Building #334

"It was Auschwitz-Birkenau's dirty little secret. It was a place more heinous than any Holocaust historian would ever know. Because it and all paper traces of its existence would be destroyed far before any Allies arrived. There were, among the Jews and other prisoners, of course, those who could be made to do the unspeakable to stay alive. To do the unspeakable against their own people. Against their own blood. For this they would receive food and some luxuries, and would not be mistreated by the guards, too harshly.

There was a large hanger inside the south end of the building, and many trucks came and went all the time, hauling..."waste". I was standing guard on the northwest door of Building #334. I was issued a semi-automatic pistol and this electric cattle prod. It was my job to keep everyone in the building. That included the workers. My job and the job of the other two guards who had the other doors. One door was the garage door that the trucks entered and exited from. Outside this door there sat a menacing machine gun nest, wherein sat Hans Gerlach, leaning on a deceivingly slim automatic assault rifle called the FG42, the Fallschirmjagergewhr. He loved that gun, even though it was a paratrooper gun and he was just sitting in a nest waiting. It was situated opposite the garage door, and for some reason, pointed not away from it down the road that led back to the main Birkenau complex, but toward the garage doors. Apparently there may be a need to fire in that direction?"

Glenn looked at Jens and chuckled. He felt like a schoolboy being read a fascinating adventure story by some really wise and excellent storyteller.

Jens eyes grew dark.

"I have never spoken about that building to anyone. Being a lycanthrope for hundreds of years has its share of blood and brutality, but it is closer to the instinctive actions of a beast than what we are talking about at Birkenau, and especially in Number Three-Thirty-Four. German scientists have always been brilliant, but most have been of weak stomachs and have never been able to deal with the guilt that accompanies proper research on human subjects. That is why most had opted for using rodents and monkeys and such, as they do in the West. That all changed during the war. Suddenly the scientists and doctors had labor to do their dirty work. They could act clinically and guilt free from a distance while their experiments were being carried out and documented by some of the prisoners. Slave labor. So the most extreme of these "experiments" occurred at # Drei Dreißig Vier. It was a lot to put up with even if I had plenty to eat all the time and lived the luxurious life of German oppressor."

Verse 23

"09. 07-15-20. 01. 04-01-20-05. 23-09-20-08. 04-09-12-12-09-14-07-05-18-19. 19-03-08-12-15-14-07."

End Of Transmission.

A New Stereophonic Spook Spectacular

"Isn't this just a lovely evening, Marge? Joe?" gawked Raymond insincerely, but only as insincerely as everything he said. In truth this Italian "vacation" was a bust and this whole decaying nuclear family knew it--even though Joe was only four. Ray had worked nearly the whole time, and the fact that the work was as dark as it always would be was just the icing on the shit cake. The slimy meat of it was that the whole affair was only a feeble attempt to save an ailing marriage and fatherhood, coming also at a time of gloomy weather in Italy. No upstanding Christian and American could appreciate this ghastly, Satanic-seeming clime... or for Joe, this perfect, magical Halloween clime. Joe liked to be frightened as much as his father loathed all that was out of the norm.

The route from the city, such as it was, to the village of their stay was short enough that Ray had suggested taking it by foot a few times, and this was one. While it hardly befit a red-blooded American to miss the glory of a ride by car... there was the romance to think of, the romance dying between Marge and him.

Such a devilish gloom though. So much evil emanating from the graveyard of these half-Pagan Europeans. Such devilish laughter among the trees.

...Devilish laughter?

Was it those Catholic-school children? Almost surely not, they looked as terrified as he felt. And besides, the direction was wrong. The directions were wrong.

...Directions?

The laughter came from only one direction, one corner of the graveyard whose wall ran along their route, but from the other nearby corner came a series of Nazi-like screams. Yes, definitely German. No, now Russian... Italian... Polish... French... English?... German again. But all the same voice. They were moving now... he couldn't just scale the wall at the corner and catch the people... please God, let them be people... behind this atrocity. He would look like a fool caroming among the trees. Raymond Eawest will never look like a fool. Raymond, Eawest, will never look like a fool.

Then an egg hit him in the face. A putrid stench enveloped him and he gagged and doubled over.

Joe Eawest found all of this extraordinarily cool, funny, and frightening.

A fearful disquise

Glenn Anzalone stood alone on the ornate balcony. He was eleven years old, and had no interest in entertaining his Uncle's Italian relatives. Ever since his Mom dragged him to Italy he'd wanted to see some sites but had been relegated to gofer and dancing monkey by both his Uncle Alfredo and his mother. Here it was, Devil's night, and he was far away from home with no friends to play with, stuck at this grown up party with a load of drunk Italians and his Mom. Even though it was a masquerade party, and even though he was all dressed up as a skeleton, Glenn was in a sour mood and not in any shape to party. What he really wanted was to scare someone.
Just then, one of the exquisitely dressed cocktail servers stepped out onto the veranda. The lanky man glanced whimsically at him, and depositing an empty serving tray on the ledge, straightened his tailcoat and lit a short, filterless cigarette.
"Have you been admiring the full moon, Master Anzalone? She is quite pretty tonight, no?", the man said.
Glenn snapped out of his brooding and glared at him, "How did you know my name? Who are you anyway?" and he turned back to look at the view.
"Everyone knows you are my employer Alfredo's nephew. My name is Jens, and I have been assigned to keep track of you, and keep you entertained, let's say. I couldn't help but notice the look on your face earlier. I can tell you'd rather be scaring the wits out of someone than being here at this dull soiree. Why don't you let me clue you in on just such an opportunity?"
Glenn sized the man up. His English was perfect and had only a slight accent, which to him seemed a cross between Italian and German. Jens had piqued his curiosity, especially the uncanny way he had described Glenn's very thoughts. So Glenn decided he'd bite.
"Who could I scare? I don't even know any kids here and I have no clue where to even start."
He wondered if this man was a pedophile or a serial killer, or if--
"I can assure you, Glenn, I am no serial freak or rapist of little boys. And you don't need friends. You have me."
Glenn was stunned.
"You- did you just read my mind?" Glenn took a couple steps back towards the large French doors that opened onto the patio.
"I have your attention now, I see. Here, take a look at this picture,"
Jens reached into his jacket and pulled out a small black and white photo. He held it out towards Glenn, "It is of Alfredo and your father and I, back in 1957. This is proof that I am trustworthy and not out to get you."
Glenn took the photo and looked at it carefully. It was a picture of Uncle Alfredo and his Dad. There was Jens too, in a curious looking biker jacket and jeans, leaning up against a pick up truck next to his Uncle.
"How long did you know my father?" Glenn handed him the photo and took another uneasy step towards the door.
Jens smiled. "We met in school. Look, we can talk about all of this whenever you like, Master Anzalone, but the group of elementary schoolers over at St. Mary of The Lake are just about done with their meal and are about to walk to the nearby Halloween party, two blocks from the school. They walk right by the parish graveyard, which is wooded with thick pines and oak trees. There are many places to hide and I HAVE THESE," Jans pulled five eggs from his jacket pocket,"They are quite rotten."
Glenn grinned and came over to him. "Wow..." he breathed.
"Our time is short if you want to scare them," Jens breathed back.

Hackneys and Themes

A 1787 dirt road in the winter is no guarantee of a trip forward on one's hackney. Sometimes it means standing still, or even going backwards. For now, Jens assumed Beethoven truly was at least standing still, and probably moving forwards.

Jens, however, was always moving forwards. He was moving forwards now, had been moving forwards when Constantine turned Europe to the Cross, had been moving forwards when he received his curse in Greece, would be moving forwards when the names of Beethoven and Mozart were long forgotten, failing some merciful act from above. For now, he still had his sanity and morals, but he feared that he only had one or two more sane centuries left in him.

He envied his master and this Beethoven fellow that they could reach the happy medium of mere cultural immortality. How he wished he could be reduced to the same. Reduced? Elevated!

Symphony of Tears

It was March, 1787. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart sat impatiently. He had a distinguished guest due to arrive an hour ago, and he was both excited and pissed that his anticipation was being extended. He scribbled notes absently on a sheet of parchment, randomly hitting notes on the grand piano in front of him.

His personal 'assistant' walked in and announced,

"Sir, Master Beethoven has sent a messenger to assure you that he is on his way, and apologizes that he had been detained by an emergency. He sends his regards and expects to be with you around five in the afternoon."

"Thank you, Jens. Have a pot of tea brought up to me. It looks to be a long day."

Jens bowed and left. Wolfgang turned again to the piece he was working on. He had worked on it off and on again for years. It was a short opera regarding the myth of Lycaon, King of Arcadia, who attempted to serve up human flesh to Zeus, to test Zeus' divinity. Zeus responded by turning Lycaon into a beast. A wolf. This resounded with Amadeus so much that writing the music to the story frequently brought him to fits of weeping, and he had to stop working on it until another time.

Keep Making Fun of Me

It was two weeks after the party in Bart's basement, and Joe was standing next to a young man in a kippah in Toronto's Bovine Sex Club, listening to Kraftpark, a Kraftwerk cover band.

"This piece is by The Organization. It doesn't have lyrics, so we gave it some, because it's no fun just being a cover band all the time. Can we hear it for creativity?"

The crowd roared.

"All right. Bear with us, this song doesn't have much room for lyrics, so it might sound pretty strange. But it sounds pretty strange anyway. All you big fans, you know what we're talking about! Get ready for Milk Rock!"

Into various points in the melodious cacophony that ensued they moaned and shouted:

Fantastisch,
Elektrische,
Melancholisch,
Irrsinnig,
Romantisch,
Statistische,
Poetisch,
weiß, schmelzende Musik...

Everyone around roared approval except the guy in the kippah, who shouted "Learn German, already!" and a Japanese man next to him who shouted nothing, but frowned, only to smile when the lead singer stepped forward and started chanting a capella "Boku wa ongak' ka, Dentaku katate ni..."