I was in the queue for my soup at the deli when I heard Kitty's salon crew gossip about the Reich's new diet. The air smelled of pretzel crumbs and anti‑Semitic slogans. I tried to stay out of trouble, but the bartender handed me a beverage that smelled like victory. By lunch, I realized I'm just a waiter watching them dance between bureaucracy and beer. The only thing spared was my dignity, I think.

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