Sixty years ago, two men drove a truck every day from Belgrade to Jajinci: Götz, the driver, and Meyer, the passenger. If they hadn't stopped along the way and screwed the end of the exhaust pipe into an opening in the bottom of the box, and if the box hadn't been full of Jews, no one would have cared later. However, the nameless narrator, a teacher from Belgrade, is interested because his relatives were also on the truck. He begins to research, sifting through documents, trying to understand. The closer he gets to the truth, the further away he feels; the more he tries to imagine Götz and Meyer, the more their faces become blurred. In the obsession and despair of the nameless narrator, David Albahari subtly reflects the deeper truth of storytelling: the horror is not depicted in the objectivity of facts.