The Last Victim_ A True-Life Journey Into the Mind of the Serial Killer - Jason Moss [19]
My parents tried to shelter me as much as possible. Whereas my friends were allowed to see scary movies, I was never permitted to do so. In fact, even certain news shows and documentaries were ruled out.
At age seven, I remember lying in bed one night, trying to get to sleep, and hearing the sound of the television in the other room. By the sounds of the screaming and music, I could tell that my parents were watching something frightening.
I snuck out of bed and peered down the hallway to see what was being broadcast. It turned out to be a film about the Holocaust. I sat in the darkened hallway, huddled on the floor, and witnessed Nazi soldiers beating and killing people. I saw dead bodies being moved around and piled up in stacks. I couldn’t figure out why anyone would treat others that way. I wondered what bad things the skinny people had done to deserve such brutal treatment.
While I sat frozen in the hallway, shuddering and frightened, my parents turned and discovered what I’d been up to. The look on my face was enough to confirm their worst fears about why they should continue to shield me from such horror.
“Come here, honey,” my mother called out. I thought I was in big trouble for sneaking out of bed.
My dad, as well, seemed unusually solicitous at a time when I would normally be yelled at. My tears seemed to be working, in part because my terror was genuine.
“Hitler is dead,” my father explained. “The Nazis lost the war. They can’t hurt you now.”
“But we’re Jewish, too, just like the people in that movie.”
“Yes, that’s true,” my father admitted, “but people are not like that anymore. That’s why Grandpa went in the army, to stop that type of thing.”
Once calmed down, I was filled with questions. “But why did the Nazis want to kill Jewish people? Did they do something bad?”
“No, honey, the Nazis were bad people and they liked to hurt others.” Even as he was uttering the words, my father knew that such a simple explanation would never satisfy me.
“But why did they do that? Why did they kill people? Will people try to kill us, too? Mom, I don’t want to die.”
I had so many questions, and I hoped some answers might appease my fear. I was especially curious about what the soldiers thought about when they killed the Jews. I wondered how they slept at night and whether they had nightmares about the things they’d done.
My parents tried to answer my questions as patiently as they could, but I exasperated them. They just wanted a normal kid who wasn’t so sensitive, so inquisitive. Never in their wildest dreams could they imagine how far my curiosity would take me.
8
Monsters
I’ve always felt drawn to that which I fear the most, especially when it’s forbidden. When I was ten years old, I earned first place in a science-fair competition, an honor that allowed me to enter an advanced placement course offered by the school system. Told to choose a special project for the year, I begged my teacher to let me dissect a frog. Then I badgered my parents to give me permission. Against their better judgment, they acquiesced. I couldn’t wait for the momentous day.
My mother accompanied me to the proceeding, since she was also interested in what a dissection would be like. As soon as we walked into the lab, I could smell the sickening stench of formaldehyde.
At one end of the room were science supplies—skeletons, tubes, beakers, and the like—and at the other were four long brown wooden tables. One table, in the opposite corner of the room, looked like it had been set aside for us. There were chairs all around it, and a large pan in the middle surrounded by dissecting tools.
“Jason, this is going to be so much fun for you,” my mother whispered as she put her arm around me. “How many other kids at your age get to dissect a frog?”
“Yeah,” I agreed, not at all sure what I was in for. I wasn’t exactly feeling well. Probably just some jitters from anticipating the happy event.
As we walked