[ WP ] A veteran Holocaust Jewish survivor meets a man in the elevator . As they strike a conversation , he slowly realizes the man was his brutal Nazi prison warden .

There are no true monsters in the world, so they say, only people. Though people can still do terrible things. Some scientist named Milgram calls it diffusion of responsibility. They ’ ve done studies now, all searching for an answer to the most basic of human questions: How? 
 
 How was this allowed to happen? How did the world not see this? How did an entire country apathetically accept it? The bullshit answer they ’ ve come up with is because regular people will do horrible things if someone else is taking responsibility. 
 
 I do my best to make my peace with what has happened to me in my life, though I still stand with my shoulders hunched forward, my eyes aimed at the floor. The boys pointing their submachine guns at us, screaming, telling me to run faster are a distant memory, though I feel their prodding weapons in my aching bones. 
 
 It ’ s been thirty years since then, and I ’ m starting to look as old as I feel. The deep crease in my brow doesn ’ t unfurrow anymore, and my hairline is receding by the day. 
 
 I hit the button. I look behind me, out the floor-to-ceiling-window, to the setting sun. I ’ m looking at one of the most beautiful views in all of New York, I think to myself. Five from the top one of the two tallest buildings in the world, I ’ m in the North Tower. 
 
 The elevator dings and I walk inside. It ’ s empty, but even when I stay late I usually expect to pick up a couple of other stragglers on my way down. The doors close behind me. 
 
 I make it two floors before the elevator comes to a halt. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. 
 
 It's him. 
 
 He walks in, nodding an inaudible greeting towards me. He takes his place beside me, looking back towards the doors. 
 
 I want to throw up. He was a ghost, a specter, or some sort of poltergeist or apparition. He couldn ’ t be here. I turn towards him, trying to analyze his features to find any evidence at all that this could be someone else. He looks back at me, and gives me another nod. There isn ’ t a hint recognition in those eyes. 
 
 The doors close, and suddenly the elevator feels smaller than the bunk I shared with my father and two younger brothers for four years. I glance at the buttons. I can hit any of them and I can leave right now, but I don ’ t. We start moving. I look back at him, with my eyes wide. 
 
 The warden looked just as he had thirty years ago, his shoulders back and his chest pressed forward. Time had been undeservedly kind to him. I open my mouth, not sure what to say. 
 
 “ Long day, huh? ” 
 
 He looks back toward me and he sighs. 
 
 “ I ’ ve had longer, ” He says, his voice thick with a German accent. 
 
 So have I, I think to myself. 
 
 “ You don ’ t remember me, do you? ” 
 
 My hands make fists, and I feel how cold my palms are. His eyes look me up and down in the same calculating way they did when I was ten. 
 
 “ I ’ m afraid not. ” 
 
 I breathe in deeply, and then press the button for the emergency stop. The elevator bounces to a halt and an alarm blares out of the speakers. I don ’ t mind the noise. This was only going to take a minute. 

