The Book Thief (35 page)

Papa sat on the
floor, in the corner, workless as usual. Luckily, he would soon be leaving for
the Knoller with his accordion. His chin resting on his knees, he listened to
the girl he’d struggled to teach the alphabet. Reading proudly, she unloaded
the final frightening words of the book to Max Vandenburg.

“Jesus, Mary,
and Joseph.” Hans couldn’t resist an incredulous tone. “A nun gave you
that
?”
He stood up and made his way over, kissing her forehead. “Bye, Liesel, the
Knoller awaits.”

“Bye, Papa.”

“Liesel!”

She ignored it.

“Come and eat
something!”

She answered
now. “I’m coming, Mama.” She actually spoke those words to Max as she came
closer and placed the finished book on the bedside table, with everything else.
As she hovered above him, she couldn’t help herself. “Come on, Max,” she
whispered, and even the sound of Mama’s arrival at her back did not stop her
from silently crying. It didn’t stop her from pulling a lump of salt water from
her eye and feeding it onto Max Vandenburg’s face.

Mama took her.

Her arms
swallowed her.

“I know,” she
said.

She knew.

WHAT TO DO WITH A JEWISH CORPSE

They were by the
Amper River and Liesel had just told Rudy that she was interested in attaining
another book from the mayor’s house. In place of
The Whistler,
she’d
read
The Standover Man
several times at Max’s bedside. That was only a
few minutes per reading. She’d also tried
The Shoulder Shrug,
even
The
Grave Digger’s Handbook,
but none of it seemed quite right. I want something
new, she thought.

“Did you even
read the last one?”

“Of course I
did.”

Rudy threw a
stone into the water. “Was it any good?”

“Of course it
was.”

“Of course I
did, of course it was.”
He tried to dig another rock out of the ground but
cut his finger.

“That’ll teach
you.”

When a person’s
last response was
Saumensch
or
Saukerl
or
Arschloch,
you
knew you had them beaten.

In terms of
stealing, conditions were perfect. It was a gloomy afternoon early in March and
only a few degrees above freezing—always more uncomfortable than ten degrees
below. Very few people were out on the streets. Rain like gray pencil shavings.

“Are we going?”

“Bikes,” said
Rudy. “You can use one of ours.”

On this
occasion, Rudy was considerably more enthusiastic about being the
enterer.
“Today
it’s my turn,” he said as their fingers froze to the bike handles.

Liesel thought
fast. “Maybe you shouldn’t, Rudy. There’s stuff all over the place in there.
And it’s dark. An idiot like you is bound to trip over or run into something.”

“Thanks very
much.” In this mood, Rudy was hard to contain.

“There’s the
drop, too. It’s deeper than you think.”

“Are you saying
you don’t think I can do it?”

Liesel stood up
on the pedals. “Not at all.”

They crossed the
bridge and serpentined up the hill to Grande Strasse. The window was open.

Like last time,
they surveyed the house. Vaguely, they could see inside, to where a light was
on downstairs, in what was probably the kitchen. A shadow moved back and forth.

“We’ll just ride
around the block a few times,” Rudy said. “Lucky we brought the bikes, huh?”

“Just make sure
you remember to take yours home.”

“Very funny,
Saumensch.
It’s a bit bigger than your filthy shoes.”

They rode for
perhaps fifteen minutes, and still, the mayor’s wife was downstairs, a little
too close for comfort. How dare she occupy the kitchen with such vigilance! For
Rudy, the kitchen was undoubtedly the actual goal. He’d have gone in, robbed as
much food as was physically possible, then if (and only if) he had a last
moment to spare, he would stuff a book down his pants on the way out. Any book
would do.

Rudy’s weakness,
however, was impatience. “It’s getting late,” he said, and began to ride off.
“You coming?”

Liesel didn’t
come.

There was no
decision to be made. She’d lugged that rusty bike all the way up there and she
wasn’t leaving without a book. She placed the handlebars in the gutter, looked
out for any neighbors, and walked to the window. There was good speed but no
hurry. She took her shoes off using her feet, treading on the heels with her
toes.

Her fingers
tightened on the wood and she made her way inside.

This time, if
only slightly, she felt more at ease. In a few precious moments, she circled
the room, looking for a title that grabbed her. On three or four occasions, she
nearly reached out. She even considered taking more than one, but again, she
didn’t want to abuse what was a kind of system. For now, only one book was
necessary. She studied the shelves and waited.

An extra
darkness climbed through the window behind her. The smell of dust and theft
loitered in the background, and she saw it.

The book was
red, with black writing on the spine.
Der
Traumträger. The Dream
Carrier.
She thought of Max Vandenburg and his dreams. Of guilt. Surviving.
Leaving his family. Fighting the
Führer.
She also thought of her own
dream—her brother, dead on the train, and his appearance on the steps just
around the corner from this very room. The book thief watched his bloodied knee
from the shove of her own hand.

She slid the
book from the shelf, tucked it under her arm, climbed to the window ledge, and
jumped out, all in one motion.

Rudy had her
shoes. He had her bike ready. Once the shoes were on, they rode.

“Jesus, Mary,
and Joseph, Meminger.” He’d never called her Meminger before. “You’re an
absolute lunatic. Do you know that?”

Liesel agreed as
she pedaled like hell. “I know it.”

At the bridge,
Rudy summed up the afternoon’s proceedings. “Those people are either completely
crazy,” he said, “or they just like their fresh air.”

Liesel placed
The
Dream Carrier
beneath her jacket and began reading it the minute she returned
home. In the wooden chair next to her bed, she opened the book and whispered,
“It’s a new one, Max. Just for you.” She started reading. “ ‘Chapter one: It
was quite fitting that the entire town was sleeping when the dream carrier was
born. . . .’ ”

Every day,
Liesel read two chapters of the book. One in the morning before school and one
as soon as she came home. On certain nights, when she was not able to sleep,
she read half of a third chapter as well. Sometimes she would fall asleep
slumped forward onto the side of the bed.

It became her
mission.

She gave
The
Dream Carrier
to Max as if the words alone could nourish him. On a Tuesday,
she thought there was movement. She could have sworn his eyes had opened. If
they had, it was only momentarily, and it was more likely just her imagination
and wishful thinking.

By mid-March,
the cracks began to appear.

Rosa
Hubermann—the good woman for a crisis—was at breaking point one afternoon in
the kitchen. She raised her voice, then brought it quickly down. Liesel stopped
reading and made her way quietly to the hall. As close as she stood, she could
still barely make out her mama’s words. When she was able to hear them, she
wished she hadn’t, for what she heard was horrific. It was reality.

THE
CONTENTS OF MAMA’S VOICE

She was
absolutely right.

A Jewish corpse
was a major problem. The Hubermanns needed to revive Max Vandenburg not only
for his sake, but for their own. Even Papa, who was always the ultimate calming
influence, was feeling the pressure.

“Look.” His
voice was quiet but heavy. “If it happens—if he dies—we’ll simply need to find
a way.” Liesel could have sworn she heard him swallow. A gulp like a blow to
the windpipe. “My paint cart, some drop sheets . . .”

Liesel entered
the kitchen.

“Not now,
Liesel.” It was Papa who spoke, though he did not look at her. He was watching
his warped face in a turned-over spoon. His elbows were buried into the table.

The book thief
did not retreat. She took a few extra steps and sat down. Her cold hands felt
for her sleeves and a sentence dropped from her mouth. “He’s not dead yet.” The
words landed on the table and positioned themselves in the middle. All three
people looked at them. Half hopes didn’t dare rise any higher. He isn’t dead
yet. He isn’t dead yet. It was Rosa who spoke next.

“Who’s hungry?”

Possibly the
only time that Max’s illness didn’t hurt was at dinner. There was no denying it
as the three of them sat at the kitchen table with their extra bread and extra
soup or potatoes. They all thought it, but no one spoke.

In the night,
just a few hours later, Liesel awoke and wondered at the height of her heart.
(She had learned that expression from
The Dream
Carrier,
which
was essentially the complete antithesis of
The Whistler
— a book about
an abandoned child who wanted to be a priest.) She sat up and sucked deeply at
the nighttime air.

“Liesel?” Papa
rolled over. “What is it?”

“Nothing, Papa,
everything’s good.” But the very moment she’d finished the sentence, she saw
exactly what had happened in her dream.

“Liesel?”

“I said
everything’s good.”

Shivering, she
climbed from the mattress. Stupid with fear, she walked through the hallway to
Max. After many minutes at his side, when everything slowed, she attempted to
interpret the dream. Was it a premonition of Max’s death? Or was it merely a
reaction to the afternoon conversation in the kitchen? Had Max now replaced her
brother? And if so, how could she discard her own flesh and blood in such a
way? Perhaps it was even a deep-seated wish for Max to die. After all, if it
was good enough for Werner, her brother, it was good enough for this Jew.