger had dissipated.  He felt a chill run through him.  “But you said he’s not my son anymore.”

Jimmy waved his hand.  “He won’t be your son in his next life so you can’t do anything to him then.  But since he has this unnamed tragedy clause, you still have some jurisdiction.”

Mr. Davis shook his jowly face back and forth.  “I don’t get it.  It doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Let me put it this way.  Your son bought a lot of success and happiness.  For all of the good that’s going to happen to him, he couldn’t possibly have paid for it all by himself.  He must have dipped into the family well, but it still wasn’t enough so the broker must have talked him into the unnamed tragedy.”

“What is an unnamed tragedy?”

“Basically it’s a gamble.  Your son is leaving his fate up to a deceased relative.  He’s betting that you won’t do anything too terrible to him because he’s your son.”  Jimmy read through the paperwork some more.  “If you ask me, it’s a stupid bet considering he seems to have given you cancer.”

“Don’t call my son stupid.”

Jimmy looked up.  “I’m sorry?”

“You said he was stupid.”

“I said he made a stupid bet.  Considering your tragedy, it seems unlikely that he’s going to walk away unscathed.”

Mr. Davis thought about it for a bit.  “An unnamed tragedy?  What could I put in there?”

“It depends on what you want for it.”

“Cancer?  Could I give him the cancer he gave me?”

Jimmy smiled.  “It would then seem to run in the family.”

“And it would get him when it got me?”

“That’s up to you.  The younger he gets it, the more you’ll get for it.”

Mr. Davis paused.  “You’re saying that I buy pleasure with pain?  Why?  Why does God want people to suffer?”

“Oh, it’s not about suffering, Mr. Davis.  It’s about balance.  God wants a balanced world.”  Jimmy looked through some more papers.  “If you give it to him now, you’d get an awful lot.  You could have the looks and the women.  I think I could swing a special talent, something that earns you money.  How would you like that, Mr. Davis?  You could be a celebrity.”

“Now?  He’s only twenty two.  He wouldn’t even get to be successful.”

“Well that’s all legal considering the rules of an unnamed tragedy.  He gambled his success.”

“But he’s my son.”

Jimmy tsked.  “Mr. Davis, he’s a soul just like you are.  That he’s your son is a bargaining coincidence.”

“I don’t need to be a celebrity.  Let’s give him back a few years.”

Jimmy’s smile returned.  “As you wish.  I could take away the talent, but still earn you a comfortable living.  Your son could live until…how’s thirty six?”

“So young?”

“Forty?”

“I’m fifty eight.  How about fifty eight?”

“Do you want good looks and women, Mr. Davis?”

“I don’t know.  I was just angry.  What would I do with all of those women?”

“That’s not for me to say.”

Mr. Davis was beginning to look pale.  “Maybe I don’t need all of that after all.  That basic package sounds okay.”

“So you don’t want to fill in the unnamed tragedy?  No cancer?”

Mr. Davis looked at Jimmy with wide and sad eyes.  “He’s my son.”

“And he’s going to be very successful.”  Jimmy paused, waiting to see if he would elicit a reaction.  “No problem, Mr. Davis.  For all of his success, I’m sure his mother or one of his siblings would be willing to fill in that unnamed tragedy.”

“What?  Can they do that?”

“As easily as you can.”

“He’s a good boy, my son.  His sister will…”

“He got his success somewhere, Mr. Davis.  Whether he gave you the cancer or not, he bargained something of someone’s for his own personal gain.  Shouldn’t you, who’s suffered the most, capitalize on that?”

Mr. Davis wrung his hands nervously, shaking his head.  “What constitutes a tragedy?”

Jimmy smiled a car salesman’s smile.  “Oh just about anything.”

“A broken arm?”

Jimmy frowned.  “Well, yes, but I would call that relatively mild.  You wouldn’t get much for it.”

“And once I name the tragedy, no one else can get in on it, right?”

Jimmy leaned forward.  “Mr. Davis, people often want to know why bad things happen to good people.  Well this is why.  Because bad people negotiate away the lives of good people and never get paid back for it.”

“My son is not a bad person!”

Jimmy leaned back again.  “As you wish.  A broken arm, is it?”

“No!”

“No?”

“I don’t want him to get hurt.”

“Well there will have to be some guidelines if we’re going to call it a tragedy.  Perhaps the loss of a loved one?”

“Like his father?” Mr. Davis hissed.

“I’m afraid you can’t include something that’s already been negotiated and completed into a new deal.  Might I suggest a wife or a child.”

“A TV show!”

“What?”

“Cancel a TV show!  That’s a tragedy.”

“Only for the producers of that show.  Sorry, Mr. Davis, but I can’t do that.”

“Then his car.  Scratch his car.  God, he loves that car.”

Jimmy went silent, just staring at the man in front of him.  “You want me to scratch his car?”

Mr. Davis nodded.  “Maybe that’s too much.  He’s my son.”

“Mr. Davis, you’re operating under a false impression here.  Souls are completely unrelated.  Your son in this past life will have no relation to you in the next life.  The biological connection is something that only human beings recognize.”

“Aren’t I a human being?”

“You’re a human soul.”

“I’m still human.”

“Well… yes.”

“Then he’s still my son.”

“If I may just suggest…”

Mr. Davis grew angry.  “You’ve done enough!”

Jimmy fell silent, stared at the soul in front of him.

“This is my life we’re negotiating here, Jimmy, and you’ll do what I tell you to do.”

Cowed, Jimmy said, “Of course, sir.”

“Good.  Forget the car.  Break something new.  Something valuable, but replaceable.  And make it belong to his wife.”

“Um, Mr. Davis, I’m not sure we can qualify that as a tragedy.”

“Oh, really?  Have you ever broken something that belonged to your wife?”

Jimmy shook his head.

“It’s worse than a tragedy.  You ought to make me an athlete for suggesting it.”

A sheepish smile appeared on Jimmy’s face.  “Well I don’t think I can do that.  In fact, I don’t think I can offer you anything for it at all.”

“But no one else will be able to fill that in, right?”

“That’s right, Mr. Davis.  You’ll be blocking it entirely.  I must say I’m not sure he deserves it.”

“Well then it’s a good thing that it’s not for you to say.  Do it.”

Jimmy did it.  “And yourself?  The basic package then?”  He sounded bored.

Mr. Davis shook his head.  “No children.  No spouse.  Just make me a simple man with a simple life.  What will that cost me?”

“Oh, well, nothing.”

“Good.”

“In fact, if you like, I can offer you a few perks for giving up a family.  Are you sure you want that?”

“No attachments.  I don’t ever want to go through this again.”

“Well, all right then.”  Jimmy scribbled some remarks.  “That’s it, then.  You can go.”

Mr. Davis looked confused.  “What about the details?”

“As I mentioned before, we’re just interested in the fundamental direction of your life.  Based on your plan, there really won’t be much for us to do at all on this end.”

Mr. Davis stood.  He didn’t say anything to Jimmy as he turned and left.  When he was gone, a disappointed Jimmy packed up all of the files and put them back into his drawer.  He reached for the intercom.  “Who is my next appointment, please?”

“Mr. Peters would like to see you right away, Jimmy,” came the sultry voice of his secretary.

“Really?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Jimmy.”

Shrugging his shoulders, Jimmy stood and walked out of his office and into Mr. Peters’ office.  They looked much the same but this time Jimmy occupied the wooden chair.  Mr. Peters looked a bit like Jimmy, with creamy neutral skin.  But his eyes had a harder edge to them and there was more grey than black in his hair.  He wasn’t quite as neutral as his experience had defined his appearance.

“How are you, Jimmy?”

“Fine, Mr. Peters.  Yourself?”

“Good indeed.  I see you just brokered Mr. Davis into a new life.”

“That’s right, sir.  It didn’t go as well as I would have hoped.”

Mr. Peters was scanning a contract and Jimmy could only assume that it belonged to Mr. Davis.  “No.  I would say it didn’t go well at all.”

“I tried my best, sir, but it went all wrong.  He didn’t even take the basic package.”

“No, he didn’t.  He took less and got nothing in return.”  Mr. Peters looked up at Jimmy.  “You lied to him, Jimmy.”

Jimmy went white.  “No, sir, I didn’t.”

“A false implication is a lie in my book.”

“Mr. Peters, I’ve been finding it harder and harder to sell tragedies.  How are we supposed to maintain balance if no one will buy tragedies?”

Mr. Peters’ face darkened.  “You just do your job, Jimmy.”

“I thought I was, sir.”

“There are few souls like Mr. Davis.  Do you know what he would have done if you’d told him that he negotiated the cancer so that his son would succeed?”

“I can’t imagine, sir.  Disaster.”

Mr. Peters made a rude sound.  “How could it be a disaster?  He would have bought himself a better life, probably by selling some simple things like his wife did.  Unattractive spouses is one of our best sellers.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Peters.  I didn’t see it that way.”

“No, you never do.”

“I’ll try and do better.”

Mr. Peter’s pulled his lips into his mouth.  “I think you need to gain a little perspective, Jimmy.”

“What does that mean?”

“The best way for you to broker lives is to live a few yourself.”

Jimmy went so white that he was almost transparent.  “Sir?  You’re sending me…”

Mr. Peters smiled, pulling out a blank contract.  “That’s right, Jimmy.  Maybe you can add a little bit of that balance you’re so fond of.  Now, let’s start you off with the basic package…”



****



Author’s Note



The Book of Revelations was spawned from an idea that was really just a revelation.  It came to me out of nowhere that the universe is both sad and comical at the same time.  It seemed both the ultimate tragedy and the ultimate satire to invent a rabbi who, in his past life, tried to commit genocide against the people he now leads.  Normally wrapping that idea around a story would be difficult but it wasn’t.  I completed the first draft in only a handful of days and this final draft isn’t very different at all.



This book is not mean to be offensive or demeaning to religion or religious beliefs in any way.  There are characters representing many different perspectives and, as a reader, it is your right to choose which ones you like and agree with and which ones you don’t.  I hope you enjoyed making those choices as much as I enjoyed giving them to you.



If you have any comments or criticisms about The Book of Revelations and/or Life Broker, please email them to me at igturner@netzero.net.  Feel free to leave completely honest reviews on the web.  I am always especially interested in feedback from the readers.



In addition to writing, I have a great interest in tabletop gaming.  I’ve written a fantasy miniatures battle game called 9 Kingdoms.  With the help of some friends, I’ve been play testing for several months now and I think we’ve just about got the kinks worked out of it.  If you like miniatures combat, take a peek at 9 Kingdoms by visiting www.ninekingdoms.com.



Thank you.



****



Other Books By Ivan Turner



Forty Leap:  What if you could travel into the future?  What if you couldn’t stop travelling into the future?  You might lose a minute or an hour.  You’d get bewildered stares from your family when it takes you five minutes to retrieve your sister in-law’s cup of tea from the next room.  You’d have to beg for your job when you missed a week because of jumping into the future.  Blocks of time would suddenly be behind you.  And during those blocks of time, people might leave.  People might die.  The world might change around you.  What happens then if you start to lose years?  Then people finally start to believe your story?  Then they want to study you.  They want to harness your curse as a power.  As the generations pass you by, what does the world become in your absence?  Who are you when you finally emerge into each new era?



I’ll tell you who you are.  You’re Mathew Cristian, that’s who.



Told from the perspective of a man rapidly approaching his middle age with nothing to show for it, Forty Leap is able to explore all different kinds of people from within that protective bubble that the average person builds around him or herself.  Mathew Cristian lives securely within this bubble, sheltered from all things the world has to inflict upon and offer to a person.  Pain, rejection, a spouse, children, success…  All of these things are not only out of Mathew Cristian’s grasp but forced there by his own inability to embrace them.  He lives a comfortable life, holds a mundane job, and makes do with the dubious companionship offered him by his mother and his brothers and their families.



When he begins to lose time, he loses the ability to maintain his secure lifestyle.  He struggles to preserve what he has known for so long just because it is all that he does know.  But as his leaps through time get longer and longer, the changes around him grow more and more stark.  He emerges from his leaps disoriented and out of place.  Sometimes he is hunted.  Sometimes he is revered.  He meets and forms strong bonds all because of his condition, only to have those bonds broken by that same condition.  And yet, though the state of the world is different from era to era, the world itself rarely changes.  Eons may pass, but humanity is a constant.  Everyone is excited, preoccupied, afraid.  And the further he goes through time, the more he evolves as a person, the less frantic becomes his search for a cure and the more curious he becomes about what’s on the other side of the next leap.



Zombies!:	A bacterial infection has cause the dead to reanimate and hunger for live flesh.  Your standard zombie fare?  I don't think so.  It seems that zombie sightings are generally followed by a rapid apocalypse.  In Zombies!, the police and the government get a handle on the situation almost immediately, avoiding the inevitable.  So, while the plague spreads slowly, and new zombies are sighted regularly, life goes on for the citizens of New York City, the United States, and the world.

Follow a diverse array of characters as they deal with their daily lives against the backdrop of the zombie infection.  Read the first episode of this serialized tale, Shawn of the Dead for free.  It's available on all of the best reading devices including Kindle, Nook, ibooks, Kobo, Sony, and through smashwords.com.