The Enslaved Queen

A Memoir about Electricity and Mind Control

Wendy Hoffman

• Publisher: AEON Books
• Year: 2019
• ISBN:
  9781911597841
• Topic: Psychology
• Subtopic: Abnormal Psychology
• Index: Psychology

Written by a survivor of mind control and ritual abuse who is also a therapist, this memoir exposes the existence and practices of organized criminal groups who abuse children, helps the survivors of those abuses, and provides important information for professionals about the dissociative brain. The author‘s poetic prose contrasts distinctly with the horror of the subject matter.

Wendy Hoffman’s adult self journeys back to give voice to the infant and child parts of her, describing her handlers’ early interventions to destroy bonding and create dissociation, the foundation of reverse-Kabbalah suicide and pathway programming, and the installation of mind control. Scenes from ordinary life are interspersed throughout the memoir. Nazi post-war recruitment of American subjects during the 1940s and 50s (including the infamous Dr. Mengele), children used for prostitution, pornography, and the drug trade along with the workings of the Illuminati leadership and their international Feast of the Beast rituals are all included.

The memoir also covers attempts at recovery, experiences with cult therapists in disguise, and finally the author’s work with an honest, competent therapist, which led to healing and her brain melding together. The ending acknowledges spiritual experiences, the power of love, the memory process, and thoughts on living and surviving a life such as hers.

PART I

THE SPLIT MIND

ONE

The sell-off

If you have a single, undivided mind, it must be difficult to fathom how people could walk around with splits in their mind; how one part of the mind could take over and all the other parts would know nothing of it; how one part of the split mind could make the body do something that none of the other parts would want or remember.

I had already had mountains of therapy and thought I was finished with my memories of my childhood and adulthood as a victim of mind control and ritual abuse in a multigenerational family, and the obliteration of my memory by criminal groups. Traumatic remembrances still dribbled out, but my concept of myself held a steady course like a vessel sailing through a fogged night.

I had long suspected that my sister and I did not have the same biological parents. Perhaps we had the same father but not the same mother, I thought. We don't look alike but there is something familiar about us. Marlene is stunning with her long straight hair and I'm not. But we have the same overly narrow wrists, one of our eyebrows is almost identical, and we share the same inherited talents and interests. And now that we have aged, we look even more alike. I ignored all that and thought we were too different as people to be full sisters, though I knew this disparity to be common. How could one sister be interested in the recovery of memory and being, and the other adverse?

A couple of years ago, Marlene visited her married son in a nearby state with her new boyfriend. They slept over at her son's house. I was invited for the afternoon. I went into their guest bathroom and saw my sister's hairbrush filled with her luscious long hair like a bird's ambitious nest on the sink. With my fingers I combed most of it out and placed it in a plastic bag I happened to have in my purse. I left enough hair in her brush that Marlene wouldn't become suspicious. None of this was premeditated. Once I got back to my home in Baltimore, I called laboratories that specialized in DNA testing. I mailed it and a sample of my saliva to a lab. The DNA report said we were full sisters with the same parents. I was shocked. I had been so sure. I started doubting all my memories.

Meanwhile a towel fell off my shower door onto my right little finger and tore a tendon. I went to a hand specialist. While I was in his office, I said, “Would you look at my left little finger and tell me what made it like that?” My mother had told me I was born with a deformed left little finger. There was no reason for me not to believe her, but I didn't. The doctor examined the tip and said in an instant with certainty, “It's an amputation that happened before you were three. How did it happen?” During the years of therapy I received, I had already remembered my paternal grandfather's chicken farm in upper state New York and the initiation ritual with me wearing a white ruffled dress, a hatchet coming down not to my neck but to this finger. The hatchet aimed at my neck swerved at the last moment. I was under three years old. I didn't tell the doctor. He said, “You probably caught it in a door by accident.”

“It was no accident,” I mumbled as he hurried to another patient. So I was wrong about my sibling but right about the initiation ritual.

Starting over

Over a decade before this, I had finished ten years of intense therapy, and now I was in another crisis. Confusion makes people desperate, and there weren't many people I could talk to about memories of mind control. I contacted a therapist and writer friend from the past, E. Sue Blume. She is a specialist in dissociative memories. I told her I doubted myself. E. Sue said that while I had been retired from this field, others had been galloping along. She greatly respected Alison Miller's safe and competent, innovative work. She arranged for me to talk with Alison on the phone.

It was as if a voice without a face fell from the skies. I wanted to know whether all my mind control programs had been removed by my previous therapist, Ann, or whether any were still active. During the phone evaluation, Alison asked me what my internal structure was, who my gatekeeper was, whether I had memories of snuff films. “Snuff films!” I was getting more and more overwhelmed, dismayed, and frustrated. Wasn't the abuse I remembered bad enough? I kept saying, “No,” and “I don't know”. She asked whether I was in touch with my family. I said I was. Alison explained to me about safety precautions. She was especially concerned that I not report what was going on in me to anyone in my family or who could potentially be involved with the abuser group.

Alison told me that my programs were still active. How could this be? I'd had so many memories, and so many years of therapy. She said I didn't know the fundamental and important things I should have discovered. My brain galloped within. Underneath, some people in me panicked, and others had headaches, as if a vise were around my skull. I hadn't yet recognized that feeling as a body memory. Every one of my nerves was in anxious distress. The voice over the phone implied that all the recovery work I had done for decades was for naught. That work had been my life. Despair mixed with fear. A chorus of internal, indistinguishable, indistinct voices sung out to me, “We are here. They will kill us. Don't tell.” I had body memories of electroshock. Fear, hope, despair, worry whirled around uncontrollably. I was filled with too much unrest to sleep.

Right there, my world changed. The queens in me slipped out wearing their crowns and ice blue fur-trimmed capes. They sniffed. They smelled hope. Was there really someone in the world to help? They watched and quickened in expectation. Word went up and down the ladders in my system. This exploration into retrieving my frozen-over soul began. In therapy a decade before, Ann, my Christian therapist who was also a plant, had taught me that forces in the universe harassed me, and that when I became anxious and depressed and had “visions” of abuse, it was from spiritual warfare, from Satan and his forces making me uneasy. A plant is someone who pretends to help you but really works for one of the mind-controlling groups. “They are all parts of you; they are not spiritual forces from outside of you. So you need to listen to them, not banish them,” Alison said. I grappled with what was outside of me and what was within. Neither one of us initially suspected that Ann was a plant from the abusers. But one day I described the hand signals Ann used during my sessions with her. Alison knew what that meant. Ann was busted, which meant my process was just beginning.

Alison continued to provide long-distance guidance. One day about half a year later, she wrote that she cared about me. Did I want to start this process again, did I want to spend myself finding out what my past is? No, then yes. I do. No. I had held my life intact. I had a simple, comfortable enough house, a job. I could save a little for retirement. I didn't need to open the whole thing again. I didn't need to talk to another of these therapists. Alison was on the other side of the continent and in another country. No. I went to sleep, if what I do can be called sleep. I woke up. I would re-open. I could take out stitches that my skin had grown over. I would begin again.

A therapist who is a good person is an antidote to the people filled with hatred, the people who abused me. It is easy for the tortured to believe that all people are harmful, so it is especially important to be in touch with genuine, wholesome humans. Previously, I had been alone in this world of horror. Now I had an interested companion as I re-entered it. Support also contradicted my low self-esteem. If someone is helping me, I must be somewhat worthwhile, I thought. Alison's targeted questions kept me on track. She spotted the blanks in the narrative, what Ann had deliberately taken out. She probed for the training memories, the first instances of them, pointed out any incongruities and inconsistencies in my story, and reached out to my insiders who held the emotional and physical pain of each memory. She would also ask, “What words did they say?” I might have missed much of this if I were just working on my own.

A life lurked behind and underneath my brain, a life I didn't know about yet but could smell. How could I have spent so many years in therapy and know hardly anything about myself? Now I know it is because I went to therapists who were plants.

If you think the world is pure and innocent and that almost all of our political leaders mean well, then you may not believe what I am about to write. Some of the public has to be interested in the below-the-surface webs of duplicity, why a stench of evil permeates ordinary life.

This story is really about electricity.

The Nazi purchase, 1947

In my normal life, I thought I was a regular Jewish child from Queens, New York, far away from the East European world my grandparents came from and far away from Hitler, about whom I had heard only the vaguest things. I was not face to face with the horrors of the Holocaust, and my family never talked about their escape from Europe.

I think the letters began around when I was born in 1943, but I of course didn't know about them until later.

The memory of the letters came to me in a dream. I saw the stationery, insignia, signature. At first, I couldn't believe that our government was that corrupt. I remembered Mengele's smell in my conscious life, and the black machines, and all the children in the hallways, and the frozen eyes.

A letter arrived which caused great excitement, and Mrs. Twartski called for a special meeting that took place in our living room. Mrs. Twartski was my handler. A handler, also called a trainer, is the person who controls you and makes you do things you never would choose to do. Handlers start by breaking a child's mind into pieces and in cults like these, try to control the mind for the person's whole life. They administer programs and their cues or triggers as they take over a life. All the leaders of our community were present. Children did not attend this family meeting, but we were excellent eavesdroppers.

Uncle Harry and Mrs. Twartski sat on one of Mother's curved sofas. Uncles Richard and Sidney sat on the other sofa. My mother sat on the piano bench by the window that overlooked the waterfall. She wasn't supposed to be at this meeting but since it was her apartment, they let her stay. Maybe that's why she chose the worst seat and was trying to be inconspicuous. Usually she liked a lot of attention. My father was in his wing chair and Wiezenslowski sat in Mother's wing chair. He was very short and always wore a mask. People said he was the master programmer who knew the most. In mind control, programmers divide victims' brains into sections, one section not knowing about another, with each section blindly following commands that are to that person's detriment. Mother had taken the pale blue slipcovers off the wing chairs for this occasion, and their chartreuse silk looked clean and shiny.

Aunts Mimi and Eileen led my sister and me into the kitchen. Grandma and Aunt Bea were there already. We all listened through the walls. Mrs. Twartski read:

The great country of Deutschland is delighted to accept your invitation to have our revered Herr Doktor Josef Mengele visit your United States of America and instruct selected communities on the current state of our advanced knowledge of mental development, stimulation and management.

Our officials will be in contact with you concerning schedule and reimbursement.

Very truly yours, Felix Hofstadtler, Assistant to the Secretary of the Interior

October 17, 1947

This meeting was a big happening in our family and there was a rosier excitement than when they talked politics. I was aware letters were arriving from Germany shortly after Daniel died. Daniel was the boy who loved me and whom they killed. My father kept some of the letters in his safe in his hall closet. He was the lawyer for our group and had been corresponding for years. Germany first wrote to President Roosevelt, then President Roosevelt and Mr. Truman, then President Truman. This letter came after the war had ended. Which part of the German government, undercover government or group impersonating a government, had sent the letters is unknown to me. I might be wrong about the date and the spelling of the name. In their ordinary lives, my Jewish family hated the Germans but in their cult-robot lives, they cooperated with the Nazis. And also their own American government. The United States government was the conduit to Mengele and his entourage. The United States wanted to learn the Nazi mind-control programming techniques and not be left behind. What better weapon than the human brain? The human brain was Mrs. Twartski's and Wiezenslowski's domain. The children who were used were the castaways of the United States government, like dogs abandoned in a vet's office. Mrs. Twartski read the letter out loud, slowly and carefully enunciating every word in her thick Polish accent.

The German research scientists were looking for children who could learn quickly, were between ages four and twelve, and could withstand being famished without dying. Deutschland was paying $50,000 per subject. Everyone in the living room except Mrs. Twartski and all my aunts let out a huge “Ahhh”. My sister's and my eyes grew wide because we had no idea what this meant or why the adults were so excited. Then my sister's eyes narrowed as if she knew something that I didn't yet, as if she had just figured something out. She was very smart even though she got bad grades in school.

Mrs. Twartski continued: “Every selected community that receives this letter via the United States government should nominate two children to begin with. The great Herr Doktor Josef Mengele will visit New York, Boston, Philadelphia, St. Paul, Duluth and other Midwestern cities, Dallas, San Francisco, and Los Angeles next month.”

UNCLE HARRY:	“It's like magic. They do things and don't remember they did it!”
MRS. TWARTSKI:	“How is that different from what we already are doing?”
UNCLE RICHARD:	“They're refined techniques, much more advanced than our methods. The Germans know.”
MOTHER:	“But what about the children?”
UNCLE HARRY:	“They won't remember anything. Children never remember.”
UNCLE RICHARD:	“It will be like it never happened.”
WIEZENSLOWSKI:	“That's why the government brings Nazis over here, so they can learn from them, so that we know how to manipulate people's minds better.”
MRS. TWARTSKI:	“We are already expert on manipulating people's minds.”

Purplish crows outside the windows screeched harrowing cries. It must have been late autumn by the time this letter reached us.

Mrs. Twartski said, “We have decided that Marlene and Wendy Hoffman will be the first subjects. If Dr. Mengele requests other children in the months to come, then Rhonda Jacobs and Sheila Goldman will be the next set, and Michael Jacobs and DeeDee Goldman will be after them.”

“Well, children, now that it's settled, I'll be leaving,” Wiezenslowski said.

“Aren't you going to stay and eat anything?” Grandma said.

“No, I have business to attend to.”

A short time later, my grandfather with his mean beady eyes entered wearing the same kind of coat and shoes as Wiezenslowski, but I didn't think much of it then.

In the kitchen, my Aunt Eileen and Aunt Mimi stared at each other. “Why my children and not yours?” Eileen said. Marlene and I looked at each other. Her features blurred and she breathed sharply. At first, I felt proud. It's always good to be chosen. It was an honor. The letter said so. Although I didn't know what it meant. And why was Aunt Eileen unhappy and angry at Aunt Mimi? Aunt Mimi's children were under four; one was just a baby. But I would be with Marlene. I wouldn't be alone.

My father came into the narrow, pink and green kitchen. His face was glowing. “You can join us now,” he said. He was so wrapped in radiance, he forgot to suspect that we were eavesdropping. We all walked into the living room. The letter with its thick veined paper and insignia lay on the table with its envelope next to it. The gold insignia looked like a sunburst with ripples. Children in my class drew suns that looked like the insignia. Fancy stamps were on the envelope.

“Can I show it to my friends?” I asked.

“No,” everyone screamed. “Bad child!” All the adults sipped ginger ale and ate cocktail franks, chunks of Daitch's Swiss and muenster cheeses and a wheel of gouda cheese wrapped in shiny red plastic the color of the women's nail polish, different kinds of crackers, pineapple chunks that my father had cut up, herring. Uncle Harry and my father had shots of hard liquor. Uncle Harry slapped my father on the back and said, “You're rich.”

It was a big party, filling all the living room and dining room space. People were gathered around Mrs. Twartski, the star of this community. My grandfather also liked being near Mrs. Twartski. He kept bringing her platters of cakes and cookies that Grandmother baked that morning, and smiling his crooked smile and pushing his body a little closer to hers. Grandma glared at her, which didn't stop Grandpa Max. Mrs. Twartski preferred the cheese and crackers.

After everyone left, my parents cleaned up the living room, dining room, kitchen, and bathroom. My mother was angry that someone hadn't used a coaster and had left a ring on the side table in the living room. Marlene would not tell me what the experiments meant, and I sensed it all meant something terrible for Marlene and me. Mother kept banging dishes and seemed angrier and angrier even as my father appeared more and more pleased. My heart was becoming a rope that left my body and twisted itself tight. Around midnight, my sister and I got into her bed together and listened to our mother's ripping screams and deep moans coming from across the apartment. It sounded like something coming from the depths of the forest where Bambi's mother was shot. Marlene and I clasped each other's hands. Around two o'clock in the morning, we heard the front door slam. With our father out of the house, we were able to sleep. I didn't know when he came back, but when we woke he was in his bed.

Mengele in America

A month after my family's meeting, Mengele entered our living room. It is generally thought that Mengele fled to South America after the war and remained there for the rest of his life. He may have used South America as a home base, but during that time he traveled around the world experimenting on victims and informing and teaching other countries about his mind-control discoveries, which the United States wanted to learn.¹ Mengele's face was lined and often had beads of sweat on it. He was like a dead, thinner version of my father. His piercing eyes devoured you in a cannibalistic way. Only my parents were present, and Marlene and I were expelled to th...