The Haunted Traveler Vol. 1 Issue 1

lack robe. I wore a leg brace.
Bronislaw was a first-year medical student when the war
began. He was at Auschwitz-Birkenau three months before
Dr. Mengele recommended he continue his studies and assist
him in his experiments. “Anesthesia was for brave soldiers
at field hospitals, not medical experimentation,” Bronislaw
explained in the last chapter of his book. “That’s where I
learned how to administer just enough to immobilize, without
wasting precious war materials.” His time under Mengele’s
tutelage wasn’t wasted either. He became as adept with
stealth as he was with a scalpel.
I can walk unaided now. After four years, I can ride my
bike, go shopping, and carry my packages. My post-polio
syndrome is in remission. My hatred of Shinholter is not.
This is justice, I tell myself every time I walk into his courtroom
and see him humbled, entering by way of a ramp—a
reasonable accommodation the court made for him so he can
continue to pass judgment, so he can piece back his life on
the bench. This is my judgment, I tell myself every time I see
that familiar look of pathos in his eyes, the look that tells
me he will forever wonder why he screamed for help and no
one came. Why he cried for mercy and his tormentors just
laughed at him. Why he was once powerful and is now pitiful.
Sometimes he stares at me. I can tell he is trying to recall
who I am or if we’ve met before. He won’t remember. He
never looked at me during the proceeding. He turned away
because a crippled woman is not an object of desire. She is
avoided as one avoids looking at a disfigured child. But now,
his eyes beg me for understanding. He looks to all the women
in the courtroom to comfort him, to acknowledge his need
for help and respect. I see him searching their faces for approval.
Admiration. Solace. Recognition of his suffering. His
triumph over adversity. He hungers and thirsts for manhood.
I always sit in the front-row. When I’ve had enough, I
make eye contact with him with eyes devoid of compassion.
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