Padlocked, page 35
He turned slowly to discover a silent line of Jews snaking down the center road for as far as the eye could see, while Nazi soldiers barked orders as if they were competing against one another in their ferocity. He watched as some civilians were abruptly struck with a rifle butt, spat upon, or pushed to the ground. With each transgression, he felt the victim’s distress. Unlike the pain he felt when he was alive, this was far more intense, as if every torment vibrated outward to create more suffering.
Max sensed a breath upon the back of his neck. It was so hot that it felt as if his skin was being scorched by a malicious sun. An unexplained terror seized him, causing his breathing to become ragged and shallow, and his heart to palpitate. He wanted to run as far away as possible to escape this place and time, but his feet were rooted to the ground as if they belonged to a statue. The sensation was shared by all those in line, their inward cries taking on physical shapes that surrounded and taunted him.
He was steadily pivoted around. He hadn’t turned himself; he hadn’t possessed the ability to move. He was revolved as though he existed on a rotating pedestal. A tall figure loomed before him, too colossal to be human, yet it wore a cloak with a strange head covering that appeared to be both a hat and a hood. The graphite-colored cloak was so long that it covered the figure from head to toe, and as his eyes became riveted on its lower extremities, it appeared to vibrate and levitate.
“You were here.” Max’s voice sounded odd to him, as though his voice had become separated from his body. “I saw you here, on that day.”
“Yes,” the figure answered. Its face was entirely shrouded in pitch-blackness, the depths so complete that it was as though it had no face at all.
“You are Abaddon,” Max said.
“Yes. I am Abaddon.” The voice was heavy and harsh, as if it belonged to an apex predator. As he turned and raised one arm, the cloak undulated like thick, murky smoke had been disturbed. The tip of a finger pointed from under the cloak’s arm.
Max felt as though he no longer had control of his body but was turned to face the direction in which Abaddon pointed. He found himself staring at the long line of people. Unlike the original time, he could not prevent himself from staring into each face and registering each emotion. He felt intense fear, overwhelming sorrow, unimaginable distress, consuming anxiety, depression, and hopelessness. With others in the line, he felt a glimmer of hope, prayers, a yearning for clean water, and enough food to reverse starvation.
Mrs. Weiss began walking along the line, inquiring about its purpose from fellow Jews, and her daughter, Celina, stepped behind her. Max recoiled as they approached him.
Abaddon cackled, his voice sinister. “They cannot see you. You see, Max, they are dead. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”
“I am in hell,” Max croaked as his throat constricted.
“Do you recognize them?” Abaddon pressed. Without waiting for a reply, he continued, “Of course, you do not, because you turned your face from them. There are a few you know, such as Mrs. Weiss and her daughter. Over there, you see that young man?”
“I’ve never seen him before.”
“Are you sure? Look more closely. It is the child who dropped an apple on you on your way to the bakery. He was only seven years old.”
Max instinctively reached for his forehead where the apple had struck him. “It hurt.”
“Yes. It did. But, was it worth paying for it with his life?” Abaddon vibrated in shades of gray and black as he continued. “He was only a child, and he regretted his action as he matured. He was trying, like the rest of them, to forge a life and a future for himself and his loved ones.”
“I didn’t know he was Jewish.”
“He wasn’t. But, you identified him as Jewish, didn’t you, Max? You wanted to appear important. You condemned him to death for throwing an apple as a child. You sent him to this ghetto, and then you ordered him marched out of the city to be murdered in the woods.”
Max attempted to turn away, but he was held facing the scene unfolding before him.
“It also did not matter whether he was a Jew or a Gentile,” Abaddon continued. “Religion is a façade created by cultures. It is the soul that truly matters. You see, if you are earnest and sincere, you pray to the same God, regardless of the rituals surrounding you.” He waved a cloaked arm to encompass all those in line. “The rest, you will soon know.”
“What are you saying?”
“You determined your afterlife by the life you led while living.” As Abaddon spoke, his words appeared to turn to black smoke, which encircled Max. “Every deed, thought, and word created energies that you must experience on this side. Had they been positive, you would experience happiness, lightness, and gratitude. Above these are love and hope, which sit at the pinnacle of all you should strive for. These ripple outward, creating higher vibrations and more encompassing love and hope. It is strange how that works, isn’t it? The more love you give away, the more love comes back to you.”
“I committed good deeds,” Max insisted.
“Yes. It is impossible to find a soul that hasn’t acted with, thought, or verbalized occasional positive intentions. But, you see, Max, all that you ever said or did was weighed on a cosmic scale. A good deed must have been the result of unselfish love, understanding, and compassion for another. Times when you acted in kindness will come back to you here, and you will see how your altruism positively affected others.”
Max puffed out his chest. “I am sure we can find many instances.”
Abaddon chortled, the sound echoing until it surrounded Max. “You cannot bargain with us here, Max. Your soul is transparent.” Before Max could respond, Abaddon continued, “You will experience those times after you encounter the others.”
“The others?” Intense terror began to form inside him. He felt helpless. He was no longer a human being but a creature lower than a cockroach, something that must be annihilated.
“Feel that, Max? Each person standing in this line is a soul. Yours is no better than theirs; all souls were created equal. The facades that are worn in an earthly existence—skin color, languages, money, privilege... They mean nothing here. Absolutely. Nothing,” he emphasized. “The moment you crossed over the threshold into the afterlife, your soul exists only in love or the absence of it.”
“I don’t understand—”
“Then I will explain it to you. Very soon, you will find yourself in the body of one of these people in line. Yes, Max. These people.” Abaddon began to move alongside the line, pulling Max with him as if they were bound by an invisible cord.
“You will experience their existence from the time they were born. You will see and feel their families, friends, and all those who loved them. You will move through life with them, through them, experiencing the constellation of their schools, churches, and communities.”
“That doesn’t seem too bad.”
“It won’t be. Until you experience the unadulterated hatred of someone who never knew them, someone like you, who decides their fate without looking in their faces or learning who they are. It will be undeserving hatred, and all hatred is undeserving.”
The emotions were reaching a crescendo, bordering on insanity, as all the souls turned to look at him in unison.
“And you will find yourself in this line,” Abaddon continued, “selected by you or a soldier you ordered here, and you will march out with the others. And there will be a time when you will understand why you were selected and the fate that awaits you. You will feel their horror, their alarm and panic, their complete helplessness as you are ordered into the woods. You will feel their physical pain, but it won’t end there. You will fully comprehend the lives you ruined, as every person in this line was loved by others. You will feel their terror and overwhelming sadness as they discover the fate of the murdered one. You will hear their sorrow as they ask the heavens how anyone could completely lack compassion for other human beings. And,” he concluded, “that someone will be you. For you had a hand in their murders to the same extent as the person who pulled the trigger.”
Max began to speak, but his words were silenced as if Abaddon’s hand was wrapped around his throat.
“Ever wonder what it felt like to ‘go up the chimney,’ Max? None of these people did; neither did the people who were gassed first; not even your mother, for they were murdered before they were incinerated. But you will feel it, Max. You will feel every excruciating second of it. There is no concept of time here, Max, which means every second will feel like an eternity. And when that is finished,” Abaddon continued, “you will find yourself back in line as the next victim. The process will repeat again, and again, and again...” He pointed to the long line again. “You will experience every drop of pain you inflicted on every soul in this line, including Mrs. Weiss and Celina.”
Max tried to object, but Abaddon’s figure grew taller and bulkier, the black smoke swirling with the same intensity as Max’s terror.
“When you have experienced each soul’s journey, you will begin again with every soldier who experienced trauma from your order; all fifty of them. Then, with every soul you sent to a camp, thousands of them, Max. Thousands,” he growled. “You will also experience your mother’s sorrow at her son’s role in these atrocities. And did I mention, you will experience the atrocities that each guard perpetrated, each guard that you sent?”
“I am in hell,” Max moaned.
“It is a hell that you created, action by action, word by word... For, with every person you harmed, you must experience what you caused them to experience, repeatedly, until you understand.”
“You said that you hold the secret to the gate,” Max said. “I will do whatever you wish if you will open it for me now.”
“Open it for you?” Abaddon mocked. He smiled with red teeth that shone from the depths of the darkness beneath the hood. He turned and pointed in the opposite direction. As Max turned to peer behind him, Abaddon continued, “You are on the other side of the gate now.”
Sheer panic enveloped him. “Then, get me out of here! Please! I beg you! I will do anything!”
“You cannot bargain with me, Max, and I have grown weary of your attempts. You will remain here until you have experienced every soul’s journey that you impacted in life. It makes no difference how physically close or far you were from their fates. You were a cog in the mechanism that perpetuated hatred and harm. You could have been the broken link in the chain of hatred at any time, at any point.”
Max felt a sudden shift in the air and an urge to look down at his body. Instead of the jacket and trousers he was accustomed to wearing, he found himself staring at the belly of a pregnant woman dressed in dirty, thin rags. His hand was drawn to the stomach, but it was not the masculine hand he knew, but a petite, frail, and bony hand of a half-starved woman. The baby feebly kicked inside her, and she knew it would not be long before she would go into labor.
“Wait!” he cried out, surprised to find his voice undulating between his own and the young woman’s.
Abaddon had reached the gate, and now he turned in the entrance.
“Are you Satan?” Max shouted.
“I have told you that I am not.”
“Then, who are you? What are you?”
The hood grew larger with soot that caught on the air and swirled around the figure. Two red eyes emerged above snarling, red teeth, causing Max to recoil in horror. When Abaddon spoke, the voice was fathomless and blood-curdling.
“I am the mirror of your soul.”
49
Agata
The evergreen needles of the Scots pines soared above Agata, their uppermost branches dancing with a light, airy breeze. The sky was the most consistent shade of azure she’d ever seen and so devoid of clouds that it appeared more like a painting than reality. She barely made out a family of soaring birds in the distance, circling one another as if in play, their wings alternately dipping and rising.
As she traced the treetops downward through the hefty trunks to where they disappeared among a heavy blanket of needles on the forest floor, a strange sensation began to envelop her. She knew this thicket. In fact, she doubted that she could ever forget it, no matter how hard she tried.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” Celeste answered.
Agata turned to face Celeste. “You were here.”
She nodded.
“You gave me food and told me the way to the village and the clothing factory.”
“Yes.”
“But, how can that be? The food was real. I ate it. The village was exactly where you said it would be.”
“Yes.” When Celeste smiled, her gown shimmered in gold and silver. “There were always angels around you. We don’t live in the distant clouds. We have too much work to do on earth.”
“I don’t understand,” Agata insisted. “How is that possible?”
“Why do you believe it is impossible?” She began to stroll through the woods, and Agata followed. “I am the seagull directing the lost mariner to a safe port,” Celeste began. “I am the deer that alerts the wanderer to danger. I am the red cardinal who sat on the windowsill at a camp devoid of birds.”
“Wait,” Agata said. As Celeste halted and turned to face her, Agata pointed. “It is there, through those woods, that I found the villagers. They had been murdered, even the children. If angels are always among us, why weren’t they protected?”
Celeste’s eyes saddened. “We were there, but there are times in which we must work through the living. For example, you had a choice when we met in the woods. You could have continued waiting for a ride. Another came this way three days later. Or, you could have returned to Warsaw or set out directly for southern Poland. It was your choice to go into the village, where you found appropriate clothing for the rest of your journey.”
“I met two men there.”
“Yes, you did. Again, you had a choice. You could have traveled with them. Had you made that choice, you would have been reunited with Piotr.”
Agata gasped. “Why didn’t you tell me when we met?”
Celeste cocked her head. “And then, what would have happened to Elsa? No,” she said without waiting for her reply, “you were single-minded in your journey to save your sister.”
“I don’t know if I was successful.” She sat on a fallen log, her shoulders slumped.
“Yes,” Celeste said, coming to stand near her, “you were successful. Elsa was days away from dying of starvation. You saved her with the food you provided. And, in so doing, you saved many others.”
Agata’s eyes filled with tears. “I did so very little. The power that invaded Poland was so strong, so formidable. What difference could I alone have made against such evil?”
“Enough difference to save your sister’s life. Along with the others you saved, the resistance rippled outward to encompass others. You were only a grain of sand against a sea of evil.” Celeste waved her hand. The woods transformed into a vast beach that stretched as far as the eye could see. “But there were millions of grains of sand just like you, and together, they repelled the immoral and corrupt forces.”
Agata was silent for a long moment. “Why did so many people follow those evil forces? It only resulted in heartbreak and hatred, and eventually, in murder and destruction.”
“Because,” Celeste answered patiently, “every person on this planet is an eternal soul living a momentary existence in a human body. Every soul has a choice that will not only change the course of their eternal life but also the course of others’ lives. They can reject malevolent forces in all their forms and spread love, tolerance, and understanding. Sadly, some choose to follow figures that lead to hatred, catastrophe, division, and disaster.”
“Why?”
Celeste shrugged. “Because they make promises that some were waiting to hear.”
“There were millions of us—millions of Poles, Hungarians, and ethnic groups from across Europe. Allied forces were fighting to free us from an evil empire. Why was that not enough?”
“Ah, but it was enough. For you see, dear Agata, evil was defeated. The invaders were purged.”
“But, at what cost?”
“Is there any cost too high to repel dark forces?”
“Why did it have to happen at all?” Agata pressed.
“It didn’t.” Celeste sighed, and for the first time, she appeared weary. “War is never inevitable. Hatred, division, and intolerance are learned.” Two dogs began walking along the beach as if they had appeared out of thin air. “Do you see them?” Celeste asked.
“Yes. I do.”
“One is white with short fur, while the other is tri-colored with long fur. Neither one cares about the other’s color. Neither one cares that while one was carefully bred for herding sheep, the other is a mongrel of unknown lineage. Each has love for the other. Each provides companionship and permissiveness. They play, eat, and sleep together in harmony. Oh, they have brief spats. But it never rises to the level of hatred.”
“Are you saying that dogs are better than humans?”
“At the moment, the species is. Perhaps, humans have a lot to learn from the animals around them.”
A tear escaped and raced down Agata’s cheek before she could stop it. “I am guilty of atrocities.”
“Oh?”
“I struck prisoners in the camp, too many times to count or remember. I hated my little sister when I first saw her, thinking that, if she weren’t there, my mother would still be with me. I made a promise to return to her and my father, a promise I couldn’t keep. And,” she added between sobs, “I killed a guard on the morning the camp was liberated.” She looked Celeste in the eyes. “I committed murder.”
“That’s a lot of confessions.”
“Yes. I suppose it is.”
“You have suffered from tremendous guilt,” Celeste continued. “Guilt is the first step toward grace and redemption.”
“I don’t understand.”
“To feel guilt means you must feel empathy. To feel guilt means you must care. It means you wish you had made a different choice.”
