Mark awoke panting, sweating and agitating. He thought that a nightmare like this had never happened to him, and then he began to feel the pain of the blows and lashes he had received and was afraid. He lifted his shirt and all the bruises and whips were there. He passed his hand on his back and the wound of the sword was missing. He searched for it several times.

After he fell asleep and had a long deep sleep.

In the morning he was awakened by his mother to reach the slopes. He did his best to hide the bruises, but hiding the appearance of those who had slept badly was a different matter.

"Slept badly eh? Changing of beds, sometimes, is a tragedy."

Mark nodded without answering, Clare noticed the slow movements.

"What have you got? Back pain?"

"Back pain. The bed..." Mark said.

"After breakfast, I go to the pharmacy," Clare said.

"I'll go there. I can handle it. You go to the slopes."

"We don't talk about it!" Clare said.

"Mom! I can do it! Then I join you. I am 17 years old. Don't stay so on me!"

Clare swallowed the morsel.

"All right then. We're waiting for you on the slopes. Come. Don't worry me."

"Yes, Mama."

They all went out together and Mark headed for the country. Martha the madwoman was watching the house when he went out greeted her. He regretted doing it. At the end of the day, he didn't know her and the night had been a very strange dream. Then she, timidly, answered the greeting and raised only four fingers, as in the dream. Mark was very frightened. Then he decided to talk to her. He went after her, but she ran away. He caught up with her and blocked her.

"You know what happened to me!"

The woman began to scream in fear.

"Do you know what happened?"

Suddenly he felt himself grasping. He was the proprietor of the apartment.

"Leave her alone. The poor woman doesn't talk! She hasn't spoken in years! What do you want?"

Mark looked at the woman who had slumped to the ground like a puppet and gazed into the void.

"Nothing. I don't want anything and you Martha, if you understand me, forgive me."

Then he went away. The day spent quiet, on the slopes, then packed lunch, then again on the slopes. Finally lunch at the restaurant. Marta arrived again this time, but avoided looking at Mark and ran into the back of the restaurant.

At the end of the evening, Mark looked at his bed, but was it a bed or a place of new dark nightmares? The night before seemed so absurd and far away. Absurd and far away. It could not happen again. With this conviction, Mark went to sleep.

The house was back there and it was beautiful and sunny, but Martha was not there. Mark entered the garden without difficulty. After all, nothing had happened there, but the main entrance was another story. He stopped and did not immediately dare to enter. At one point he heard a buzz from the inside, which then became an increasingly loud noise. He remembered that the house would have told the stories all together if he had not entered. When the noise became unbearable he jumped in and was silent.

"You have to hide too. You're Jewish too," a child's voice said.

He heard vehicles. He turned to look out of the door. A small German truck had arrived. Four soldiers and one officer were inside. The little girl had sat on the floor, next to the wall.

"Come here. So they won't find us."

She seemed convinced. She had a white dress and two long black braids. She put his head between her legs. The Germans, meanwhile, had come down and the commander barked orders. Mark sat next to her and she hugged him. The soldier entered without saying a word. He calmly pointed at his machine gun. The little girl tightened him tightly, then the machine gun vomited a few tongues of fire.

Mark began to breathe heavily. He heard the bullets, but the house wouldn't kill him. He knew it and, in spite of everything, it was not easy.

"I can't do it," he said softly.

He walked to the hall finding a door. He waited a moment before opening it. Suddenly he found himself outside and had a very bad feeling of falling. His stomach went under his feet. He saw the bridge from which he had fallen high, below him, then looked up and saw the earth approach. He bounced, once, twice, three times. Then he found himself sitting on the floor, in the hallway of the house.

"Bunging jumping. It was just bunging jumping," he said. He took his breath a few minutes, but he knew he had to open yet another door. Immediately the furniture in the hallway changed. It was very sumptuous, empire-style, with tapestries and drapes and was on fire. In the room, he saw a silhouette with an axe. The smoke prevented him from breathing.

"Help," he heard.

A woman came out of the room, in a nightgown. The man with the axe chased her. Mark knew the fire wasn't going to kill him, but that was the only concession the villa made. The wounds, on the other hand, would have been real if it had burned and the flames invaded everything. The woman took refuge in a room and closed the door, but the man destroyed her with the axe.

"Go away!" the woman said, then noises of falling objects were heard. The woman managed to escape and went to the exit, but some of the burning furniture fell barring her from the road. Then she turned and in his eyes, Mark saw fear. The man, who no longer had an axe, came out, but had some of his clothes on fire. Mark looked him in the eye. They were the eyes of a madman. The man went towards the woman, hugged her to restrain her, and threw himself into the fire with her. The flames went out immediately. The man, the woman, the furniture disappeared and Mark stood still and distraught.

"What do you want?" Mark said at the house. "Speak to me!" he yelled at her. Martha could talk to you. What do you want from me? Tell me!"

The door to the next room opened on its own. Inside he could see a green lawn but Mark did not trust. Who knows what traps were hiding. Instead, it was just a green lawn, with butterflies, birdsong and a small stream.

"What do you want from me? Tell me!" Mark said as he entered the room, but this time he was quieter.

After a while, he found himself sitting in an empty room.

"Another story eh?"

He rose as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders and approached the door.

"Okay let's go!" he said and opened.

He found himself in a large room, with beds to his right and to his left.

"Mark! Did you hear me?"

The man by his side was wearing a suit that covered his entire body and a breathing mask.

"I haven't heard."

"We must empty bed 22. Come on!"

In bed 22 there was an elderly man attached to oxygen. The other began to rid him of all the pipes. He did so quickly, systematically, but with respect. Then from the small cabinet by the side of the bed, he pulled out a black bag with the zipper.

"Lift!" he said, and they sat him down. Then Mark realized.

"He's dead."

"Yes!" the sad other said. "He's dead. Roll out the sack."

Mark stretched the bag under his body, and then they raised his legs and finished stretching out the sack and the other closed it. When he came to his face he waited a moment. He whispered something.

"What are you doing?" Mark asked.

"Listen! I follow all the procedures, but this poor man won't have a funeral. He deserves one prayer at least."

"You're right. One prayer at least..."

They collected the blankets, the breathing mask and all the man's belongings in a green bag.

Mark looked at the sheet hanging from the bed. There was only one inscription: "C.19."

One man, in a different colour suit, went to meet the other.

"Bed 28,30.35"

There was no need to say anything else. More beds to empty.

"All right doctor. Let's go now."

Other men came to load the black bag onto a metal stretcher, then they took it all out.

They did the operation six more times, always with speed, systematically but with respect and a small prayer. That was the banality of death, a trivial, small virus, and the lungs dried up in the body. You died asphyxiated in the air. Slowly. At one point, everything disappeared. Mark turned to the door and saw the exit.