Also, it's important to the story.

We will travel a little, to a secret storage room, and we will see what we see.

He is scum.

you find a small black room.

He sat on his suitcase, waiting. How many days had it been now?

He is afraid.

He is starving.

We've both had it too easy till now, my friend, don't you think? How about we forget Molching for a minute or two?

He had eaten only the foul taste of his own hungry breath for what felt like weeks, and still, nothing. Occasionally voices wandered past and sometimes he longed for them to knuckle the door, to open it, to drag him out, into the unbearable light. For now, he could only sit on his suitcase couch, hands under his chin, his elbows burning his thighs.

A GUIDED TOUR OF SUFFERING

In it sits a Jew.

perhaps even straight ahead,

To your left, perhaps your right,

Now for a change of scenery.

A few hundred miles northwest, in Stuttgart, far from book thieves, mayors' wives, and Himmel Street, a man was sitting in the dark. It was the best place, they decided. It's harder to find a Jew in the dark.

Please -- try not to look away.

It will do us some good.

There was sleep, starving sleep, and the irritation of half awakeness, and the punishment of the floor.

Don't scratch the soles.

Ignore the itchy feet.

And don't move too much.

Just leave everything as it is, at all cost. It might be time to go soon. Light like a gun. Explosive to the eyes. It might be time to go. It might be time, so wake up. Wake up now, Goddamn it! Wake up.

The door was opened and shut, and a figure was crouched over him. The hand splashed at the cold waves of his clothes and the grimy currents beneath. A voice came down, behind it.

"Max," it whispered. "Max, wake up."

His eyes did not do anything that shock normally describes. No snapping, no slapping, no jolt. Those things happen when you wake from a bad dream, not when you wake into one. No, his eyes dragged themselves open, from darkness to dim. It was his body that reacted, shrugging upward and throwing out an arm to grip the air.

The voice calmed him now. "Sorry it's taken so long. I think people have been watching me. And the man with the identity card took longer than I thought, but --" There was a pause. "It's yours now. Not great quality, but hopefully good enough to get you there if it comes to that." He crouched down and waved a hand at the suitcase. In his other hand, he held something heavy and flat. "Come on -- off." Max obeyed, standing and scratching. He could feel the tightening of his bones. "The card is in this." It was a book. "You should put the map in here, too, and the directions. And there's a key -- taped to the inside cover." He clicked open the case as quietly as he could and planted the book like a bomb. "I'll be back in a few days."

Door open, door shut.

Everything was so desperately noisy in the dark when he was alone. Each time he moved, there was the sound of a crease. He felt like a man in a paper suit.

Alone again.

What came to him immediately then was the sound.

The food.

He left a small bag filled with bread, fat, and three small carrots. Next to it was a bottle of water. There was no apology. "It's the best I could do."

Max divided the bread into three parts and set two aside. The one in his hand he immersed himself in, chewing and gulping, forcing it down the dry corridor of his throat. The fat was cold and hard, scaling its way down, occasionally holding on. Big swallows tore them away and sent them below.

Then the carrots.

Again, he set two aside and devoured the third. The noise was astounding. Surely, the Fuhrer himself could hear the sound of the orange crush in his mouth. It broke his teeth with every bite. When he drank, he was quite positive that he was swallowing them. Next time, he advised himself, drink first.

Later, to his relief, when the echoes left him and he found the courage to check with his fingers, each tooth was still there, intact. He tried for a smile, but it didn't come. He could only imagine a meek attempt and a mouthful of broken teeth. For hours, he felt at them.

He opened the suitcase and picked up the book.

When he spoke, it was the taste of a whisper.

He could not read the title in the dark, and the gamble of striking a match seemed too great right now.

He was speaking to a man he had never met. As well as a few other important details, he knew the man's name. Hans Hubermann. Again, he spoke to him, to the distant stranger. He pleaded.

"Please."

"Please," he said. "Please."