Run it seemed like that was an underlying current to his whole life; and Max knew it was ridiculous, knew that he shouldn't have run; knew that he shouldn't do it, anyway, because he should stop and fight; but somehow five to one didn't feel like very good odds (and that brought back memories he'd rather have had stay pushed down).
He'd heard the words that freaks home and he'd started running; back to his home, because somehow he knew that they were talking about him; it wasn't hard to suss out the truth, when you already knew no one trusted you; no one wanted you around. And when he'd heard feet pounding the street behind him-dropped his lunch box, because it didn't seem important now; had the satisfaction of hearing one of them trip over the box-he'd pushed himself harder; and though he hadn't ever been the fastest boy in his school, he had everything to lose; and his body worked harder to get where it needed to go, because he couldn't fail, not here. Not now.
Letting them down wasn't an option, and he was sure if he could just get there he could make things right; not that he had any idea of what he was trying to stop, he just knew that he was going to stop it; because he had to.
The scream reaches his ears, from a distance; and his eyes catch sight of a tendril of smoke climbing high into the sky; and the small gate he had built with his own hands (the fence he had put up; working until his hands had bled, because he wanted to give Magda something beautiful, something she deserved) is easy to vault over; he hears the men behind him kicking it in, feels a splinter graze his cheek as he lands in a crouch, but he ignores it, shoving himself up in one fluid motion, and he runs.
The walkway has never felt this long before, and he's having so much trouble breathing; but he knows that has nothing to do with exertion. He can see Magda running from the hill where she sometimes sits to read, but Anya isn't with her; and the screams of "Stop, stop! Please, no!" suddenly make sense-Anya had been feverish when he had left for work; he had said if she was still feeling poorly when he returned he would get the physician. Anya was in the house.
"No!" he hadn't realized he was going to yell it, but it ripped from his throat on a guttural note that rang through his ears; echoed in his mind painfully. There were several men standing around his house; and his house was burning, his daughter was inside; she was dying.
As he lunged toward the door, intent on breaking it down, and getting her out of there, he felt hands close around his arms; jerk him back, and he was yelling; though it wasn't anything legible. There's three of them pulling him back; keeping him from saving his daughter, and he screams in agony that isn't his; yanks away from them-barely hears the window open, the coughing up above, but as he slams into the door he hears "Papa help me!" it bows under his weight; and suddenly they're dragging him away again.
It feels like he's dying; there's a sharp pain in the back of his head-he barely registers that he's been hit; but he tears away from them, again, and throws himself into the door, which bows, cracks; breaks under his weight.
The flames are already strong, and they wrap around his arms; rim his wrist in red; painful circles; and the things in the house begin to tremble; to reach out to him; and then someone has his arms again, dragging him out-and Magda is crying out, screaming; begging; pleading; and he takes a few seconds to register that her pleas are directed at him "Save her, Max-pleasepleaseplease" but he can't breathe, and it takes all of the eight men there to pull him out.
To pin him to the ground; and he screams, and screams-and Magda is crying. But above her audible cries (the screams remain trapped inside, where they will stay for years to come), he hears a howl of agony; screams and cries, prayers-that may be in his mind ("God isn't up there, Max.").
It doesn't hurt when they hit him; not the way watching that all consuming fire does.
There's a pull in his body that he hasn't felt in years; and he feels the area tremble with him, as he twists, and lashes out; his arm pulled free as he'd writhed in agony that wasn't just his; when the jaw cracks under his knuckles it feels good, but he doesn't care; all he knows is that he needs to get up; needs to get into that house. And he needs to save his daughter.
She is his lifeblood; the only thing that kept him, and Magda going after everything (but he knows that they could go on, if they only had each other; he knows his love for her is strong enough for that; for if it had been strong enough to have borne him through the war, it is strong enough for everything else) .
Blood that isn't his pours down his face; and he's snarling, and screaming; and kicking, and punching and that's his daughter, he needs to protect her; to save her!
There's a ringing in his ears that's drowning it all out; a vibration in his body that's impossible to ignore, one he hasn't felt for some time; and he knows what's going to happen, before it does.
It feels like an explosion inside; comes out on the back of a scream; a scream he recognizes is not his alone; and he realizes that part of him is dying here today; in that fire, in the house he had built back up, after the destruction of the war had left it in shambles; he's dying here today in the wreckage of his life. And there's nothing that surprises him about it; and the hiss of "Just die you fucking jew" makes whatever control he'd had snap; and his vision shifts, and shutters.
Though he'd been stabbed, he barely registers it as the knife rips from his side, to flip around and stab the other man in the throat; there's more metal here that he had realized-and the echo of "Wunderbar!" crashing through his mind hurts but he tries not to focus on it.
There is, always has been, a certain beauty in death; but when Max realizes he's beating a man to death in front of the ashes of what once was he isn't sure what he's doing; why he's doing it; and through the gurgling he can hear Magda sobbing.
When he stands the man underneath him takes his last breath; and he feels nothing.
The ashes, however, bring about a wave of this can't be happening, and he hits his knees, a half sob ripping its way out of him, he drops forward slightly, wrapping his arms around himself, and Magda is only a few feet away; he feels like he should reach out to her, but all he can do is utter "Our daughter, our daughter."
When Magda responds it isn't what he'd expected, "You killed them." somehow his words seem hollow, but he speaks anyway "Please, our daughter. Magda help me, I need you to help me" but she can't help him; no one can "You're a monster" he barely hears her, and keeps muttering; feeling as if he's cracking, and crumbling "-my beautiful Anya, no-" she lets out a ragged breath, and on the back of it rides "monster" as if ignorant to her existence he continues "-no, please no."
The sun is fading from the sky by the time they move again, and he reaches for her; but she draws back, clearly horrified at the thought of those hands touching her; and he barely realizes that he's got red blood, drying black, on his hands.
When she climbs to her feet, stumbling backward, he stands up, and reaches for her, "You've got to help me Magda. You've got to help me bury our daughter" he knows he won't be able to climb back up from that grave whole again, if he does it alone.
"Stay away from me!" she's frightened, understandably, but when she turns and runs away from him, he doesn't want to understand what's wrong, he just wants her to help him; because he doesn't want to die here.
"Come back! You've got to-... help me." but she's gone, and his will to go after her is gone this time. And he feels like he knows he will never see her after this.
As he digs the too small grave, there's a burning inside to rival that of the fire that had taken his life, and crushed it to fine powder; he sobs so hard when he goes to get her body-what's left of it, from the wreckage, that he ends up on his hands and knees vomiting so hard, for so long that in the end he is only dry heaving; painfully.
It feels like he's been living this his whole life. Feels like his whole life is in the shadow of mourning; feels like he's buried-and burned, his whole family.
When he leaves in the early morning light he finds his lunchbox kicked to the side of the road; his wallet, is in there, it contains a picture of Anya. And there, in the bottom; a small red book, slightly faded from where it usually sat in the window; with a note written in child's handwriting; barely legible unless you were used to such things, as Max was; and it read 'you seemed sad today, papa. this book always makes me feel better, i want you to have it so you smile again.'
And he realized that he could die more than once.