The Book Thief (41 page)

There was no
anger or reproach.

It was Papa who
spoke.

“How did it
look?”

Max lifted his
head, with great sorrow and great astonishment. “There were stars,” he said.
“They burned my eyes.”

Four of them.

Two people on
their feet. The other two remained seated.

All had seen a
thing or two that night.

This place was
the real basement. This was the real fear. Max gathered himself and stood to
move back behind the sheets. He wished them good night, but he didn’t make it
beneath the stairs. With Mama’s permission, Liesel stayed with him till
morning, reading
A Song in the Dark
as he sketched and wrote in his
book.

From a Himmel
Street window,
he
wrote,
the stars set fire to my eyes.

THE SKY STEALER

The first raid,
as it turned out, was not a raid at all. Had people waited to see the planes,
they would have stood there all night. That accounted for the fact that no
cuckoo had called from the radio. The
Molching Express
reported that a
certain flak tower operator had become a little overexcited. He’d sworn that he
could hear the rattle of planes and see them on the horizon. He sent the word.

“He might have
done it on purpose,” Hans Hubermann pointed out. “Would you want to sit in a
flak tower, shooting up at planes carrying bombs?”

Sure enough, as
Max continued reading the article in the basement, it was reported that the man
with the outlandish imagination had been stood down from his original duty. His
fate was most likely some sort of service elsewhere.

“Good luck to
him,” Max said. He seemed to understand as he moved on to the crossword.

The next raid
was real.

On the night of
September 19, the cuckoo called from the radio, and it was followed by a deep,
informative voice. It listed Molching as a possible target.

Again, Himmel
Street was a trail of people, and again, Papa left his accordion. Rosa reminded
him to take it, but he refused. “I didn’t take it last time,” he explained,
“and we lived.” War clearly blurred the distinction between logic and
superstition.

Eerie air
followed them down to the Fiedlers’ basement. “I think it’s real tonight,” said
Mr. Fiedler, and the children quickly realized that their parents were even
more afraid this time around. Reacting the only way they knew, the youngest of
them began to wail and cry as the room seemed to swing.

Even from the
cellar, they could vaguely hear the tune of bombs. Air pressure shoved itself
down like a ceiling, as if to mash the earth. A bite was taken of Molching’s
empty streets.

Rosa held
furiously on to Liesel’s hand.

The sound of
crying children kicked and punched.

Even Rudy stood
completely erect, feigning nonchalance, tensing himself against the tension.
Arms and elbows fought for room. Some of the adults tried to calm the infants.
Others were unsuccessful in calming themselves.

“Shut that kid
up!” Frau Holtzapfel clamored, but her sentence was just another hapless voice
in the warm chaos of the shelter. Grimy tears were loosened from children’s
eyes, and the smell of night breath, underarm sweat, and overworn clothes was
stirred and stewed in what was now a cauldron swimming with humans.

Although they
were right next to each other, Liesel was forced to call out, “Mama?” Again,
“Mama, you’re squashing my hand!”

“What?”

“My hand!”

Rosa released
her, and for comfort, to shut out the din of the basement, Liesel opened one of
her books and began to read. The book on top of the pile was
The Whistler
and
she spoke it aloud to help her concentrate. The opening paragraph was numb in
her ears.

“What did you
say?” Mama roared, but Liesel ignored her. She remained focused on the first
page.

When she turned
to page two, it was Rudy who noticed. He paid direct attention to what Liesel
was reading, and he tapped his brother and his sisters, telling them to do the
same. Hans Hubermann came closer and called out, and soon, a quietness started
bleeding through the crowded basement. By page three, everyone was silent but
Liesel.

She didn’t dare
to look up, but she could feel their frightened eyes hanging on to her as she
hauled the words in and breathed them out. A voice played the notes inside her.
This, it said, is your accordion.

The sound of the
turning page carved them in half.

Liesel read on.

For at least
twenty minutes, she handed out the story. The youngest kids were soothed by her
voice, and everyone else saw visions of the whistler running from the crime
scene. Liesel did not. The book thief saw only the mechanics of the words—their
bodies stranded on the paper, beaten down for her to walk on. Somewhere, too,
in the gaps between a period and the next capital letter, there was also Max.
She remembered reading to him when he was sick. Is he in the basement? she
wondered. Or is he stealing a glimpse of the sky again?

Everyone waited
for the ground to shake.

That was still
an immutable fact, but at least they were distracted now, by the girl with the
book. One of the younger boys contemplated crying again, but Liesel stopped at
that moment and imitated her papa, or even Rudy for that matter. She winked at
him and resumed.

Only when the
sirens leaked into the cellar again did someone interrupt her. “We’re safe,”
said Mr. Jenson.

“Shhh!” said
Frau Holtzapfel.

Liesel looked
up. “There are only two paragraphs till the end of the chapter,” she said, and
she continued reading with no fanfare or added speed. Just the words.

Out of respect,
the adults kept everyone quiet, and Liesel finished chapter one of
The
Whistler.

On their way up
the stairs, the children rushed by her, but many of the older people—even Frau
Holtzapfel, even Pfiffikus (how appropriate, considering the title she read
from)—thanked the girl for the distraction. They did so as they made their way
past and hurried from the house to see if Himmel Street had sustained any
damage.

Himmel Street
was untouched.

The only sign of
war was a cloud of dust migrating from east to west. It looked through the
windows, trying to find a way inside, and as it simultaneously thickened and
spread, it turned the trail of humans into apparitions.

There were no
people on the street anymore.

They were rumors
carrying bags.

At home, Papa
told Max all about it. “There’s fog and ash—I think they let us out too early.”
He looked to Rosa. “Should I go out? To see if they need help where the bombs
dropped?”

Rosa was not
impressed. “Don’t be so idiotic,” she said. “You’ll choke on the dust. No, no,
Saukerl,
you’re staying here.” A thought came to her. She looked at Hans very
seriously now. In fact, her face was crayoned with pride. “Stay here and tell
him about the girl.” Her voice loudened, just slightly. “About the book.”

Max gave her
some added attention.

“The Whistler,”
Rosa informed
him. “Chapter one.” She explained exactly what had happened in the shelter.

As Liesel stood
in a corner of the basement, Max watched her and rubbed a hand along his jaw.
Personally, I think that was the moment he conceived the next body of work for
his sketchbook.

He imagined the
girl reading in the shelter. He must have watched her literally handing out the
words. However, as always, he must also have seen the shadow of Hitler. He
could probably already hear his footsteps coming toward Himmel Street and the
basement, for later.

After a lengthy
pause, he looked ready to speak, but Liesel beat him to it.

“Did you see the
sky tonight?”

“No.” Max looked
at the wall and pointed. On it, they all watched the words and the picture he’d
painted more than a year earlier—the rope and the dripping sun. “Only that one
tonight,” and from there, no more was spoken. Nothing but thoughts.

Max, Hans, and
Rosa I cannot account for, but I know that Liesel Meminger was thinking that if
the bombs ever landed on Himmel Street, not only did Max have less chance of
survival than everyone else, but he would die completely alone.

FRAU
HOLTZAPFEL’S OFFER

In the morning,
the damage was inspected. No one died, but two apartment blocks were reduced to
pyramids of rubble, and Rudy’s favorite Hitler Youth field had an enormous bowl
spooned out of it. Half the town stood around its circumference. People
estimated its depth, to compare it with their shelters. Several boys and girls
spat into it.

Rudy was
standing next to Liesel. “Looks like they need to fertilize again.”

When the next
few weeks were raid-free, life almost returned to normal. Two telling moments,
however, were on their way.

Her wrinkles
were like slander. Her voice was akin to a beating with a stick.

It was actually
quite fortunate that they saw Frau Holtzapfel coming from the living room
window, for her knuckles on the door were hard and decisive. They meant
business.

Liesel heard the
words she dreaded.

“You go and
answer it,” Mama said, and the girl, knowing only too well what was good for
her, did as she was told.

“Is your mama
home?” Frau Holtzapfel inquired. Constructed of fifty-year-old wire, she stood
on the front step, looking back every so often to view the street. “Is that
swine of a mother of yours here today?”

Liesel turned
and called out.

Soon, Rosa was
behind her. “What do
you
want here? You want to spit on my kitchen floor
now, too?”

Frau Holtzapfel
was not deterred in the slightest. “Is that how you greet
everyone
who
shows up at your front door? What a
G’sindel.
”

Liesel watched.
She was unfortunate enough to be sandwiched between them. Rosa pulled her out
of the way. “Well, are you going to tell me why you’re here or not?”

Frau Holtzapfel
looked once more at the street and back. “I have an offer for you.”

Mama shifted her
weight. “Is that right?”

“No, not you.”
She dismissed Rosa with a shrug of the voice and focused now on Liesel. “You.”

“Why did you ask
for me, then?”

“Well, I at least
need your
permission.
”

Oh, Maria,
Liesel thought, this is all I need. What the hell can Holtzapfel want with me?

“I liked that
book you read in the shelter.”

No. You’re not
getting it. Liesel was convinced of that. “Yes?”

“I was hoping to
hear the rest of it in the shelter, but it looks like we’re safe for now.” She
rolled her shoulders and straightened the wire in her back. “So I want you to
come to my place and read it to me.”

“You’ve got some
nerve, Holtzapfel.” Rosa was deciding whether to be furious or not. “If you
think—”

“I’ll stop
spitting on your door,” she interrupted. “And I’ll give you my coffee ration.”

Rosa decided
against being furious. “And some flour?”

“What, are you a
Jew? Just the coffee. You can swap the coffee with someone else for the flour.”

It was decided.

By everyone but
the girl.

“Good, then,
it’s done.”

“Mama?”

“Quiet,
Saumensch.
Go and get the book.” Mama faced Frau Holtzapfel again. “What days suit
you?”

“Monday and
Friday, four o’clock. And today, right now.”

Liesel followed
the regimented footsteps to Frau Holtzapfel’s lodging next door, which was a
mirror image of the Hubermanns’. If anything, it was slightly larger.

When she sat
down at the kitchen table, Frau Holtzapfel sat directly in front of her but
faced the window. “Read,” she said.

“Chapter two?”

“No, chapter
eight. Of course chapter two! Now get reading before I throw you out.”

“Yes, Frau
Holtzapfel.”

“Never mind the
‘yes, Frau Holtzapfels.’ Just open the book. We don’t have all day.”

Good God, Liesel
thought. This is my punishment for all that stealing. It’s finally caught up
with me.