Max.

It is cold.

The sky itself is cold, colder than that night on Himmel Street when I stole my patch of sky.

Colder even than the night I ran away.

Colder than the day they caught me.

Colder than the looks for being a Jew.

In the camp, outside of the camp- what difference does it make? I will always be hunted.

And yet, somewhere, I find a place in my heart that is still warm- a place of painted basement walls, a place for a Jew and a German girl to walk on a tightrope cloud to the sun, a place where the word-shaker stands with her friend, alone on a crowded street.

I resign myself to this place.

For months, it is not Hitler I am fighting, not the cold, but rather giving up.

I cannot give up. I must fight, I must stay strong. If not for myself then for the painter who saved my life. For the word-shaker.

"Do you still play the accordion?" the question echoes through my mind as I work under the apathetic sky. I daydream of running away, back to Himmel Street, back to the basement. I even daydream of the day we marched through the streets and she found me amidst the shuffling ghosts.

At night I do not sleep anymore. Sometimes I think I can see Death slipping in and stealing away the souls of my fellow prisoners as they lie there, nothing left but skin and bones.

I have to burn their bodies.

Then the day comes when the camp is shaken by bombs. There is an alarm and people yelling to run.

I do not run.

Others stay as well. We do not stay as an act of defiance. We stay because we are tired. We stay because Death could come right now and we wouldn't give a damn. What difference is there between dying now and dying in a week, or a month? This is our choice. If we die, then we die. If we run...we may have lost our last chance at freedom.

We live.

But Himmel Street is gone. Flattened, the buildings level with the street.

I find a piece of cement that I painted with that tightrope cloud. It feels like a thousand years since that day. I place it in my pocket and I walk on down the street.

I find Liesel in Rudy's father's shop. The boy with hair the color of lemons is dead. His memory is on Liesel's cracked lips, living in her tears as the word-shaker clings to me as though I'm all she's got left in the world.

I am all Liesel has left. Her brother is gone, her mother is gone. The Hubermanns are gone, and Rudy is gone. The accordion is ripped. I say we can fix it.

She cries every night: dreams, trains, fists, bombs- the things we nightmare about together.

I show her the piece of cement. She cries and swears, and I lean over and kiss her dirty blonde hair.

I am all the word-shaker has left.

Is it really you? She asks every night as I awaken her from her nightmares. Is it from your cheek I took the seed?

Yes, Liesel, I say, it's really me.