The brother shivers.
The woman weeps.
And the girl goes on reading, for that’s why she’s there, and it feels good to be good for
something in the aftermath of the snows of Stalingrad.
THE AGELESS BROTHER
Liesel Meminger was a few weeks short of fourteen.
Her papa was still away.
She’d completed three more reading sessions with a devastated woman. On many nights,
she’d watched Rosa sit with the accordion and pray with her chin on top of the bellows.
Now, she thought, it’s time. Usually it was stealing that cheered her up, but on this day, it was
giving something back.
She reached under her bed and removed the plate. As quickly as she could, she cleaned it in
the kitchen and made her way out. It felt nice to be walking up through Molching. The air was
sharp and flat, like the Watschen of a sadistic teacher or nun. Her shoes were the only sound
on Munich Street.
As she crossed the river, a rumor of sunshine stood behind the clouds.
At 8 Grande Strasse, she walked up the steps, left the plate by the front door, and knocked,
and by the time the door was opened, the girl was around the corner. Liesel did not look back,
but she knew that if she did, she’d have found her brother at the bottom of the steps again, his
knee completely healed. She could even hear his voice.
“That’s better, Liesel.”
It was with great sadness that she realized that her brother would be six forever, but when she
held that thought, she also made an effort to smile.
She remained at the Amper River, at the bridge, where Papa used to stand and lean.
She smiled and smiled, and when it all came out, she walked home and her brother never
climbed into her sleep again. In many ways, she would miss him, but she could never miss his
deadly eyes on the floor of the train or the sound of a cough that killed.
The book thief lay in bed that night, and the boy only came before she closed her eyes. He
was one member of a cast, for Liesel was always visited in that room. Her papa stood and
called her half a woman. Max was writing The Word Shaker in the corner. Rudy was naked
by the door. Occasionally her mother stood on a bedside train platform. And far away, in the
room that stretched like a bridge to a nameless town, her brother, Werner, played in the
cemetery snow.
From down the hall, like a metronome for the visions, Rosa snored, and Liesel lay awake
surrounded, but also remembering a quote from her most recent book.
THE LAST HUMAN STRANGER, PAGE 38
There were people everywhere on the city
street, but the stranger could not have
been more alone if it were empty.
When morning came, the visions were gone and she could hear the quiet recital of words in
the living room. Rosa was sitting with the accordion, praying.
“Make them come back alive,” she repeated. “Please, Lord, please. All of them.” Even the
wrinkles around her eyes were joining hands.
The accordion must have ached her, but she remained.
Rosa would never tell Hans about these moments, but Liesel believed that it must have been
those prayers that helped Papa survive the LSE’s accident in Essen. If they didn’t help, they
certainly can’t have hurt.
THE ACCIDENT
It was a surprisingly clear afternoon and the men were climbing into the truck. Hans
Hubermann had just sat down in his appointed seat. Reinhold Zucker was standing above
him.
“Move it,” he said.
“Bitte? Excuse me?”
Zucker was hunched beneath the vehicle’s ceiling. “I said move it, Arschloch. ” The greasy
jungle of his fringe fell in clumps onto his forehead. “I’m swapping seats with you.”
Hans was confused. The backseat was probably the most uncomfortable of the lot. It was the
draftiest, the coldest. “Why?”
“Does it matter?” Zucker was losing patience. “Maybe I want to get off first to use the shit
house.”
Hans was quickly aware that the rest of the unit was already watching this pitiful struggle
between two supposed grown men. He didn’t want to lose, but he didn’t want to be petty,
either. Also, they’d just finished a tiring shift and he didn’t have the energy to go on with it.
Bent-backed, he made his way forward to the vacant seat in the middle of the truck.
“Why did you give in to that Scheisskopf?” the man next to him asked.
Hans lit a match and offered a share of the cigarette. “The draft back there goes straight
through my ears.”
The olive green truck was on its way toward the camp, maybe ten miles away. Brunnenweg
was telling a joke about a French waitress when the left front wheel was punctured and the
driver lost control. The vehicle rolled many times and the men swore as they tumbled with the
air, the light, the trash, and the tobacco. Outside, the blue sky changed from ceiling to floor as
they clambered for something to hold.
When it stopped, they were all crowded onto the right-hand wall of the truck, their faces
wedged against the filthy uniform next to them. Questions of health were passed around until
one of the men, Eddie Alma, started shouting, “Get this bastard off me!” He said it three
times, fast. He was staring into Reinhold Zucker’s blinkless eyes.
THE DAMAGE, ESSEN
Six men burned by cigarettes.
Two broken hands.
Several broken fingers.
A broken leg for Hans Hubermann.
A broken neck for Reinhold
Zucker, snapped almost in line
with his earlobes.
They dragged each other out until only the corpse was left in the truck.
The driver, Helmut Brohmann, was sitting on the ground, scratching his head. “The tire,” he
explained, “it just blew.” Some of the men sat with him and echoed that it wasn’t his fault.
Others walked around smoking, asking each other if they thought their injuries were bad
enough to be relieved of duty. Another small group gathered at the back of the truck and
viewed the body.
Over by a tree, a thin strip of intense pain was still opening in Hans Hubermann’s leg. “It
should have been me,” he said.
“What?” the sergeant called over from the truck.
“He was sitting in my seat.”
Helmut Brohmann regained his senses and climbed back into the driver’s compartment.
Sideways, he tried to start the engine, but there was no kicking it over. Another truck was sent
for, as was an ambulance. The ambulance didn’t come.
“You know what that means, don’t you?” said Boris Schipper. They did.
When they resumed the trip back to camp, each man tried not to look down at Reinhold
Zucker’s openmouthed sneer. “I told you we should have turned him facedown,” someone
mentioned. A few times, some of them simply forgot and rested their feet on the body. Once
they arrived, they all tried to avoid the task of pulling him out. When the job was done, Hans
Hubermann took a few abbreviated steps before the pain fractured in his leg and brought him
down.
An hour later, when the doctor examined him, he was told it was definitely broken. The
sergeant was on hand and stood with half a grin.
“Well, Hubermann. Looks like you’ve got away with it, doesn’t it?” He was shaking his
round face, smoking, and he provided a list of what would happen next. “You’ll rest up.
They’ll ask me what we should do with you. I’ll tell them you did a great job.” He blew some
more smoke. “And I think I’ll tell them you’re not fit for the LSE anymore and you should be
sent back to Munich to work in an office or do whatever cleaning up needs doing there. How
does that sound?”
Unable to resist a laugh within the grimace of pain, Hans replied, “It sounds good, Sergeant.”
Boris Schipper finished his cigarette. “Damn right it sounds good. You’re lucky I like you,
Hubermann. You’re lucky you’re a good man, and generous with the cigarettes.”
In the next room, they were making up the plaster.
THE BITTER TASTE OF QUESTIONS
Just over a week after Liesel’s birthday in mid-February, she and Rosa finally received a
detailed letter from Hans Hubermann. She ran inside from the mailbox and showed it to
Mama. Rosa made her read it aloud, and they could not contain their excitement when Liesel
read about his broken leg. She was stunned to the extent that she mouthed the next sentence
only to herself.
“What is it?” Rosa pushed. “Saumensch?”
Liesel looked up from the letter and was close to shouting. The sergeant had been true to his
word. “He’s coming home, Mama. Papa’s coming home!”
They embraced in the kitchen and the letter was crushed between their bodies. A broken leg
was certainly something to celebrate.
When Liesel took the news next door, Barbara Steiner was ecstatic. She rubbed the girl’s
arms and called out to the rest of her family. In their kitchen, the household of Steiners
seemed buoyed by the news that Hans Hubermann was returning home. Rudy smiled and
laughed, and Liesel could see that he was at least trying. However, she could also sense the
bitter taste of questions in his mouth.
Why him?
Why Hans Hubermann and not Alex Steiner?
He had a point.
ONE TOOLBOX, ONE BLEEDER, ONE BEAR
Since his father’s recruitment to the army the previous October, Rudy’s anger had been
growing nicely. The news of Hans Hubermann’s return was all he needed to take it a few
steps further. He did not tell Liesel about it. There was no complaining that it wasn’t fair. His
decision was to act.
He carried a metal case up Himmel Street at the typical thieving time of darkening afternoon.
RUDY’S TOOLBOX
It was patchy red and the
length of an oversized shoe box.
It contained the following:
Rusty pocketknife 1
Small flashlight 1
Hammer 2
(one medium, one small)
Hand towel 1
Screwdriver 3
(varying in size)
Ski mask 1
Clean socks 1
Teddy bear 1
Liesel saw him from the kitchen window—his purposeful steps and committed face, exactly
like the day he’d gone to find his father. He gripped the handle with as much force as he
could, and his movements were stiff with rage.
The book thief dropped the towel she was holding and replaced it with a single thought.
He’s going stealing.
She ran out to meet him.
There was not even the semblance of a hello.
Rudy simply continued walking and spoke through the cold air in front of him. Close to
Tommy M
You’re not a thief at all,” and he didn’t give her a chance to reply. “That woman lets you in.
She even leaves you cookies, for Christ’s sake. I don’t call that stealing. Stealing is what the
army does. Taking your father, and mine.” He kicked a stone and it clanged against a gate. He
walked faster. “All those rich Nazis up there, on Grande Strasse, Gelb Strasse, Heide Strasse.”
Liesel could concentrate on nothing but keeping up. They’d already passed Frau Diller’s and
were well onto Munich Street. “Rudy—”
“How does it feel, anyway?”
“How does what feel?”
“When you take one of those books?”
At that moment, she chose to keep still. If he wanted an answer, he’d have to come back, and
he did. “Well?” But again, it was Rudy who answered, before Liesel could even open her
mouth. “It feels good, doesn’t it? To steal something back.”
Liesel forced her attention to the toolbox, trying to slow him down. “What have you got in
there?”
He bent over and opened it up.
Everything appeared to make sense but the teddy bear.
As they kept walking, Rudy explained the toolbox at length, and what he would do with each
item. For example, the hammers were for smashing windows and the towel was to wrap them
up, to quell the sound.
“And the teddy bear?”
It belonged to Anna-Marie Steiner and was no bigger than one of Liesel’s books. The fur was
shaggy and worn. The eyes and ears had been sewn back on repeatedly, but it was friendly
looking nonetheless.
“That,” answered Rudy, “is the one masterstroke. That’s if a kid walks in while I’m inside.
I’ll give it to them to calm them down.”
“And what do you plan to steal?”
He shrugged. “Money, food, jewelry. Whatever I can get my hands on.” It sounded simple
enough.
It wasn’t until fifteen minutes later, when Liesel watched the sudden silence on his face, that
she realized Rudy Steiner wasn’t stealing anything. The commitment had disappeared, and
although he still watched the imagined glory of stealing, she could see that now he was not
believing it. He was trying to believe it, and that’s never a good sign. His criminal greatness was unfurling before his eyes, and as the footsteps slowed and they watched the houses,
Liesel’s relief was pure and sad inside her.
It was Gelb Strasse.
On the whole, the houses sat dark and huge.
Rudy took off his shoes and held them with his left hand. He held the toolkit with his right.
Between the clouds, there was a moon. Perhaps a mile of light.
“What am I waiting for?” he asked, but Liesel didn’t reply. Again, Rudy opened his mouth,
but without any words. He placed the toolbox on the ground and sat on it.
His socks grew cold and wet.
“Lucky there’s another pair in the toolbox,” Liesel suggested, and she could see him trying
not to laugh, despite himself.
Rudy moved across and faced the other way, and there was room for Liesel now as well.
The book thief and her best friend sat back to back on a patchy red toolbox in the middle of
the street. Each facing a different way, they remained for quite a while. When they stood up
and went home, Rudy changed his socks and left the previous ones on the road. A gift, he
decided, for Gelb Strasse.
THE SPOKEN TRUTH
OF RUDY STEINER
“I guess I’m better at leaving
things behind than stealing them.”
A few weeks later, the toolbox ended up being good for at least something. Rudy cleared it of
screwdrivers and hammers and chose instead to store in it many of the Steiners’ valuables for
the next air raid. The only item that remained was the teddy bear.
On March 9, Rudy exited the house with it when the sirens made their presence felt again in
Molching.
While the Steiners rushed down Himmel Street, Michael Holtzapfel was knocking furiously at
Rosa Hubermann’s door. When she and Liesel came out, he handed them his problem. “My
mother,” he said, and the plums of blood were still on his bandage. “She won’t come out.
She’s sitting at the kitchen table.”
As the weeks had worn on, Frau Holtzapfel had not yet begun to recover. When Liesel came
to read, the woman spent most of the time staring at the window. Her words were quiet, close
to motionless. All brutality and reprimand were wrested from her face. It was usually Michael
who said goodbye to Liesel or gave her the coffee and thanked her. Now this.
Rosa moved into action.
She waddled swiftly through the gate and stood in the open doorway. “Holtzapfel!” There
was nothing but sirens and Rosa. “Holtzapfel, get out here, you miserable old swine!” Tact
had never been Rosa Hubermann’s strong point. “If you don’t come out, we’re all going to
die here on the street!” She turned and viewed the helpless figures on the footpath. A siren
had just finished wailing. “What now?”
Michael shrugged, disoriented, perplexed. Liesel dropped her bag of books and faced him.
She shouted at the commencement of the next siren. “Can I go in?” But she didn’t wait for the
answer. She ran the short distance of the path and shoved past Mama.
Frau Holtzapfel was unmoved at the table.
What do I say? Liesel thought.
How do I get her to move?
When the sirens took another breath, she heard Rosa calling out. “Just leave her, Liesel, we
have to go! If she wants to die, that’s her business,” but then the sirens resumed. They reached
down and tossed the voice away.
Now it was only noise and girl and wiry woman.
“Frau Holtzapfel, please!”
Much like her conversation with Ilsa Hermann on the day of the cookies, a multitude of words
and sentences were at her fingertips. The difference was that today there were bombs. Today
it was slightly more urgent.
THE OPTIONS
• “Frau Holtzapfel, we have to go.”
• “Frau Holtzapfel, we’ll die if we stay here.”
• “You still have one son left.”
• “Everyone’s waiting for you.”
• “The bombs will blow your head off.”
• “If you don’t come, I’ll stop coming to read to you, and that means you’ve lost your only
friend.”
She went with the last sentence, calling the words directly through the sirens. Her hands were
planted on the table.
The woman looked up and made her decision. She didn’t move.
Liesel left. She withdrew herself from the table and rushed from the house.
Rosa held open the gate and they started running to number forty-five. Michael Holtzapfel
remained stranded on Himmel Street.
“Come on!” Rosa implored him, but the returned soldier hesitated. He was just about to make
his way back inside when something turned him around. His mutilated hand was the only
thing attached to the gate, and shamefully, he dragged it free and followed.
They all looked back several times, but there was still no Frau Holtzapfel.
The road seemed so wide, and when the final siren evaporated into the air, the last three
people on Himmel Street made their way into the Fiedlers’ basement.
“What took you so long?” Rudy asked. He was holding the toolbox.
Liesel placed her bag of books on the ground and sat on them. “We were trying to get Frau
Holtzapfel.”
Rudy looked around. “Where is she?”
“At home. In the kitchen.”
In the far corner of the shelter, Michael was cramped and shivery. “I should have stayed,” he
said, “I should have stayed, I should have stayed....” His voice was close to noiseless, but
his eyes were louder than ever. They beat furiously in their sockets as he squeezed his injured
hand and the blood rose through the bandage.
It was Rosa who stopped him.
“Please, Michael, it’s not your fault.”
But the young man with only a few remaining fingers on his right hand was inconsolable. He
crouched in Rosa’s eyes.
“Tell me something,” he said, “because I don’t understand....” He fell back and sat against
the wall. “Tell me, Rosa, how she can sit there ready to die while I still want to live.” The
blood thickened. “Why do I want to live? I shouldn’t want to, but I do.”
The young man wept uncontrollably with Rosa’s hand on his shoulder for many minutes. The
rest of the people watched. He could not make himself stop even when the basement door
opened and shut and Frau Holtzapfel entered the shelter.
Her son looked up.
Rosa stepped away.
When they came together, Michael apologized. “Mama, I’m sorry, I should have stayed with
you.”
Frau Holtzapfel didn’t hear. She only sat with her son and lifted his bandaged hand. “You’re
bleeding again,” she said, and with everyone else, they sat and waited.
Liesel reached into her bag and rummaged through the books.
THE BOMBING OF MUNICH,
MARCH 9 AND 10
The night was long with bombs
and reading. Her mouth was
dry, but the book thief worked
through fifty-four pages.
The majority of children slept and didn’t hear the sirens of renewed safety. Their parents
woke them or carried them up the basement steps, into the world of darkness.
Far away, fires were burning and I had picked up just over two hundred murdered souls.
I was on my way to Molching for one more.
Himmel Street was clear.
The sirens had been held off for many hours, just in case there was another threat and to allow
the smoke to make its way into the atmosphere.
It was Bettina Steiner who noticed the small fire and the sliver of smoke farther down, close
to the Amper River. It trailed into the sky and the girl held up her finger. “Look.”
The girl might have seen it first, but it was Rudy who reacted. In his haste, he did not
relinquish his grip on the toolbox as he sprinted to the bottom of Himmel Street, took a few
side roads, and entered the trees. Liesel was next (having surrendered her books to a heavily
protesting Rosa), and then a smattering of people from several shelters along the way.
“Rudy, wait!”
Rudy did not wait.
Liesel could only see the toolbox in certain gaps in the trees as he made his way through to
the dying glow and the misty plane. It sat smoking in the clearing by the river. The pilot had
tried to land there.
Within twenty meters, Rudy stopped.
Just as I arrived myself, I noticed him standing there, recovering his breath.
The limbs of trees were scattered in the dark.
There were twigs and needles littered around the plane like fire fuel. To their left, three gashes
were burned into the earth. The runaway ticktock of cooling metal sped up the minutes and
seconds till they were standing there for what felt like hours. The growing crowd was
assembling behind them, their breath and sentences sticking to Liesel’s back.
“Well,” said Rudy, “should we take a look?”
He stepped through the remainder of trees to where the body of the plane was fixed to the
ground. Its nose was in the running water and the wings were left crookedly behind.
Rudy circled slowly, from the tail and around to the right.
“There’s glass,” he said. “The windshield is everywhere.”
Then he saw the body.
Rudy Steiner had never seen a face so pale.
“Don’t come, Liesel.” But Liesel came.
She could see the barely conscious face of the enemy pilot as the tall trees watched and the
river ran. The plane let out a few more coughs and the head inside tilted from left to right. He
said something they obviously could not understand.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Rudy whispered. “He’s alive.”
The toolbox bumped the side of the plane and brought with it the sound of more human
voices and feet.
The glow of fire was gone and the morning was still and black. Only the smoke was in its
way, but it, too, would soon be exhausted.
The wall of trees kept the color of a burning Munich at bay. By now, the boy’s eyes had
adjusted not only to the darkness, but to the face of the pilot. The eyes were like coffee stains,
and gashes were ruled across his cheeks and chin. A ruffled uniform sat, unruly, across his
chest.
Despite Rudy’s advice, Liesel came even closer, and I can promise you that we recognized
each other at that exact moment.
I know you, I thought.
There was a train and a coughing boy. There was snow and a distraught girl.
You’ve grown, I thought, but I recognize you.
She did not back away or try to fight me, but I know that something told the girl I was there.
Could she smell my breath? Could she hear my cursed circular heartbeat, revolving like the
crime it is in my deathly chest? I don’t know, but she knew me and she looked me in my face
and she did not look away.
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