The Book Thief

HITLER’S BIRTHDAY, 1940

Against all hopelessness, Liesel checked the letterbox each afternoon, throughout March and well into April. This was despite a Hans-requested visit from Frau Heinrich, who explained to the Hubermanns that the foster care office had lost contact completely with Paula Meminger. Still, the girl persisted, and as you might expect, each day when she searched the mail, there was nothing.

Molching, like the rest of Germany, was in the grip of preparing for Hitler’s birthday. This particular year, with the development of the war and Hitler’s current victorious position, the Nazi partisans of Molching wanted the celebration to be especially befitting. There would be a parade. Marching. Music. Singing. There would be a fire.

While Liesel walked the streets of Molching, picking up and delivering washing and ironing, Nazi Party members were accumulating fuel. A couple of times, Liesel was a witness to men and women knocking on doors, asking people if they had any material that they felt should be done away with or destroyed. Papa’s copy of the Molching Express announced that there would be a celebratory fire in the town square, which would be attended by all local Hitler Youth divisions. It would commemorate not only the Führer’s birthday, but the victory over his enemies, and over the restraints that had held Germany back since the end of the First World War. ‘Any materials,’ it requested, ‘from such times – newspapers, posters, books, flags – and any found propaganda of our enemies should be brought forward to the Nazi Party office on Munich Street.’

Even Schiller Street – the road of yellow stars – which was still awaiting its renovation, was ransacked one last time, to find something, anything, to burn in the name of the Führer’s glory. It would have come as no surprise if certain members of the Party had gone away and published a thousand or so books or posters of poisonous moral matter, simply to incinerate them.

Everything was in place to make April 20 magnificent. It would be a day full of burning and cheering.

And book thievery.

In the Hubermann household that morning, all was now typical.

‘That Saukerl’s looking out the window again,’ cursed Rosa Hubermann. ‘Every day,’ she went on. ‘What are you looking at this time?’

‘Ohh,’ moaned Papa, with delight. The flag cloaked his back from the top of the window. ‘You should have a look at this woman I can see.’ He glanced over his shoulder and grinned at Liesel. ‘I might just go and run after her. She leaves you for dead, Mama.’

‘Schwein!’ She shook the wooden spoon at him.

Papa continued looking out the window, at an imaginary woman and a very real corridor of German flags.

On the streets of Molching that day, each window was decorated for the Führer. In some places, like Frau Diller’s, the glass was vigorously washed, the flag pristine, and the swastika looked like a jewel on a red and white blanket. In others, the flag trundled from the ledge like washing hung out to dry. But it was there.

Earlier, there had been a minor calamity. The Hubermanns couldn’t find their flag.

‘They’ll come for us,’ Mama warned her husband. ‘They’ll come and take us away.’ They. ‘We have to find it!’ At one point it seemed like Papa might have to go down to the basement and paint a flag on one of his drop sheets. Thankfully, it turned up, buried behind the accordion in the cupboard.

‘That infernal accordion, it was blocking my view!’ Mama swivelled. ‘Liesel!’

The girl had the honour of pinning the flag to the window frame.

Later on, Hans Junior and Trudy came home for the afternoon-eating, like they did at Christmas, or Easter. Now seems like a good time to introduce them a little more comprehensively:

Trudy, or Trudel, as she was often known, was only a few centimetres taller than Mama. She had cloned Rosa Hubermann’s unfortunate, waddlesome walking style, but the rest of her was much milder. Being a live-in housemaid in a wealthy part of Munich, she was most likely bored of children, but she was always capable of at least a few smiled words in Liesel’s direction. She had soft lips. A quiet voice.

Hans Junior had the eyes of his father, and the height. The silver in his eyes, however, wasn’t warm, like Papa’s – they’d been Führered. There was more flesh on his bones, too, and he had blond prickly hair and skin like off-white paint.

They came home together on the train from Munich, and it didn’t take long for old tensions to rise up.

A SHORT HISTORY OF HANS HUBERMANN VS HIS SON

‘So have they let you in yet?’ Hans Junior was picking up where they’d left off at Christmas.

‘In what?’

‘Take a guess – the Party.’

‘No, I think they’ve forgotten about me.’

‘Well have you even tried again? You can’t just sit around waiting for the new world to take it with you. You have to go out and be part of it – despite your past mistakes.’

Papa looked up. ‘Mistakes? I’ve made many mistakes in my life, but not joining the Nazi Party isn’t one of them. They still have my application – you know that – but I couldn’t go back to ask. I just …’

That was when a great shiver arrived.

It waltzed through the window with the draught. Perhaps it was the breeze of the Third Reich, gathering even greater strength. Or maybe it was just Europe again, breathing. Either way, it fell across them as their metallic eyes clashed like tin cans in the kitchen.

‘You’ve never cared about this country,’ said Hans Junior. ‘Not enough, anyway.’

Papa’s eyes started corroding. It did not stop Hans Junior. For some reason he looked at the girl. With her three books standing upright on the table, as if in conversation, Liesel was silently mouthing the words as she read from one of them. ‘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.’

But Hans Junior wasn’t finished. He stepped closer and said, ‘You’re either for the Führer or against him – and I can see that you’re against him. You always have been.’ Liesel watched Hans Junior’s face, fixated on the thinness of his lips, and the rocky line of his bottom teeth. ‘It’s pathetic – how a man can stand by and do nothing as a whole nation cleans out the garbage and makes itself great.’

Trudy and Mama sat silently, scaredly, as did Liesel. There was the smell of pea soup, something burning and confrontation.

They were all waiting for the next words.

They came from the son. Just two of them.

‘You coward.’ He upturned them into Papa’s face, and he promptly left the kitchen, and the house.

Ignoring futility, Papa walked to the doorway and called out to his son. ‘Coward? I’m the coward?!’ He then rushed to the gate and ran pleadingly after him. Mama hurried to the window, ripped away the flag and opened it. She, Trudy and Liesel all crowded together, watching a father catch up to his son and grab hold of him, begging him to stop. They could hear nothing, but the manner in which Hans Junior shrugged loose was loud enough. The sight of Papa watching him walk away roared at them from up the street.

‘Hansie!’ Mama finally cried out. Both Trudy and Liesel flinched from her voice. ‘Come back!’

The boy was gone.

Yes, the boy was gone, and I wish I could tell you that everything worked out for the younger Hans Hubermann, but it didn’t.

When he vanished from Himmel Street that day in the name of the Führer, he would hurtle through the events of another story, each step leading tragically to Russia.

To Stalingrad.

SOME FACTS ABOUT STALINGRAD

With his son gone, Hans Hubermann stood for a few moments longer. The street looked so big.

When he reappeared inside, Mama fixed her gaze on him, but no words were exchanged. She didn’t admonish him at all, which, as you know, was highly unusual. Perhaps she decided he was injured enough, having been labelled a coward by his only son.

For a while, he remained silently at the table after the eating was finished. Was he really a coward, as his son had so brutally pointed out? Certainly, in the First World War, he considered himself one. He attributed his survival to it. But then, is there cowardice in the acknowledgement of fear? Is there cowardice in being glad that you lived?

His thoughts crisscrossed the table as he stared into it.

‘Papa?’ Liesel asked, but he did not look at her. ‘What was he talking about? What did he mean when …’

‘Nothing,’ Papa answered. He spoke, quiet and calm, to the table. ‘It’s nothing. Forget about him, Liesel.’ It took perhaps a minute for him to speak again. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting ready?’ He looked at her this time. ‘Don’t you have a bonfire to go to?’

‘Yes, Papa.’

The book thief went and changed into her Hitler Youth uniform, and half an hour later, they left, walking to the BDM headquarters. From there, the children would be taken to the town square in their groups.

Speeches would be made.

A fire would be lit.

A book would be stolen.