Jewish Fist Fighter

I hope this will make him wake up.
My friend Max is sick. He lies there day to day, like a corpse. A corpse would be a problem. We would have to dispose of it secretly, because Max is a Jew. He has hid in our basement for what seems like forever.
Max came to us and asked my papa two questions.
"Are you Hans Hubermann?"
"Do you still play the accordion?"
The answer was yes. And the answer to the silent plea for help was the same.
Max's father was my papa's friend in the army. He saved his life and taught him to play the accordion. Helping Max is the least that we can do.
The basement has always been my reading place. I learned to write with paint on the basement walls. It is my midnight solace from nightmares, and my library. This didn't change when Max came. Max has nightmares, too. I wonder if his nightmares are keeping him asleep, holding him captive.
Max told me about his past, and I told him mine. Max was a fighter, not that he always won, but he fought. When the new regime came into power, Max hid for months in one room. He was joyful when given the slip of paper with Papa's name on it. Max is a source of joy in my life.
For my birthday, Max wrote a book for me. He painstakingly painted over pages of Mein Kampf and used them to draw his story and mine. This was The Standover Man. He thanked me for watching over him the three days that he rested.
Now, he is sick from the cold in the basement. I am watching over him again. I bring him gifts to show him the world. I read to him from all my books. I got a new book just for him.
Max, wake up!

March 3, 1942