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“And what trash is this girl reading? She should be reading Mein Kampf.” Liesel looked up. “Don’t worry, Liesel,” Papa said. “Just keep reading. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
humans like to watch a little destruction. Sand castles, houses of cards, that’s where they begin. Their great skill is their capacity to escalate.
“Saukerl,” she laughed, and as she held up her hand, she knew completely that he was simultaneously calling her a Saumensch. I think that’s as close to love as eleven-year-olds can get.
I’ve seen so many young men over the years who think they’re running at other young men. They are not. They’re running at me.
“Don’t be afraid,” she heard Papa whisper. “She’s a good girl.”
One wild card was yet to be played.
The girl: “Tell me. What do you see when you dream like that?” The Jew: “… I see myself turning around, and waving goodbye.” The girl: “I also have nightmares.” The Jew: “What do you see?” The girl: “A train, and my dead brother.” The Jew: “Your brother?” The girl: “He died when I moved here, on the way.” The girl and the Jew, together: “Ja—yes.”
And she walked over and hugged him for the first time. “Thanks, Max.”
Jew and the girl slept, hand to shoulder.
It was as though he’d opened her palm, given her the words, and closed it up again.
Rudy Steiner was scared of the book thief’s kiss.
He must have loved her so incredibly hard.
the new boss who expects the impossible. He stands over your shoulder repeating one thing, incessantly: “Get it done, get it done.” So you work harder. You get the job done. The boss, however, does not thank you. He asks for more.
I plow through my library of stories.
snow as a present for Max. “Close your eyes,” she’d said. “Hold out your hands.” As soon as the snow was transferred, Max shivered and laughed, but he still didn’t open his eyes. He only gave the snow a quick taste, allowing it to sink into his lips. “Is this today’s weather report?”
Liesel stood next to him. Gently, she touched his arm. He raised it again to his mouth. “Thanks, Liesel.” It was the beginning of the greatest Christmas ever. Little food. No presents. But there was a snowman in their basement.
CHRISTMAS GREETINGS FROM MAX VANDENBURG “Often I wish this would all be over, Liesel, but then somehow you do something like walk down the basement steps with a snowman in your hands.”
In the hall, Papa hugged her. She desperately needed it.
“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.
“Max?” “He’s disappeared.” “Max, are you there?” “I’m here.” They originally thought the words had come from behind the drop sheets and paint cans, but Liesel was first to see him, in front of them. His jaded face was camouflaged among the painting materials and fabric. He was sitting there with stunned eyes and lips.
From a Himmel Street window, he wrote, the stars set fire to my eyes.
A voice played the notes inside her. This, it said, is your accordion.
One was a book thief. The other stole the sky.
A new hand held Liesel’s now, and when she looked in horror next to her,
Hans Hubermann smiled at his daughter
A SMALL, SAD NOTE I visited that small city street with the man still in Hans Hubermann’s arms. The sky was white-horse gray.
and Rudy Steiner, her best friend,
THE WORD SHAKER A Small Collection of Thoughts for Liesel Meminger
he found the word shaker asleep in her blankets and the clouds.
Liesel rushed over. She crouched above him. Kiss him, Liesel, kiss him.
A SMALL, SAD HOPE No one wanted to bomb Himmel Street. No one would bomb a place named after heaven, would they? Would they?
Rudy Steiner slept. Mama and Papa slept. Frau Holtzapfel, Frau Diller. Tommy Müller. All sleeping.
Earlier, I’d held her papa in one arm and her mama in the other. Each soul was so soft.
“Papa!” A second time. Her face creased as she reached a higher, more panic-stricken pitch. “Papa, Papa!”
MAX VANDENBURG, AUGUST 1943 There were twigs of hair, just like Liesel thought, and the swampy eyes stepped across, shoulder to shoulder over the other Jews. When they reached her, they pleaded. His beard stroked down his face and his mouth shivered as he said the word, the name, the girl. Liesel.
Standing, he was whipped. “Max,” the girl wept. Then silently, as she was dragged away:
Max. Jewish fist fighter. Inside, she said all of it. Maxi Taxi. That’s what that friend called you in Stuttgart when you fought on the street, remember? Remember, Max? You told me. I remember everything …. That was you—the boy with the hard fists, and you said you would land a punch on death’s face when he came for you. Remember the snowman, Max? Remember? In the basement? Remember the white cloud with the gray heart? The Führer still comes down looking for you sometimes. He misses you. We all miss you. The whip. The whip.
Hands were clamped upon her from behind and the boy next door brought her down. He forced her knees to the road and suffered the penalty. He collected her punches as if they were presents. Her bony hands and elbows were accepted with nothing but a few short moans. He accumulated the loud, clumsy specks of saliva and tears as if they were lovely to his face, and more important, he was able to hold her down.
On Munich Street, a boy and girl were entwined. They were twisted and comfortless on the road. Together, they watched the humans disappear. They watched them dissolve, like moving tablets in the humid air.
For everything. For helping me off the road, for stopping me …
Or had she always loved him?
Books and pages and a happy place.
I don’t want to pray that Max is alive and safe. Or Alex Steiner. Because the world does not deserve them.
THE LAST LETTER Dear Mrs. Hermann, As you can see, I have been in your library again and I have ruined one of your books. I was just so angry and afraid and I wanted to kill the words. I have stolen from you and now I’ve wrecked your property. I’m sorry. To punish myself, I think I will stop coming here. Or is it punishment at all? I love this place and hate it, because it is full of words. You have been a friend to me even though I hurt you, even though I have been insufferable (a word I looked up in your dictionary), and I think I will leave you alone now. I’m sorry for everything. Thank you
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PAGE 42 Papa sat with me tonight. He brought the accordion down and sat close to where Max used to sit. I often look at his fingers and face when he plays. The accordion breathes. There are lines on his cheeks. They look drawn on, and for some reason, when I see them, I want to cry. It is not for any sadness or pride. I just like the way they move and change. Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes.
PAGE 175 A book floated down the Amper River. A boy jumped in, caught up to it, and held it in his right hand. He grinned. He stood waist-deep in the icy, Decemberish water. “How about a kiss, Saumensch?” he said.
THE BOOK THIEF—LAST LINE I have hated the words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right.
At the Steiners’, I ran my fingers through Barbara’s lovely combed hair, I took the serious look from Kurt’s serious sleeping face, and one by one, I kissed the smaller ones good night. Then Rudy.
