The Book Thief (14 page)

Some would say
it was a miracle that she ever owned that book at all.

Its journey
began on the way home, the night of the fire.

They were nearly
halfway back to Himmel Street when Liesel could no longer take it. She bent
over and removed the smoking book, allowing it to hop sheepishly from hand to
hand.

When it had
cooled sufficiently, they both watched it a moment, waiting for the words.

Papa: “What the
hell do you call that?”

He reached over
and grabbed hold of The Shoulder Shrug. No explanation was required. It was
obvious that the girl had stolen it from the fire. The book was hot and wet,
blue and red—embarrassed—and Hans Hubermann opened it up. Pages thirty-eight
and thirty-nine. “Another one?”

Liesel rubbed
her ribs.

Yes.

Another one.

“Looks like,”
Papa suggested, “I don’t need to trade any more cigarettes, do I? Not when
you’re stealing these things as fast as I can buy them.”

Liesel, by
comparison, did not speak. Perhaps it was her first realization that
criminality spoke best for itself. Irrefutable.

Papa studied the
title, probably wondering exactly what kind of threat this book posed to the
hearts and minds of the German people. He handed it back. Something happened.

“Jesus, Mary,
and Joseph.” Each word fell away at its edges. It broke off and formed the
next.

The criminal
could no longer resist. “What, Papa? What is it?”

“Of course.”

Like most humans
in the grip of revelation, Hans Hubermann stood with a certain numbness. The
next words would either be shouted or would not make it past his teeth. Also,
they would most likely be a repetition of the last thing he’d said, only
moments earlier.

“Of course.”

This time, his
voice was like a fist, freshly banged on the table.

The man was
seeing something. He was watching it quickly, end to end, like a race, but it
was too high and too far away for Liesel to see. She begged him. “Come on,
Papa, what is it?” She fretted that he would tell Mama about the book. As
humans do, this was all about her. “Are you going to tell?”

“Sorry?”

“You know. Are
you going to tell Mama?”

Hans Hubermann
still watched, tall and distant. “About what?”

She raised the
book. “This.” She brandished it in the air, as if waving a gun.

Papa was
bewildered. “Why would I?”

She hated
questions like that. They forced her to admit an ugly truth, to reveal her own
filthy, thieving nature. “Because I stole again.”

Papa bent
himself to a crouching position, then rose and placed his hand on her head. He
stroked her hair with his rough, long fingers and said, “Of course not, Liesel.
You are safe.”

“So what are you
going to do?”

That was the
question.

What marvelous
act was Hans Hubermann about to produce from the thin Munich Street air?

Before I show
you, I think we should first take a look at what he was seeing prior to his
decision.

PAPA’S
FAST-PACED VISIONS
First, he sees the girl’s books:
The Grave Digger’s
Handbook,
Faust the Dog, The Lighthouse,
and now
The
Shoulder Shrug.
Next is a kitchen and a volatile Hans Junior,
regarding those
books on the table, where the girl often reads. He
speaks: “And what trash is this girl reading?” His son repeats the question
three times, after which he makes his suggestion for more appropriate reading
material.

“Listen,
Liesel.” Papa placed his arm around her and walked her on. “This is our secret,
this book. We’ll read it at night or in the basement, just like the others—but
you have to promise me something.”

“Anything,
Papa.”

The night was
smooth and still. Everything listened. “If I ever ask you to keep a secret for
me, you will do it.”

“I promise.”

“Good. Now come
on. If we’re any later, Mama will kill us, and we don’t want that, do we? No
more book stealing then, huh?”

Liesel grinned.

What she didn’t
know until later was that within the next few days, her foster father managed
to trade some cigarettes for another book, although this one was not for her.
He knocked on the door of the Nazi Party office in Molching and took the
opportunity to ask about his membership application. Once this was discussed,
he proceeded to give them his last scraps of money and a dozen cigarettes. In
return, he received a used copy of
Mein Kampf.

“Happy reading,”
said one of the party members.

“Thank you.”
Hans nodded.

From the street,
he could still hear the men inside. One of the voices was particularly clear.
“He will never be approved,” it said, “even if he buys a hundred copies of
Mein
Kampf.
” The statement was unanimously agreed upon.

Hans held the
book in his right hand, thinking about postage money, a cigaretteless
existence, and the foster daughter who had given him this brilliant idea.

“Thank you,” he
repeated, to which a passerby inquired as to what he’d said.

With typical
affability, Hans replied, “Nothing, my good man, nothing at all.
Heil
Hitler,”
and he walked down Munich Street, holding the pages of the
Führer.

There must have
been a good share of mixed feelings at that moment, for Hans Hubermann’s idea
had not only sprung from Liesel, but from his son. Did he already fear he’d
never see him again? On the other hand, he was also enjoying the ecstasy of an
idea, not daring just yet to envision its complications, dangers, and vicious
absurdities. For now, the idea was enough. It was indestructible. Transforming
it into reality, well, that was something else altogether. For now, though,
let’s let him enjoy it.

We’ll give him
seven months.

Then we come for
him.

And oh, how we
come.

THE
MAYOR’S LIBRARY

Certainly,
something of great magnitude was coming toward 33 Himmel Street, to which
Liesel was currently oblivious. To distort an overused human expression, the
girl had more immediate fish to fry:

She had stolen a
book.

Someone had seen
her.

The book thief
reacted. Appropriately.

Every minute,
every hour, there was worry, or more to the point, paranoia. Criminal activity
will do that to a person, especially a child. They envision a prolific
assortment of
caughtoutedness
. Some examples: People jumping out of
alleys. Schoolteachers suddenly being aware of every sin you’ve ever committed.
Police showing up at the door each time a leaf turns or a distant gate slams
shut.

For Liesel, the
paranoia itself became the punishment, as did the dread of delivering some
washing to the mayor’s house. It was no mistake, as I’m sure you can imagine,
that when the time came, Liesel conveniently overlooked the house on Grande
Strasse. She delivered to the arthritic Helena Schmidt and picked up at the
cat-loving Weingartner residence, but she ignored the house belonging to
Bürgermeister
Heinz
Hermann and his wife, Ilsa.

On the first
occasion, she stated that she simply forgot about that place—a poor excuse if
ever I’ve heard one—as the house straddled the hill, overlooking the town, and
it was unforgettable. When she went back and still returned empty-handed, she
lied that there was no one home.

“No one home?”
Mama was skeptical. Skepticism gave her an itch for the wooden spoon. She waved
it at Liesel and said, “Get back over there now, and if you don’t come home
with the washing, don’t come home at all.”

“Really?”

That was Rudy’s
response when Liesel told him what Mama had said. “Do you want to run away
together?”

“We’ll starve.”

“I’m starving
anyway!” They laughed.

“No,” she said,
“I have to do it.”

They walked the
town as they usually did when Rudy came along. He always tried to be a
gentleman and carry the bag, but each time, Liesel refused. Only she had the
threat of a
Watschen
loitering over her head, and therefore only she
could be relied upon to carry the bag correctly. Anyone else was more likely to
manhandle it, twist it, or mistreat it in even the most minimal way, and it was
not worth the risk. Also, it was likely that if she allowed Rudy to carry it
for her, he would expect a kiss for his services, and that was not an option.
Besides, she was accustomed to its burden. She would swap the bag from shoulder
to shoulder, relieving each side every hundred steps or so.

Liesel walked on
the left, Rudy the right. Rudy talked most of the time, about the last soccer
match on Himmel Street, working in his father’s shop, and whatever else came to
mind. Liesel tried to listen but failed. What she heard was the dread, chiming
through her ears, growing louder the closer they stepped toward Grande Strasse.

“What are you
doing? Isn’t this it?”

Liesel nodded
that Rudy was right, for she had tried to walk past the mayor’s house to buy
some time.

“Well, go on,”
the boy hurried her. Molching was darkening. The cold was climbing out of the
ground. “Move it,
Saumensch.
” He remained at the gate.

After the path,
there were eight steps up to the main entrance of the house, and the great door
was like a monster. Liesel frowned at the brass knocker.

“What are you
waiting for?” Rudy called out.

Liesel turned
and faced the street. Was there any way, any way at all, for her to evade this?
Was there another story, or let’s face it, another lie, that she’d overlooked?

“We don’t have
all day.” Rudy’s distant voice again. “What the hell are you waiting for?”

“Will you shut
your trap, Steiner?” It was a shout delivered as a whisper.

“What?”

“I said shut up,
you stupid
Saukerl. . . .
”

With that, she
faced the door again, lifted back the brass knuckle, and tapped it three times,
slowly. Feet approached from the other side.

At first, she
didn’t look at the woman but focused on the washing bag in her hand. She
examined the drawstring as she passed it over. Money was handed out to her and
then, nothing. The mayor’s wife, who never spoke, simply stood in her bathrobe,
her soft fluffy hair tied back into a short tail. A draft made itself known.
Something like the imagined breath of a corpse. Still there were no words, and
when Liesel found the courage to face her, the woman wore an expression not of
reproach, but utter distance. For a moment, she looked over Liesel’s shoulder
at the boy, then nodded and stepped back, closing the door.

For quite a
while, Liesel remained, facing the blanket of upright wood.

“Hey,
Saumensch
!”
No response. “Liesel!”

Liesel reversed.

Cautiously.

She took the
first few steps backward, calculating.

Perhaps the
woman hadn’t seen her steal the book after all. It had been getting dark.
Perhaps it was one of those times when a person appears to be looking directly
at you when, in fact, they’re contentedly watching something else or simply
daydreaming. Whatever the answer, Liesel didn’t attempt any further analysis.
She’d gotten away with it and that was enough.

She turned and
handled the remainder of the steps normally, taking the last three all at once.

“Let’s go,
Saukerl.
”
She even allowed herself a laugh. Eleven-year-old paranoia was powerful.
Eleven-year-old relief was euphoric.

A few weeks
passed.

Soccer on Himmel
Street.

Reading
The
Shoulder Shrug
between two and three o’clock each morning, post-nightmare,
or during the afternoon, in the basement.

Another benign
visit to the mayor’s house.

All was lovely.

Until.

When Liesel next
visited, minus Rudy, the opportunity presented itself. It was a pickup day.

The mayor’s wife
opened the door and she was not holding the bag, like she normally would.
Instead, she stepped aside and motioned with her chalky hand and wrist for the
girl to enter.

“I’m just here
for the washing.” Liesel’s blood had dried inside of her. It crumbled. She
almost broke into pieces on the steps.

The woman said
her first word to her then. She reached out, cold-fingered, and said, “
Warte
—wait.”
When she was sure the girl had steadied, she turned and walked hastily back
inside.

“Thank God,”
Liesel exhaled. “She’s getting it.”
It
being the washing.

What the woman
returned with, however, was nothing of the sort.

When she came
and stood with an impossibly frail steadfastness, she was holding a tower of
books against her stomach, from her navel to the beginnings of her breasts. She
looked so vulnerable in the monstrous doorway. Long, light eyelashes and just
the slightest twinge of expression. A suggestion.