The group was an odd one.

    A teenage boy leaned against the marble columns, his pants torn and smudged and his threadbare waistcoat barely covering his chest. No one knew who he was or cared to ask his name.

    Ms. Anne Davis, a wealthy widow, immediately settled into an armchair and peeked at her appearance for the third time that morning. Her hand was shaking slightly as she held up the gold-plated pocket mirror.

    A young immigrant couple stood silently away from the group. They were dressed in their finest clothing: she in her black skirt, cream blouse, and Sunday hat, and he in his tweed suit, which had been his grandfathers. Were they Italian? Hungarian? No one knew.

    Another couple sashayed through the great oak bank doors: a movie producer with the Sunday edition, November 10th newspaper tucked under his arm and a pipe lazily drooping from the corner of his mouth, and his girlfriend Lucille, an actress with a glamorous dress and red clutch that matched her ruby lips, and cold, hawk-like green eyes that did not match her sweet demeanor. They settled into the love seat.

    Each minded his or her own business, and each had no real interest in the others.

    The teenage boy watched them all carefully.

    "Ladies and gentlemen," the employee announced with a flourish, "please follow me into the elevator, and I will lead you to the vault." He pronounced elevator ele-vah-tor, at which the boy couldn't help but smirk. Pompous phony, he thought.

    A single gleaming door stood at the end of the hall. Delicately balanced atop was a golden floor indicator, its solid brass arrow pointed at a shiny letter L.

    A doorman turned the key to open the doors and everyone shuffled into the cramped enclosure. The boy graciously stepped aside to let them pass first.

    The doorman shut the metal cage with a clang that echoed in the shaft below them. The elevator descended into the depths, clanking downwards until the last glimpse of light from above was snuffed. A shroud of darkness surrounded them, and the air felt as if it was mixed with ice. The immigrant woman screamed. She was claustrophobic and the tight elevator reminded her of the horrors of her childhood in the mines, when she would sink into the earth, praying that the last speck of sunlight was not her final glimpse of the world above. Her husband comforted her in another language. The employee huffed - he hated immigrants. Always so hard to communicate.

    "Level V: Vault," the doorman said monotonously, and the cage came to a halt. As the door creaked open, the group emerged into the drafty corridor, the ladies' heels clicking ominously on the concrete floor.

    In a nook in the wall was a kerosene lantern, which the employee lit using a match from his pocket. Shadows danced on the walls, inviting the group down the passageway.

    Ms. Davis fingered the buttons of her mink coat. She crinkled her nose at the foul smell of the underground.

    "For a San Francisco bank, you'd think they would keep it cleaner," she muttered, accentuating the last word and eyeing the bank employee with contempt. The immigrant woman next to her frowned in disapproval and silently switched to her husband's other arm. He fingered his pocket watch and wondered if he dared to check the time.

    Just then, a bank employee strolled into the foyer, sporting a navy suit and perfectly groomed mustache. He had taken extra care to apply pomade this morning and styled it in the latest fashion. Ms. Davis thought he looked like her son, Harry, although Harry was much more handsome and the result of good breeding.

    Glistening in the gloom, the vault door was a dull, heavy silver, rounded into a complete circle. A sleek handle, which looked like a boat wheel, protruded from the cool metal. Setting his hands on opposite sides of the lock, the bank employee turned it this way and that. It was an intricate maze only he knew the path to. One by one the metal bars surrounding the vault shot out like balls in a pinball machine, and the big door swung open.

    The immigrant man was enraptured. His father had been a clock maker, and he had tinkered with locks and screws since he was a little boy. The vault door was the most beautiful and intricate mechanical wonder he had ever seen.

    "This way, ladies and gentlemen." The employee ushered them through the entrance. To the left, a glass door led to a private viewing area with several sets of tables and chairs, a chandelier providing the only light. To the right was the spacious vault: a dark cavern surrounded by concrete, black lockboxes towering on shelves up to the ceiling like books stacked in a library. The air was icy and coated with moisture. The coolness of the gunmetal walls and floor seemed to seep through their shoes and prick their skin.

    "Your valuables are under the utmost protection," the employee announced, waving his arm around in demonstration as he led them among the towering stacks. "Four hundred and fifty tons of concrete surround these walls on all three sides, and the surface is five hundred feet above us. The only entrance," he pointed back the way they had come, "is that vault door, designed by German engineer Johann Broigel. It is the finest in the world. Nothing can trigger the lock except an intricate routine of turns, which is known only to three people: the president of the bank, Johann Broigel, and myself. I can assure you that your precious valuables are safer than the King's jewels in the Tower of London." He chuckled, but no one joined him. The immigrant woman clapped her hands weakly as she stared wide-eyed at the spires of lockboxes surrounding them.

    "Can we just view our boxes?" the producer huffed. He had a train to catch to Hollywood the next morning, and he needed his contract. Lucille was growing impatient. She had agreed to accompany him to the vault only if he agreed to take her to her favorite restaurant that night.

    "Ah yes, certainly," the employee said, and he did not talk after that. He drew out a piece of paper from inside his coat, walked along the stacks, and pulled boxes sporadically from the shelves.

    "Now, if you'll please follow me to the viewing area," he said, gesturing over his shoulder.

    The employee distributed the boxes to their corresponding owners, noting whether each person was depositing, withdrawing, or viewing, and then opened each box with a set of keys.