The Last Victim by Jason Moss, Jeffrey Kottler Page A

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 toward the table, the teacher of advanced studies, Miss Pernatozzi, soon followed behind. She was a little woman,
     probably only about five feet tall. She had a high-pitched voice, which always made it seem as if she was overly excited.
    “Okay, guys,” she ordered us, “have a seat. I’ll be right back. I need to get something real quick. Try to familiarize yourself
     with the frog.” She pointed to the green lump in the middle of the pan. “I left a sheet there for you to see where you’ll
     find all the major organs and structures.”
    “This is neat,” my mother said excitedly, and nudged me.
    I now got my first look at the frog. It was lying on its back, belly up, on this waxy substance. The