[ 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 .

**Edit: Formatting** 
 
 Another wasted afternoon talking with puffed-up businessmen. 
 
 It's funny, really. My shallow commercialization of the horrifying trauma I experienced. Now I'm a *motivational speaker* for modern prisoners of the capitalist system. They did n't listen today. They never do. 
 
 I'm over it. I just need to be doing *something. * And the money's not bad. Nice suites. Good meals. For me, though, it offers no solace or refreshment. Just a lot of bad memories. 
 
 The empty fourth-floor room mocked me less than a minute after I had finished speaking. I gathered my things and sauntered through the thick office silence to the lift. 
 
 I pass the receptionist and grab a handful of complimentary candy on her desk. She would n't say anything even if she cared. 
 
 I press the button and wait for the carriage to arrive. 
 
 Trying not to notice, I see a man approaching from a distant office. 
 
 I ignore him. I have no desire to interact. 
 
 The lift arrives and I stride in, pressing the first floor button and holding the door close button. This old man wo n't make it in time. 
 
 Does n't bother me. 
 
 My throat tightens. A sneeze stretches the seams of my sinuses before I can do anything to stop it. 
 
 I've always been bothered by sneezes. They make me self-conscious. I remember I'm alone in the lift, but still, something is n't right. I take out my hankerchief and wipe my nose and mouth. 
 
 *My glasses. * 
 
 They'd fallen outside of the carriage, laying innocently on the thin office carpet. 
 
 As the doors close, I make a split second decision: I would rather buy a new pair of glasses than hold the door for that old man to enter my carriage. 
 
 A weighted sigh escapes in my elevated solitude. 
 
 My stomach jolts when the carriage rises, instead of falls. I do n't want to go up. 
 
 Floor 5. 6. 7. 
 
 At floor 8 a young woman joins me, probably 20. She must be an intern. 
 
 She reminds me of my late wife who entered Auschwitz with me. We were separated the first day. 
 
 Humiliated. Murdered. 
 
 Her presence tightens my fists. Revenge boils in my bone marrow. 
 
 Another sigh. Control it. I've been doing this for almost 50 years. 
 
 We start our wordless descent. 
 
 Floor 7. 6. 5. 
 
 To my utter horror, we stop at floor 4. 
 
 The young woman exits the carriage. I keep my eyes down. 
 
 A short, suited man extends his hand to me. 
 
 My glasses. 
 
 This is the man I abandoned in the hallway. I would rather replace my specs than spend thirty seconds with this stranger. 
 
 I grab my glasses impatiently and mutter a short thanks. 
 
 In my haste I fumbled my glasses to the floor of the elevator. 
 
 Goddammit. 
 
 I reach down to retrieve them, drowning in self-disgust. This whole day has just been... 
 
 My eyes catch the stranger's hand reacher for the glasses as well. His fingers are aged and fragile. Uniquely crooked and scarred from what I guessed was a fight. 
 
 Speechless. *I know this hand. * 
 
 Time freezes even my burning temper. This man tortured me. Murdered my wife. My race. My heritage. My future. 
 
 I looked him in the eye, weak. Dizzy. 
 
 He did not return my gaze. 
 
 His eyes were locked on my outstretched forearm, revealed from beneath my sleeve. 
 
 My prisoner's tattoo: *533617* 
 
 My identity for 12 years. 
 
 A tear dropped from his silent expression. 
 
 He knew. We knew. 
 
 Two old men, straining to reach the floor, seeing eye to eye for the first time. 
 
 He wept, streaming apologies for actions taken long ago. 
 
 I wept, recognizing for the first time the darkness I had stepped into. 
 
 We embraced in mutual respect, as men, the entire lift ride. 
 
 Together we left the carriage. 
 
 Together we went for coffee. 
 
 Together we talked for hours. 
 
 Together we moved on. 
 
 Together, we conquered history.
