and sarcasm. “I wonder which potato you’re going to ask for,” he said, keeping one eye
for the boy.
Rudy, it was yet another failure.
second act of stupidity was equally dangerous, but for different reasons.
would finish this particular altercation with a black eye, cracked ribs, and a haircut.
, at the Hitler Youth meetings, Tommy M
was just waiting for Rudy to step in. It didn’t take long.
and Tommy were given another comprehensive drill session while the others went
to learn tactics. As they ran in the cold, they could see the warm heads and shoulders
the windows. Even when they joined the rest of the group, the drills weren’t quite
. As Rudy slumped into the corner and flicked mud from his sleeve at the window,
fired the Hitler Youth’s favorite question at him.
“When was our F Adolf Hitler, born?”
looked up. “Sorry?”
question was repeated, and the very stupid Rudy Steiner, who knew all too well that it
April 20, 1889, answered with the birth of Christ. He even threw in Bethlehem as an
piece of information.
smeared his hands together.
very bad sign.
walked over to Rudy and ordered him back outside for some more laps of the field.
ran them alone, and after every lap, he was asked again the date of the F’s
. He did seven laps before he got it right.
major trouble occurred a few days after the meeting.
Munich Street, Rudy noticed Deutscher walking along the footpath with some friends and
the need to throw a rock at him. You might well ask just what the hell he was thinking.
answer is, probably nothing at all. He’d probably say that he was exercising his God-
right to stupidity. Either that, or the very sight of Franz Deutscher gave him the urge to
himself.
rock hit its mark on the spine, though not as hard as Rudy might have hoped. Franz
spun around and looked happy to find him standing there, with Liesel, Tommy, and
’s little sister, Kristina.
“Let’s run,” Liesel urged him, but Rudy didn’t move.
“We’re not at Hitler Youth now,” he informed her. The older boys had already arrived. Liesel
next to her friend, as did the twitching Tommy and the delicate Kristina.
“Mr. Steiner,” Franz declared, before picking him up and throwing him to the pavement.
Rudy stood up, it served only to infuriate Deutscher even more. He brought him to the
for a second time, following him down with a knee to the rib cage.
, Rudy stood up, and the group of older boys laughed now at their friend. This was not
best news for Rudy. “Can’t you make him feel it?” the tallest of them said. His eyes were
blue and cold as the sky, and the words were all the incentive Franz needed. He was
that Rudy would hit the ground and stay there.
larger crowd made its way around them as Rudy swung at Franz Deutscher’s stomach,
him completely. Simultaneously, he felt the burning sensation of a fist on his left eye
. It arrived with sparks, and he was on the ground before he even realized. He was
again, in the same place, and he could feel the bruise turn yellow and blue and black
at once. Three layers of exhilarating pain.
developing crowd gathered and leered to see if Rudy might get up again. He didn’t. This
, he remained on the cold, wet ground, feeling it rise through his clothes and spread itself
.
sparks were still in his eyes, and he didn’t notice until it was too late that Franz now
above him with a brand-new pocketknife, about to crouch down and cut him.
“No!” Liesel protested, but the tall one held her back. In her ear, his words were deep and old.
“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “He won’t do it. He doesn’t have the guts.”
was wrong.
merged into a kneeling position as he leaned closer to Rudy and whispered:
“When was our F born?” Each word was carefully created and fed into his ear. “Come
, Rudy, when was he born? You can tell me, everything’s fine, don’t be afraid.”
Rudy?
did he reply?
he respond prudently, or did he allow his stupidity to sink himself deeper into the mire?
looked happily into the pale blue eyes of Franz Deutscher and whispered, “Easter
.”
a few seconds, the knife was applied to his hair. It was haircut number two in this
of Liesel’s life. The hair of a Jew was cut with rusty scissors. Her best friend was
to with a gleaming knife. She knew nobody who actually paid for a haircut.
for Rudy, so far this year he’d swallowed mud, bathed himself in fertilizer, been half-
by a developing criminal, and was now receiving something at least nearing the
on the cake— public humiliation on Munich Street.
the most part, his fringe was sliced away freely, but with each stroke, there were always a
hairs that held on for dear life and were pulled out completely. As each one was plucked,
winced, his black eye throbbing in the process and his ribs flashing in pain.
“April twentieth, eighteen eighty-nine!” Franz lectured him, and when he led his cohorts
, the audience dispersed, leaving only Liesel, Tommy, and Kristina with their friend.
lay quietly on the ground, in the rising damp.
leaves us only with stupid act number three—skipping the Hitler Youth meetings.
didn’t stop going right away, purely to show Deutscher that he wasn’t afraid of him, but
another few weeks, Rudy ceased his involvement altogether.
proudly in his uniform, he exited Himmel Street and kept walking, his loyal subject,
, by his side.
of attending the Hitler Youth, they walked out of town and along the Amper, skipping
, heaving enormous rocks into the water, and generally getting up to no good. He made
to get the uniform dirty enough to fool his mother, at least until the first letter arrived.
was when he heard the dreaded call from the kitchen.
, his parents threatened him. He didn’t attend.
begged him to go. He refused.
, it was the opportunity to join a different division that swayed Rudy in the right
. This was fortunate, because if he didn’t show his face soon, the Steiners would be
for his non-attendance. His older brother, Kurt, inquired as to whether Rudy might join
Flieger Division, which specialized in the teaching of aircraft and flying. Mostly, they
model airplanes, and there was no Franz Deutscher. Rudy accepted, and Tommy also
. It was the one time in his life that his idiotic behavior delivered beneficial results.
his new division, whenever he was asked the famous F question, Rudy would smile
answer, “April 20, 1889,” and then to Tommy, he’d whisper a different date, like
’s birthday, or Mozart’s, or Strauss’s. They’d been learning about composers in
, where despite his obvious stupidity, Rudy excelled.FLOATING BOOK (Part II)
the beginning of December, victory finally came to Rudy Steiner, though not in a typical
.
was a cold day, but very still. It had come close to snowing.
school, Rudy and Liesel stopped in at Alex Steiner’s shop, and as they walked home,
saw Rudy’s old friend Franz Deutscher coming around the corner. Liesel, as was her
these days, was carrying The Whistler. She liked to feel it in her hand. Either the smooth spine or the rough edges of paper. It was she who saw him first.
“Look.” She pointed. Deutscher was loping toward them with another Hitler Youth leader.
shrank into himself. He felt at his mending eye. “Not this time.” He searched the streets.
“If we go past the church, we can follow the river and cut back that way.”
no further words, Liesel followed him, and they successfully avoided Rudy’s
—straight into the path of another.
first, they thought nothing of it.
group crossing the bridge and smoking cigarettes could have been anybody, and it was
late to turn around when the two parties recognized each other.
“Oh, no, they’ve seen us.”
Chemmel smiled.
spoke very amiably. This could only mean that he was at his most dangerous. “Well, well,
it isn’t Rudy Steiner and his little whore.” Very smoothly, he met them and snatched The
Whistler from Liesel’s grip. “What are we reading?”
“This is between us.” Rudy tried to reason with him. “It has nothing to do with her. Come on,
it back.”
“The Whistler.” He addressed Liesel now. “Any good?”
cleared her throat. “Not bad.” Unfortunately, she gave herself away. In the eyes. They
agitated. She knew the exact moment when Viktor Chemmel established that the book
a prize possession.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “For fifty marks, you can have it back.”
“Fifty marks!” That was Andy Schmeikl. “Come on, Viktor, you could buy a thousand books
that.”
“Did I ask you to speak?”
kept quiet. His mouth seemed to swing shut.
tried a poker face. “You can keep it, then. I’ve already read it.”
“What happens at the end?”
it!
hadn’t gotten that far yet.
hesitated, and Viktor Chemmel deciphered it instantly.
rushed at him now. “Come on, Viktor, don’t do this to her. It’s me you’re after. I’ll do
you want.”
older boy only swatted him away, the book held aloft. And he corrected him.
“No,” he said. “I’ll do anything I want,” and he proceeded to the river. Everyone followed, at catch-up speed. Half walk, half run. Some protested. Some urged him on.
was so quick, and relaxed. There was a question, and a mocking, friendly voice.
“Tell me,” Viktor said. “Who was the last Olympic discus champion, in Berlin?” He turned to
them. He warmed up his arm. “Who was it? Goddamn it, it’s on the tip of my tongue. It
that American, wasn’t it? Carpenter or something...”
“Please!”—Rudy.
water toppled.
Chemmel did the spin.
book was released gloriously from his hand. It opened and flapped, the pages rattling as it
ground in the air. More abruptly than expected, it stopped and appeared to be sucked
the water. It clapped when it hit the surface and began to float downstream.
shook his head. “Not enough height. A poor throw.” He smiled again. “But still good
to win, huh?”
and Rudy didn’t stick around to hear the laughter.
in particular had taken off down the riverbank, attempting to locate the book.
“Can you see it?” Liesel called out.
ran.
continued down the water’s edge, showing her the book’s location. “Over there!” He
and pointed and ran farther down to overtake it. Soon, he peeled off his coat and
in, wading to the middle of the river.
, slowing to a walk, could see the ache of each step. The painful cold.
she was close enough, she saw it move past him, but he soon caught up. His hand
in and collared what was now a soggy block of cardboard and paper. “The Whistler!”
boy called out. It was the only book floating down the Amper River that day, but he still
the need to announce it.
note of interest is that Rudy did not attempt to leave the devastatingly cold water as
as he held the book in his hand. For a good minute or so, he stayed. He never did explain
to Liesel, but I think she knew very well that the reasons were twofold.
FROZEN MOTIVES OF RUDY STEINER
. After months of failure, this moment was his only chance to revel in some victory.
. Such a position of selflessness was a good place to ask Liesel for the usual favor.
could she possibly turn him down?
“How about a kiss, Saumensch?”
stood waist-deep in the water for a few moments longer before climbing out and handing
the book. His pants clung to him, and he did not stop walking. In truth, I think he was
. Rudy Steiner was scared of the book thief’s kiss. He must have longed for it so much.
must have loved her so incredibly hard. So hard that he would never ask for her lips again
would go to his grave without them.SIX
dream carrier
:
’s diary—the snowman—thirteen
—the next book—the nightmare of
jewish corpse—a newspaper sky—a visitor—
schmunzeler—and a final kiss on poisoned cheeks
’S DIARY: 1942
was a year for the ages, like 79, like 1346, to name just a few. Forget the scythe, Goddamn
, I needed a broom or a mop. And I needed a vacation.
SMALL PIECE OF TRUTH
do not carry a sickle or scythe.
only wear a hooded black robe when it’s cold.
I don’t have those skull-like
features you seem to enjoy
on me from a distance. You
to know what I truly look like?
’ll help you out. Find yourself
mirror while I continue.
actually feel quite self-indulgent at the moment, telling you all about me, me, me. My
, what I saw in ’42. On the other hand, you’re a human—you should understand self-
. The point is, there’s a reason for me explaining what I saw in that time. Much of it
have repercussions for Liesel Meminger. It brought the war closer to Himmel Street,
it dragged me along for the ride.
were certainly some rounds to be made that year, from Poland to Russia to Africa and
again. You might argue that I make the rounds no matter what year it is, but sometimes
human race likes to crank things up a little. They increase the production of bodies and
escaping souls. A few bombs usually do the trick. Or some gas chambers, or the chitchat
faraway guns. If none of that finishes proceedings, it at least strips people of their living
, and I witness the homeless everywhere. They often come after me as I wander
the streets of molested cities. They beg me to take them with me, not realizing I’m
busy as it is. “Your time will come,” I convince them, and I try not to look back. At times,
wish I could say something like, “Don’t you see I’ve already got enough on my plate?” but I
do. I complain internally as I go about my work, and some years, the souls and bodies
’t add up; they multiply.
ABRIDGED ROLL CALL FOR 1942
. The desperate Jews—their spirits in my lap as we sat on the roof, next to the steaming chimneys.
. The Russian soldiers—taking only small amounts of ammunition, relying on the fallen for the rest of it.
. The soaked bodies of a French coast— beached on the shingle and sand.
could go on, but I’ve decided for now that three examples will suffice. Three examples, if
else, will give you the ashen taste in your mouth that defined my existence during that
.
many humans.
many colors.
keep triggering inside me. They harass my memory. I see them tall in their heaps, all
on top of each other. There is air like plastic, a horizon like setting glue. There are
manufactured by people, punctured and leaking, and there are soft, coal-colored clouds,
like black hearts.
then.
is death.
his way through all of it.
the surface: unflappable, unwavering.
: unnerved, untied, and undone.
all honesty (and I know I’m complaining excessively now), I was still getting over Stalin,
Russia. The so-called second revolution—the murder of his own people.
came Hitler.
say that war is death’s best friend, but I must offer you a different point of view on that
. To me, war is like the new boss who expects the impossible. He stands over your
repeating one thing, incessantly: “Get it done, get it done.” So you work harder. You
the job done. The boss, however, does not thank you. He asks for more.
, I try to remember the strewn pieces of beauty I saw in that time as well. I plow through
library of stories.
fact, I reach for one now.
believe you know half of it already, and if you come with me, I’ll show you the rest. I’ll
you the second half of a book thief.
, she awaits a great many things that I alluded to just a minute ago, but she also
for you.
’s carrying some snow down to a basement, of all places.
of frosty water can make almost anyone smile, but it cannot make them forget.
she comes.SNOWMAN
Liesel Meminger, the early stages of 1942 could be summed up like this:
became thirteen years of age. Her chest was still flat. She had not yet bled. The young
from her basement was now in her bed.
&A
did Max
end up
Liesel’s bed?
fell.
varied, but Rosa Hubermann claimed that the seeds were sown at Christmas the
year.
24 had been hungry and cold, but there was a major bonus—no lengthy visitations.
Junior was simultaneously shooting at Russians and maintaining his strike on family
. Trudy could only stop by on the weekend before Christmas, for a few hours. She
going away with her family of employment. A holiday for a very different class of
.
Christmas Eve, Liesel brought down a double handful of snow as a present for Max.
“Close your eyes,” she’d said. “Hold out your hands.” As soon as the snow was transferred,
shivered and laughed, but he still didn’t open his eyes. He only gave the snow a quick
, allowing it to sink into his lips.
“Is this today’s weather report?”
stood next to him.
, she touched his arm.
raised it again to his mouth. “Thanks, Liesel.”
was the beginning of the greatest Christmas ever. Little food. No presents. But there was a
in their basement.
delivering the first handfuls of snow, Liesel checked that no one else was outside, then
to take as many buckets and pots out as she could. She filled them with the mounds
snow and ice that blanketed the small strip of world that was Himmel Street. Once they
full, she brought them in and carried them down to the basement.
things being fair, she first threw a snowball at Max and collected a reply in the stomach.
even threw one at Hans Hubermann as he made his way down the basement steps.
“Arschloch!” Papa yelped. “Liesel, give me some of that snow. A whole bucket!” For a few
, they all forgot. There was no more yelling or calling out, but they could not contain
small snatches of laughter. They were only humans, playing in the snow, in a house.
looked at the snow-filled pots. “What do we do with the rest of it?”
“A snowman,” Liesel replied. “We have to make a snowman.”
called out to Rosa.
usual distant voice was hurled back. “What is it now, Saukerl?”
“Come down here, will you!”
his wife appeared, Hans Hubermann risked his life by throwing a most excellent
at her. Just missing, it disintegrated when it hit the wall, and Mama had an excuse to
for a long time without taking a breath. Once she recovered, she came down and helped
. She even brought the buttons for the eyes and nose and some string for a snowman
. Even a scarf and hat were provided for what was really only a two-foot man of snow.
“A midget,” Max had said.
“What do we do when it melts?” Liesel asked.
had the answer. “You mop it up, Saumensch, in a hurry.”
disagreed. “It won’t melt.” He rubbed his hands and blew into them. “It’s freezing down
.”
it did, though, but somewhere in each of them, that snowman was still upright. It must
been the last thing they saw that Christmas Eve when they finally fell asleep. There was
accordion in their ears, a snowman in their eyes, and for Liesel, there was the thought of
’s last words before she left him by the fire.
GREETINGS FROM MAX VANDENBURG “Often I wish this would all
over, Liesel, but then somehow you do something like walk down the basement steps
a snowman in your hands.”
, that night signaled a severe downslide in Max’s health. The early signs were
enough, and typical. Constant coldness. Swimming hands. Increased visions of
with the F It was only when he couldn’t warm up after his push-ups and sit-ups
it truly began to worry him. As close to the fire as he sat, he could not raise himself to
degree of approximate health. Day by day, his weight began to stumble off him. His
regimen faltered and fell apart, with his cheek against the surly basement floor.
through January, he managed to hold himself together, but by early February, Max was in
shape. He would struggle to wake up next to the fire, sleeping well into the
instead, his mouth distorted and his cheekbones starting to swell. When asked, he
he was fine.
mid-February, a few days before Liesel was thirteen, he came to the fireplace on the verge
collapse. He nearly fell into the fire.
“Hans,” he whispered, and his face seemed to cramp. His legs gave way and his head hit the
case.
once, a wooden spoon fell into some soup and Rosa Hubermann was at his side. She held
’s head and barked across the room at Liesel, “Don’t just stand there, get the extra
. Take them to your bed. And you!” Papa was next. “Help me pick him up and carry
to Liesel’s room. Schnell! ”
’s face was stretched with concern. His gray eyes clanged and he picked him up on his
. Max was light as a child. “Can’t we put him here, in our bed?”
had already considered that. “No. We have to keep these curtains open in the day or else
looks suspicious.”
“Good point.” Hans carried him out.
in hand, Liesel watched.
feet and hanging hair in the hallway. One shoe had fallen off him.
“Move.”
marched in behind them, in her waddlesome way.
Max was in the bed, blankets were heaped on top and fastened around his body.
“Mama?”
couldn’t bring herself to say anything else.
“What?” The bun of Rosa Hubermann’s hair was wound tight enough to frighten from
. It seemed to tighten further when she repeated the question. “What, Liesel?”
stepped closer, afraid of the answer. “Is he alive?”
bun nodded.
turned then and said something with great assurance. “Now listen to me, Liesel. I didn’t
this man into my house to watch him die. Understand?”
nodded.
“Now go.”
the hall, Papa hugged her.
desperately needed it.
on, she heard Hans and Rosa speaking in the night. Rosa made her sleep in their room,
she lay next to their bed, on the floor, on the mattress they’d dragged up from the
. (There was concern as to whether it was infected, but they came to the conclusion
such thoughts were unfounded. This was no virus Max was suffering from, so they
it up and replaced the sheet.)
the girl to be asleep, Mama voiced her opinion.
“That damn snowman,” she whispered. “I bet it started with the snowman—fooling around
ice and snow in the cold down there.”
was more philosophical. “Rosa, it started with Adolf.” He lifted himself. “We should
on him.”
the course of the night, Max was visited seven times.
VANDENBURG’S VISITOR
SHEET
Hubermann: 2
Hubermann: 2
Meminger: 3
the morning, Liesel brought him his sketchbook from the basement and placed it on the
table. She felt awful for having looked at it the previous year, and this time, she kept
firmly closed, out of respect.
Papa came in, she did not turn to face him but talked across Max Vandenburg, at the
. “Why did I have to bring all that snow down?” she asked. “It started all of this, didn’t it,
?” She clenched her hands, as if to pray. “Why did I have to build that snowman?”
, to his enduring credit, was adamant. “Liesel,” he said, “you had to.”
hours, she sat with him as he shivered and slept.
“Don’t die,” she whispered. “Please, Max, just don’t die.”
was the second snowman to be melting away before her eyes, only this one was different.
was a paradox.
colder he became, the more he melted.PRESENTS
was Max’s arrival, revisited.
turned to twigs again. Smooth face turned to rough. The proof she needed was there.
was alive.
first few days, she sat and talked to him. On her birthday, she told him there was an
cake waiting in the kitchen, if only he’d wake up.
was no waking.
was no cake.
LATE-NIGHT EXCERPT
realized much later that I actually visited
Himmel Street in that period of time.
must have been one of the few moments when the
was not there with him, for all I saw was a
in bed. I knelt. I readied myself to insert
hands through the blankets. Then there was a
—an immense struggle against my weight.
withdrew, and with so much work ahead of me,
was nice to be fought off in that dark little room.
even managed a short, closed-eyed pause of
before I made my way out.
the fifth day, there was much excitement when Max opened his eyes, if only for a few
. What he predominantly saw (and what a frightening version it must have been
up) was Rosa Hubermann, practically slinging an armful of soup into his mouth.
“Swallow,” she advised him. “Don’t think. Just swallow.” As soon as Mama handed back the
, Liesel tried to see his face again, but there was a soup-feeder’s backside in the way.
“Is he still awake?”
she turned, Rosa did not have to answer.
close to a week, Max woke up a second time, on this occasion with Liesel and Papa in
room. They were both watching the body in the bed when there was a small groan. If it’s
, Papa fell upward, out of the chair.
“Look,” Liesel gasped. “Stay awake, Max, stay awake.”
looked at her briefly, but there was no recognition. The eyes studied her as if she were a
. Then gone again.
“Papa, what happened?”
dropped, back to the chair.
, he suggested that perhaps she should read to him. “Come on, Liesel, you’re such a
reader these days—even if it’s a mystery to all of us where that book came from.”
“I told you, Papa. One of the nuns at school gave it to me.”
held his hands up in mock-protest. “I know, I know.” He sighed, from a height. “Just..
.” He chose his words gradually. “Don’t get caught.” This from a man who’d stolen a Jew.
that day on, Liesel read The Whistler aloud to Max as he occupied her bed. The one
was that she kept having to skip whole chapters on account of many of the pages
stuck together. It had not dried well. Still, she struggled on, to the point where she was
three-quarters of the way through it. The book was 396 pages.
the outside world, Liesel rushed from school each day in the hope that Max was feeling
. “Has he woken up? Has he eaten?”
“Go back out,” Mama begged her. “You’re chewing a hole in my stomach with all this
. Go on. Get out there and play soccer, for God’s sake.”
“Yes, Mama.” She was about to open the door. “But you’ll come and get me if he wakes up,
’t you? Just make something up. Scream out like I’ve done something wrong. Start
at me. Everyone will believe it, don’t worry.”
Rosa had to smile at that. She placed her knuckles on her hips and explained that Liesel
’t too old yet to avoid a Watschen for talking in such a way. “And score a goal,” she
, “or don’t come home at all.”
“Sure, Mama.”
“Make that two goals, Saumensch!”
“Yes, Mama.”
“And stop answering back!”
considered, but she ran onto the street, to oppose Rudy on the mud-slippery road.
“About time, ass scratcher.” He welcomed her in the customary way as they fought for the
. “Where have you been?”
an hour later, when the ball was squashed by the rare passage of a car on Himmel Street,
had found her first present for Max Vandenburg. After judging it irreparable, all of the
walked home in disgust, leaving the ball twitching on the cold, blistered road. Liesel and
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