Hannah’s murderYou really never know what your unconscious is carrying, nor exactly what your mind is pursuing in its depth. Thus, most of the movements you make, seem to be the response to some superficial purpose you establish as, let us say, official goal or aim, while thousands and thousands of little gestures and tones of voice, steps and directions, which can hardly be explained by the goal in question,  do leave marks on the skin of memory in order for you to understand, perhaps, one day, much later, when all is finished, what you were really seeking for. Sometimes, you try to give an answer to hundreds of questions and problems at the same time, condensing in one simple presence the solution in different perspectives for many even contradictory matters. It is very difficult to find one single principle which may determine convincingly your general behavior, and it is not without surprise that you have to discover sometimes, that your ‘official goal’ was nothing but an intelligent mask in  order to hide away your real intentions, which may be as bad … as good. Why did Hannah’s death become such an obsessive matter, that it finished by determining all my behavior for years, blindly and stubbornly, as if life itself would be suspended on the possibility of an answer to this question, making me even break all rules of my usually quiet and discrete movements through reality? Such honorable words as ‘fidelity beyond death’ would have shocked my common functional mind, and were it not, in truth, I think, that the fact of knowing the murder alive made my existence tremble constantly of the possibility of a new murder, covered as well as the first, I would perhaps not have made any movement whatsoever. Or perhaps the second reason was nothing but an excuse that would satisfy my research for plausible causes and justifications, knowing well that our world does little understand of noble feelings and that it would rather not fit otherwise in my general block of explanations. At the end, it doesn’t matter if she died at that very moment. Her death was in any case the result of this first attempt of murder, and thus the guilt much more than an intention, it was a torture of 20 years were the understanding was losing forces from moment to moment, until it finally vanished. Had I given deeper belief to her sayings, I would have been perhaps less shocked by the number of very surprising happenings that would mark my path through existence ever since I decided to keep my word, when I said, ‘I would go for a third time to

Israel.’ If I see back now, I can clearly distinguish the superposition of her soul on my understanding, where the very force of her presence and her will ‘to go back home’, did blind my eyes to reality, while, at the same time, I must have been pursuing my own personal goals, which were nothing, apparently, but revenge. Or the depth of the instinct of survival, who knows.  How near the realm of death is filtering our common world, I may understand now, now that what seemed to me theoretical results were confirmed one by one by an experience which, though difficult to share with anyone, has left thick layers of memory in some part of the psychic system, so as it to be impossible to function otherwise but in knowledge of these elements, which do even regulate the functioning of understanding and ordering of information as transmitted by senses.  She knew that the world of the death is intelligible for an intelligent mind, visible and organized in codes and messages and information paths, that psychic currents do link souls one to another, and that these currents were infected by the presence of death. She said: “I know, because I was dead.” (Which I did never really give credit to.) And though I was drown slowly to the kind of world she was living in, simply by copying the muster of the grammatical structures of her language, so that I was confronted to the most surprising inner experiences a human being may think of, I was convinced in my functional understanding, that it was nothing but a result of the conjunction of reason with images, which is to say, fantasy, though not illusion, as it was still related to thought. Some kind of illustration in blundering, synthetic images of extremely complex theoretical thoughts. “I was writing a novel,” I said in the tones of utter conviction to the toll agent, although at that time this was still true for my conviction at the arrival, much less for the evidence I had been cumulating during my somewhat tormented stay.  How did my novel characters become living people walking in front of me, making the same gestures they made in my fantasy, using the same tones, the same words, the same expressions? If this is true, I told to myself, is the other true, too? All the horrible stories of mafia bosses and international organized crime, of tortured political plans and free psychopaths terrifying the world? If I had taken the risk not to give credit enough to Hannah’s sayings, could I take the risk of doing as if the rest be just a fantasy? My mind was already structured in such way, that it opened little doors in hypothesis, for different possibilities. Thus, when I left for Israel ‘to confront myself to evidence’, as I had put it, I was almost certain that I would just be confronted to the fact that it was all nothing but a very interesting story, to my understanding, resuming theoretical questions in adventures much more exciting to the mind than ‘Alice in wonderland.’ I just wanted to put the characters somewhere, where the geographical precision would give to the whole a more credible allure. Thus, I intended to stay just for one week.  The possibility that Hannah be true, was slight, but had given a whole number of necessarily following consequences, were it because the hypothesis in itself was so interesting that it merited a novel for itself. “If all this is true, than you have to switch over to the automatic program.” The automatic program which had been a construction that had taken almost months to be ready, was based on the following principles: My poor mind would be incapable of assuming the evidence and thus would certainly fall into some kind of inner shock, paralyzing body and understanding. In order to avoid this, the concentration had to be kept fixed on a whole number of unbelievable stories, which were programmed almost with second’s precision. The whole was embedded in some kind of general hypothesis which maintained that a foreigner appearing at times of coming war (Irak) was necessarily suspicious, and thus had to be put under observation. Thus, it was possible to share all these very incongruous stories with someone who eventually may get a clue out of them, whatever it was. Whether the latter happened or not, I will certainly never know, the fact being that I was to keep myself inside of my program if I did not want to loose my mind. Seeing backwards it seems obvious to me, that the whole stories did nothing but spell Hannah’s identity in some kind of inner symbiotic relationship whose nature and logic was to be established, perhaps later. Be it my understanding, that my personal ‘I’ was nothing but making visible a character which necessarily would attract on itself the same aggressions she had been the object of 20 years before, and thus, get the ‘lines’ or the character of the possible murder. The extreme superposition of characters does though not allow to establish clearly who is intending what, as at the same time, it is obvious that the evident hole in time, created by the imposition of a hypothesis referred to events having happened 20 years before, would necessarily create highest psychic disturbance to the environment, and thus aggressions I had to deal with wisely, if ever possible. The mechanisms of defense, which were included in the program, did necessarily pass through bridges to socially integrated psychopaths, to say, as they were the only ones which could assure this without creating too much disturbance, for the while, which implied that the depth of the intention had to be kept so deeply hidden that it not be detectable even for the most intelligent of them. That the plan did work out, and the ‘lines’ of the murder reassembled from microscopic pieces of memory, became obvious the day I left. Someone called ‘Zilverman’, another toll agent, does transmit the whole psychic character of the murder in presence. That a murder is never alone, and does belong to interrelated groups of murders who do cover each other defending and aggressing territories, does it never make easy to find the one who is guilty. Even more so if you are as much interested in the material criminal as in the logic that was at the origin of the murder, the social cover and intellectual author.  The psychic character of someone called ‘Zilverman’ (who does have certainly little to do with the murder in question except as for being the recipient of the same type for some seconds), is thus synthesized and called ‘heroic’ for a while, all over Europe. The ‘heros’ thus localized, would certainly don’t mind to show their noses to the surface, and give the general configuration being at the origin of Hannah’s death. Strange happenings all over
Europe do finally link Hannah’s death to a certain ‘ideology’ implying banks, law, psychiatry, education, politics, mafia. The intellectual author does seem to be somewhere in

Switzerland. A whole way of thinking, having its roots far beyond history, is slowly defined.  The ideology thus determined is put on my consciousness as a mask, that does attract the similar to the similar. The ‘very low lines’ (or Hannah’s psychic currents involving the under world) do show lines of connection passing through Spain to

Ecuador. How easy could it be to find the murder while having the apparent consciousness concentrated on some kind of anodyne work?  I remember that I saw myself in prison, where I had put myself in order to avoid myself committing a crime. There was emptiness in the room, and only some kind of yellow, soft light irrigating it, as in some kind of medieval prison. There was a desk, and I had put my elbows on the desk, while my face was resting on my closed hands. And there was an infinite peace. Then I had to go out of prison, which was a whole of strange stories involving many ghosts and many judicial mistakes.  The day I arrived at the Hotel Oroverde in
Cuenca, I read a card, where the name of the general manager was written on, and I read ‘Zilverman’, a Jew, although it was Zimmermann, which is not a Jewish name. That very day, I saw again the psychic type I had seen when I left Israel, about three years before, while my consciousness was distracted by thousands of other little problems, all linked, somehow, to what I knew of Hannah’s death. The quarrels with her uncle or cousin, finances and banking. Although my immediate awareness was conscious of the incredible danger, the weakness of my position, the irrationality of the whole seen through common eyes, some kind of almost sadist disposition I did not know of myself, did take a horrid pleasure in playing the mouse the cat’s way, so that I didn’t leave. Scotched to the presence of the one I had been searching for years, trying to involve his unconscious through my apparent ‘non chalance’ into a plan which would be a punishment enough for what my heart did know, without proofs. If I had been aware at that moment, if I had put the word ‘murder’ beside the association of Zilverman to Zimmermann at that very moment, I would have killed him with my own hand and torn his eyes off his face, with my own hands. Luckily, some deeper movement of preservation of myself, which involved the completely chimerical thought of someone possibly falling in love with me, who would be eventually shocked by such a monstrous behavior in common eyes, even if he may have agreed in the depth of his heart, if ever chance was given to expose fully the reasons of such misbehavior, kind of thought which for years had stopped on the other hand hundreds of psychopaths to pass over to action, did made a horrible effort to transform what could be called an almost instinctive reaction to a somehow more ordered path of action.  In the depth of my soul I was searching for someone who still may have Russian blood in his veins. Insisting, almost obsessive, the questioning for someone whose psychic roots may still contain traces of those social mechanisms that do trap the murder in ‘Crime and Punishment’. The custom of distinguishing the murder from the rest, leaving some kind of mark on brain’s cells. It seemed that it could not be, although someone in prison, heavily ill of some kind of schizophrenia and thus confusing all kind of information in a puzzle whose codes I would though slowly break, had told me that there were Russians somewhere, some people called Ruilova. Of course all the rest of information was wrong, confusing real elements with false ones to the point that it was difficult to know even if the name was correct. But that very point, that there could be a Russian descendant somewhere around, did open again a slightest glimpse of hope. Only a Russian would intuitively understand the depth of my request and the absolute need of taking any kind of action whatsoever, as quickly as possible. I knew Natascha very well. You never say the truth to a Russian. If you do, they do never believe you. If though the truth is conveyed in the heaviness of tones, they capture the meaning in extremely complicated and sophisticated logics involving social mechanisms of greatest extension, and do what they have to do, whenever they can. Differently to psychopathia, where under lines do invade upper lines (the understanding is coded in some kind of ‘sexual’ ‘charabia’), schizophrenia is a jungle where the pieces of information are put together in the most incongruous ways, creating some kind of link between the information as given and mechanisms of attention, so that the unconscious, while keeping the information exactly as given, is driving the movements in reality from one place to the other until the attention falls almost accidentally exactly there where the origin of the referential information is to be found. I knew this language very well, so that I did not even make the slightest effort to correct the information as it had been given, just waiting for it to lead me to the right place. Which happened a little later. About ten days. My marveled eyes discover a shield, just in front of a place I used to visit, I had never paid attention to, saying something and then ‘Ruilova’. A lawyer. I remember that day, moving my steps towards the place in question, my soul being invaded by a strong spirit, an impulse pushing me to the psychopathetic lines, where all hidden crimes are committed. And a stronger hand from far beyond, ordering the impulse into a reasonable disposition, leading me up the steps. Only that day I established the conscious link between Zilverman and Zimmerman, two or three minutes after having found, to the appearance at least, a more reasonable solution than to allow myself being pushed to a judicious crime, whose type did not exist in penal codes worldwide.  One day, I had promised myself that I would tell this story to
Sask. After all, my bad consciousness after having transgressed Israeli laws of immigration with an illegal stay of more than three months did justify even such a fantastic story, did I ever want to put my feet in
Israel again. I didn’t matter even if she didn’t believe it. At least the toll agent, who I was sure had given credit to my justification at that time, that I was writing a novel, would not be deceived in her somewhat childish faith in my explanation. And it was a good reason to write a story, too. At the end, perhaps, she would eventually ask what happened to Zimmermann. But that was still to be established.