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Unformatted text preview: nd. At least we know then,
Max gave him every last pfennig to make the trip, and a few days later, when Walter returned, they embraced
before he held his breath. “And?”
Walter nodded. “He’s good. He still plays that accordion your mother told you about—your father’s. He’s not a
member of the party. He gave me money.” At this stage, Hans Hubermann was only a list. “He’s fairly poor,
he’s married, and there’s a kid.”
This sparked Max’s attention even further. “How old?”
“Ten. You can’t have everything.”
“Yes. Kids have big mouths.”
“We’re lucky as it is.”
They sat in silence awhile. It was Max who disturbed it.
“He must already hate me, huh?”
“I don’t think so. He gave me the money, didn’t he? He said a promise is a promise.”
A week later, a letter came. Hans notified Walter Kugler that he would try to send things to help whenever he
could. There was a one-page map of Molching and Greater Munich, as well as a direct route from Pasing (the
more reliable train station) to his front door. In his letter, the last words were obvious.
Midway through May 1940, Mein Kampf arrived, with a key taped to the inside cover.
The man’s a genius, Max decided, but there was still a shudder when he thought about traveling to Munich.
Clearly, he wished, along with the other parties involved, that the journey would not have to be made at all.
You don’t always get what you wish for.
Especially in Nazi Germany.
Again, time passed.
The war expanded.
Max remained hidden from the world in another empty room.
Until the inevitable. Walter was notified that he was being sent to Poland, to continue the assertion of Germany’s authority over both
the Poles and Jews alike. One was not much better than the other. The time had come.
Max made his way to Munich and Molching, and now he sat in a stranger’s kitchen, asking for the help he
craved and suffering the condemnation he felt he deserved.
Hans Hubermann shook his hand...
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- Winter '13