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Wolf Messing –the true story of Russia’s greatest psychic – Tatiana Lungin

"Dear Wolf Grigoryevich, you must not get so upset," Dr Blohkin said "You know, sometimes it happens that a patient is in a critical condition when suddenly an improvement sets in, and the patient lives for a long time in excellent health. I remember..."

Wolf wouldn’t let him finish. He trembled, his hands shook and red blotches appeared on his face.

"Listen," he said, almost shouting, "I'm not a child! I'm Messing! Don’t tell me nonsense. She is not going to recover. She ... will die."

He seemed about to collapse, but recovered himself and stood for a moment in the middle of the kitchen.

"She will die on the second of August at seven o'clock in the evening," he said quietly. He immediately grew limp and sank silently into his chair. I glanced quickly at Dr. Blokhin to catch his reaction. Stupefied by the sudden prediction, he bore little resemblance to the usually self-confident physician. His eyes registered both horror and respect at the prognostication and its probable fulfilment.

God, how I wanted Wolf's clairvoyance to be wrong this time! Oppressive silence reigned again in the apartment, and, as everyone parted, no one spoke a word. We shot each other parting glances, nothing more.

Messing's prediction couldn't remain a secret; it soon leaked into Moscow's medical and scientific communities. Blokhin probably told his colleagues about it. In any event, the seer's somber prognosis soon became widely known. No one wished for Aida's death, but a morbid curiosity had everyone in its grip.

When July came, Aida's condition noticeably worsened, tension in the Messing household increased, and the days flew by more rapidly than ever before.

That August was different from any other I can recall. The first of the month is my birthday, but I could take little joy in the congratulations I received. I could think only of Aida and her husband's prediction. How I wished I could cross the next day off the calendar, to outwit both fate and time! Cigarette fumes pervaded the apartment, but, when I first entered the apartment, I did not immediately see Wolf. Finally, I spied him bent over the kitchen table.

The next morning I received an invitation to the Messings.

He cried silently though death had not yet entered the house.

The silence was palpable: it rang almost painfully in my ears.

From time to time friends dropped by to pay what would be their last respects to Aida, and, because she was fully conscious, she thanked them for stopping in. No mention of her approaching end slipped from her. When evening set in, she began to talk more freely, clearly and distinctly than before. Her requests became more frequent - I replaced the nurse who had gone home - and at six-thirty she asked me for a glass of water. It was to be her last request; at exactly seven o'clock, Aida Mikhailovna died. Death, as though a slave to the psychic's will, arrived to within a minute's accuracy of Wolf's prediction.

The three of us – Wolf, Iraida [Aida’s sister], and I - sat up silently the whole night in deep mourning. Wolf smoked countless cigarettes, sobbing and moaning hysterically.