Warsaw Curse

“Curse them,” said the worn voice that still held a trace of a Polish accent.

Hyman Berkowicz stared at the swastika, his wrinkled, spotted hands shaking.  It had been many years since he had seen this hated symbol of atrocity but the sight of it brought back memories best left buried.  Tears came unbidden to his aged eyes.

Hyman had been a boy of only five then the Nazis had invaded Poland.  Having lived in a Warsaw ghetto and being Jewish, his family had been rounded up and carted off to concentration camps.  They had been luckier than some.  Being strong and able they were sent to work camps as laborers for the Third Reich.  Others has not been so lucky and were carted off to Treblinka and other death camps for immediate extermination.  He had spent three years in those camps watching the atrocities committed by the Germans before the Americans came and liberated them.

Of his family, he was the only one who had survived.  His mother had literally worked herself to death in the camp.  A strong and able leader, his father had been shot for trying to incite revolt. As a beautiful young girl of fifteen, Roza, his sister had been subjected to rape and humiliation for the entertainment of the young Germans stationed at the camp.  Out of shame and desperation, she had hung herself in the women’s barracks.

As the war neared its end so did the occupation of Poland and the operation of the work camps.  The German’s deserted the camp leaving the prisoners there to rot.  By the time the US G.I.s had arrived many of the remaining men and women had died of starvation.  A US soldier had found Hyman, malnourished and sickly, near death.  Being of Polish descent the American felt obligated to get Hyman to safety.  He arranged for him to be sent to America where Hyman would come to live with the man’s uncle and aunt.

The Kaminskis were good people, living in the “Little Warsaw” section of Brooklyn.  They owned of a funeral parlor and having no children, raised Hyman as their own son.  As the boy grew, he was trained in the arts of embalming as well as the general skills of running a funeral parlor.

Now, sixty years later, Hyman sat in the office of his own funeral parlor holding this emblem of pure hatred and evil.  His tears turned to rage.  For weeks now, he had been plagued by vandalism and signs of anti-Semitism.  At first, minor, they had progressed to this point.  Hyman had come to find his parlor in shambles.  Doors and windows lay broken and shattered.  Nazi paraphernalia littered the viewing rooms and waiting areas.  Caskets had been spray painted with “die, Jew, die” and other such phrases of bigotry.  The last straw had been the large flag with a swastika hung from the doorway of his place.

This was not the some random act by teenage punks.  This was a coordinated attack against him and more so his heritage.  He had heard whispers in the Jewish community of a group of Neo-Nazis said to be operating somewhere in the area.  This had to be their act.

Hyman had lived for years trying to overcome the pain of the holocaust only have it shoved back in his face.  He had not survived war and forced labor camps to see this happen all over again.

This was an act of war against the Jewish people and could not be allowed to stand.  The police would likely investigate but in the end, nothing would come of it.  He had to take action but what could a seventy year old man like him do against people like that?  The leather chair groaned as he leaned back, thinking, his hands resting under his chin.  A wicked grin began to spread across his lips as an idea formed in his mind.  Yes.  He knew exactly what could be done.

Hyman sprang from his chair, nimble and quick, belying his age.  Scanning the shelves lining his office, he found the book he needed.  Pulling the tome from its shelf, Hyman’s face took on a sinister visage.  He would not allow a Nazi, neo or otherwise to perpetrate an act of hatred against his kind.

***

A day passed as Hyman planned his vengeance.  His sons, Eli and Jacob had pleaded with him to let the police deal with the issue.  They were good boys but could never understand what an act like this meant and why he needed to proceed with his plan of revenge.  He had assured them that he would contact the police but needed to get his business up and running first.

Hyman closed up shop for the evening and went down to the basement of the funeral parlor.  This is where the embalming and cremations took place and where he would enact his plan.  Laying the book of ancient Kabbalistic rituals open on a table used for preparing the dead, he leafed through the dried pages of the age-old tome until he found the correct ritual.

Hyman read through the ritual several times.  The act would place a great strain on his body and he knew he could not afford to let anything go wrong.  He would need a supply of clay.  Looking towards the large furnace, the clay bricks used in the cremation process would suffice.

He was loath to approach the thing.  Typically his sons handled the cremations.  Of all the memories of his childhood, this furnace brought back the worst.  The Nazis had forced the younger boys to clean the furnaces which were used to burn the dead.  Being a small boy, he was able to climb inside to clean out the bones and other body parts that did not burn up.  It had been the stuff of nightmares for him most of his life. 

Steeling himself, he opened the door to the furnace and began removing bricks which he placed on the floor in a pattern that vaguely resembled the outline of a man.  Having gathered enough bricks, he closed the furnace door and removed his cloth.  He would need to be pure of body for the ritual to have a hope of succeeding.

Climbing into one of the stainless-steel tubs used to wash the bodies of the deceased, he scrubbed away his sins.  When the cleansing was completed, he dressed in clean clothes, placed a yarmulke on his head and a Jewish prayer shawl known as a Tallit over his shoulders.

Picking up the old tome, he began to recite the prayer.  He circled around the assembled bricks seven times as the bricks began to glow a bright red, dissolving and reforming into one large mass.  Seven more times, he circled, this time reciting a different prayer and a mist began to coalesce around the form cooling it.  Hyman began to breathe heavy from the exertion.
A final seven times he circled and with the concluding prayer, the form began to take on the shape and characteristics of a man.  A vague face was visible as were muscular arms, legs and torso.  The creature had no genitalia and no mouth as this was only a facsimile of a man and not a true man.

Upon this final act, Hyman felt heaviness in his chest and a pain in his arm.  The ritual had taken its toll on him but he had to survive at least long enough for his creation to complete its task.  With out the creator, it would not have the will to finish the undertaking for which it was created.

Collapsing into a chair and fighting off the excruciating pain, Hyman motioned for the creature to rise.

“Arise, my child,” said Hyman through gritted teeth, “and do your master’s bidding.”

The creature arose, standing erect like a man.  It was huge, standing over six feet tall and easily weighing over three hundred pounds.  It moved with a grace and agility that contradicted its bulk.  The creature would be unstoppable and almost nothing could stop it.

Fighting through the pain, Hyman reached for the small red flag bearing the swastika that had started him down this course and handed it to his creation.  Without emotion, the Golem accepted it and appeared to be studying the flag.  This small piece of cloth inscribed with an emblem that was anathema to his master, would lead him right to the perpetrators.

The creature turned and left.  Hyman smiled as another wave of pain shot through his shoulder and chest.

***

Five young men sat in the living room of the dilapidated house that served as their headquarters.  All five men bore shaved heads and were dressed in black as if they were some paramilitary outfit.  All of them sported tattoos of swastikas, iron crosses and other symbols of the Third Reich.  A couple ratty couches dotted the room.  Several Glock 9MM handguns rested on an old, splintered wooden table. Nazi flags and other paraphernalia blotted the chipped walls of the room.

The five men comprised the local chapter of the Aryan Brotherhood also known as Neo-Nazis or skinheads.  They had names like Blitzkrieg and Himler but in reality they were really just a bunch of former burn outs and losers who had latched onto the Aryan cause.  They too blamed their lot in life on the Jews the way the Nazis had used them as their excuse for racial purity and conquest.

The house that was used as their base of operation stood on the outskirts of town, its only neighbors being manufacturing plants and warehouses.  At night, aside from an occasional security guard, there was not another soul to be found for a mile in any direction.  The house was actually derelict and would eventually be torn down but until then it served as the perfect place to plot their hate crimes and vendettas.

Hate filled music by bands with names like Angry Aryans and Das Reich played on their stereo eliciting lyrics suggesting the wholesale slaughter of anyone that was not of Aryan Blood.  This was somewhat ironic considering none of these men were.  The music played on and a few of the men began to thrash dance or goose step around the room.

“I’d have loved to see the Polish kike’s face when he walked into his shop,” said a smallish man with blue eyes who went by the name of Heinrich but in actuality his name was Bobby.

“Yeah,” said a towering wall of stupidity that went by the name of Blitzkrieg, “that old fuck better get a clue or next time something worse is gonna happen to him.”

The other men nodded in unison.

“Hey Hein, go grab us another six pack from the fridge,” said the name named Wagner, the de facto leader of the group.

As Heimler headed off to the kitchen, a slow monotonous knock could be heard at the door.

“Did you hear that,” said Bruckner, a waif-like boy of nineteen with facial piercings in his upper lip, nose and left eye brow, “turn the fucking music off.”

“Quiet,” said Wagner, “it might be the cops.”

“Can’t be!  Nobody knows we’re here,” said Blitzkrieg.                                                  

The steady knock continued.

“Bruckner,” said Wagner, “go check the door.”

“Why do I have to go,” said Bruckner?

“Because I said so,” replied Wagner, agitation creeping into his voice, “now get the fuck going!”

Bruckner grabbed one of the Glocks from the table, cocked it and headed for the front door.  Peering through the side light, the street was dark and appeared empty.  He opened the door, brandishing the gun.  Nobody was there.  Closing the door, he turned to head back to his companions when the knocking resumed.

“Ok mother fucker, now your starting to piss me off,” Bruckner opened the door and what he saw made his blood grow cold.

Sounds of gunfire erupted as three shots rang into the night followed by a blood curdling scream.

“What the fuck was that,” said Rommel, the fifth member of the group?

Bottles shattered on the floor and another set of screams were heard but these screams were of terror and not pain.

The three men grabbed their guns, jumped up and raced to the door.  Heimler stood by the doorway, frozen with fear. In front of him, crumbled on the floor was Bruckner.  The limbs of his body lay shattered and broken, his neck twisted at an impossible angle.

“Holy shit,” said Rommel over and over in a panic

“Shut the fuck up, Rommel,” said Wagner, “Blitzkrieg go check the back.  Heimler, you go check the basement while I check upstairs.”

“What am I supposed to do,” said Rommel?

“You stay here with Bruckner,” said Wagner, “if you see the cops, signal.  If you see anything else, blast em.”

***

Blitzkrieg strode out into the back yard, carrying a sawed off shotgun.  What the man lacked in brains he made up for in aggression.  Surveying the yard, nothing was there except for some old lawn furniture and empty beer bottles strewn about the place.  A fog began to drift in obscuring much of the outlying area.

Mindful for the slightest sound, Blitzkrieg crept along.  The only noise was the distant sound of a truck being unloaded in one of the neighboring warehouses.  Confident that the back yard was clear, he turned to report back to Wagner.

A shape began to manifest from the fog, coalescing into the form of a man.  There stood the Golem, impassive and tranquil.  With brains made of rock, Blitzkrieg raised his shotgun and fired, the shells hitting the creature but having no visible impact.  Dropping the gun, the huge man charged, unloading a punch meant to take its head off.  His fist sunk into the creature and was stuck.

The Golem nonchalantly reached up with one arm and twisted.  A loud crack was heard as Blitzkrieg’s wrist shattered.  Its other hand darted out, impacting with the man’s torso, collapsing his chest.  Blood splattered from Blitzkrieg’s mouth.  He tried to scream but his crushed lungs held no air.  Sinking to the ground, his eyes began to darken as the life left his body.

***

Heimler completed his sweep of the basement.  Nothing seemed unusual and there were no signs of forced entry or disturbances.  Heading up the stairs, he opened the door leading back into the hallway.  The back door was still opened.  He made a quick sign to Rommel, who was still guarding the front door, that he was going to check on Blitzkrieg. 

Heading out to the backyard, the fog hung like a dark curtain over the area.  He walked a few feet before coming upon the lump of flesh that used to be his comrade.  Bile reared in his throat and he retched as panic took a hold of his mind.

He ran back into the house to find a creature in the shape of a man but not a man standing as still as a statue behind Rommel who was unaware of its presence.  With a shriek of terror, Heimler unloaded with his 9MM.  The bullets passed harmlessly through the monster, striking Rommel dead in the chest as he rose from the surprise.  No sooner had he risen then Rommel fell to the ground dead, his body lacerated with bullets.

Heimler unloaded the remaining rounds and reloaded.  The bullets had no effect as the creature slowly traversed the length of the hallway.  Throwing the emptied gun at the creature, he resigned himself to death.  The Golem stopped, staring at the man without any emotion on its face. 

Heimler closed his eyes as the creature’s arm shot out, catching him around the neck and lifting him off his feet.  Heimler struggled to free himself from the grasp but the grip was too strong.  A final squeeze and the man’s throat was crushed. A few moments later Heimler was no longer struggling and hung from the Golem’s arm limply.  The Golem released its grip and the young man fell to the floor dead.

***

Wagner had heard the screams and the gunfire from the room at the top of the stairway.  Barricading himself in the room, he had hoped that whatever was out there would not be able to break through.  Behind all of his rhetoric, Wagner was a coward.  He believed himself a New Age Hitler whose silver tongue could entice men to do his bidding.

Wagner hid in the corner, his Luger aimed at the doorway.  The sound of footsteps reverberated up the stairway methodically.  Too scared to call out, he began to shake.  The steps sounded at the top of the stairs and all was quiet. 

He fired off a few rounds through the door but no sound followed.  Heart thudding in his chest, he crept to the doorway, peering through one of the bullet holes.  The hallway lay dark and empty.  Whatever it was had gone or so he thought.  As he breathed a sigh of relief, the door exploded with a force that sent him back backwards to the floor, knocking him senseless.  Through blurry eyes, he saw his assailant.  A demon of vengeance born in flame advanced, standing over him.  The monster stared at him, expressionless.  Wagner screamed as the last thing he saw before his skull caved in was a fist of clay descending.

Its task completed, the Golem disintegrated into dust.

***
Hyman sat in the chair, his breath ragged.  Laying there, he felt the Golem’s passing and knew that it had completed its task.  He would die but his death had not been in vain.  Those that sought to commit atrocities against him had paid dearly with their lives.  As one last jolt of pain shot through his chest, his heart stopped and he expired, a wry smile on his face.

The End