The old man wrung out his hands clinched his fists several times to loosen the arthritic joints in his fingers before picking up his pen and beginning the arduous task of writing his last manifesto.
He knew this manifesto would be the last one, he would write. He had seen his books, his manuscripts, his lifetime of work pulled from the libraries, book stores, and homes, thrown upon the pyres of hate, and burned.
He had seen the proverbial writing on the wall, he had seen all the signs of the times, yet he chose to start, knowing doing so would mean he would forfeit his life if he were caught. The year was 1939, Hitler was in power, and he was a Polish Jew.