Weinstein

He handed over to the brown uniform his card that said Weinstein, David. A non-descript and little man, short-sighted like so many, dishevelled beard, black suit and socks that ugly hat and clever face. Somehow he had not made it onto Schindler's List, but rumours were that Buchenwald was kind, plenty of skills demanded fresh air, the same that Luther, so many moons ago, had breathed. He did have assets, too sixteen full fillings, all pure gold. A Swiss accordion and fiddle made in Klingenthal. They did appreciate it all, and when he went into the showers to refresh and be reborn the commandant and friends had Asbach Uralt, neat, in celebration of a world that had now reached the final summit and would remain in God's own place until the Devil donned the emperor's own clothes.