The Book Thief

THE WAY HOME

Mein Kampf.

The book penned by the Führer himself.

It was the third book of great importance to reach Liesel Meminger, only this time, she did not steal it. The book showed up at 33 Himmel Street perhaps an hour after Liesel had drifted back to sleep from her obligatory nightmare.

Some would say it was a miracle that she ever owned that book at all.

Its journey began on the way home, the night of the fire.

They were nearly halfway back to Himmel Street when Liesel could no longer take it. She bent over and removed the smoking book, allowing it to hop sheepishly from hand to hand.

When it had cooled sufficiently, they both watched it a moment, waiting for the words.

Papa: ‘What the hell do you call that?’

He reached over and grabbed hold of The Shoulder Shrug. No explanation was required. It was obvious that the girl had stolen it from the fire. The book was hot and wet, blue and red – embarrassed – and Hans Hubermann opened it up. Pages thirty-eight and thirty-nine. ‘Another one?’

Liesel rubbed her ribs.

Yes.

Another one.

‘Looks like,’ Papa suggested, ‘I don’t need to trade any more cigarettes, do I? Not when you’re stealing these things as fast as I can buy them.’

Liesel, by comparison, did not speak. Perhaps it was her first realisation that criminality spoke best for itself. Irrefutable.

Papa studied the title, probably wondering exactly what kind of threat this book posed to the hearts and minds of the German people. He handed it back. Something happened.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph.’ Each word fell away at its edges. It broke off and formed the next.

The criminal could no longer resist. ‘What, Papa? What is it?’

‘Of course.’

Like most humans in the grip of revelation, Hans Hubermann stood with a certain numbness. The next words would either be shouted, or would not make it past his teeth. Also, they would most likely be a repetition of the last thing he’d said, only moments earlier.

‘Of course.’

This time, his voice was like a fist, freshly banged on the table.

The man was seeing something. He was watching it quickly, end to end, like a race, but it was too high and too far away for Liesel to see. She begged him. ‘Come on, Papa, what is it?’ She fretted that he would tell Mama about the book. As humans do, this was all about her. ‘Are you going to tell?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You know. Are you going to tell Mama?’

Hans Hubermann still watched, tall and distant. ‘About what?’

She raised the book. ‘This.’ She brandished it in the air, as if waving a gun.

Papa was bewildered. ‘Why would I?’

She hated questions like that. They forced her to admit an ugly truth, to reveal her own filthy, thieving nature. ‘Because I stole again.’

Papa bent himself to a crouching position, then rose and placed his hand on her head. He stroked her hair with his rough long fingers and said, ‘Of course not, Liesel. You are safe.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

That was the question.

What marvellous act was Hans Hubermann about to produce from the thin Munich Street air?

Before I show you, I think we should first take a look at what he was seeing prior to his decision.

PAPA’S FAST-PACED VISIONS

‘Listen, Liesel.’ Papa placed his arm around her and walked her on. ‘This is our secret, this book. We’ll read it at night, or in the basement, just like the others – but you have to promise me something.’

‘Anything, Papa.’

The night was smooth and still. Everything listened. ‘If I ever ask you to keep a secret for me, you will do it.’

‘I promise.’

‘Good. Now come on. If we’re any later, Mama will kill us, and we don’t want that, do we? No more book-stealing then, huh?’

Liesel grinned.

What she didn’t know until later was that, within the next few days, her foster father managed to trade some cigarettes for another book, only this time it was not for her. He knocked on the door of the Nazi Party office in Molching and took the opportunity to ask about his membership application. Once this was discussed, he proceeded to give them his last scraps of money and a dozen cigarettes. In return, he received a used copy of Mein Kampf.

‘Happy reading,’ said one of the Party members.

‘Thank you,’ nodded Hans.

From the street, he could still hear the men inside. One of the voices was particularly clear. ‘He will never be approved,’ it said, ‘even if he buys a hundred copies of Mein Kampf.’ The statement was unanimously agreed upon.

Hans held the book in his right hand, thinking about postage money, a cigaretteless existence and the foster daughter who had given him this brilliant idea.

‘Thank you,’ he repeated, to which a passer-by enquired as to what he’d said.

With typical affability, Hans replied, ‘Nothing, my good man, nothing at all. Heil Hitler,’ and he walked down Munich Street, holding the pages of the Führer.

There must have been a good share of mixed feelings at that moment, for Hans Hubermann’s idea had not only sprung from Liesel, but from his son. Did he already fear he’d never see him again? On the other hand, he was also enjoying the ecstasy of an idea, not daring just yet to envision its complications, dangers and vicious absurdities. For now, the idea was enough. It was indestructible. Transforming it into reality, well, that was something else altogether. For now, though, let’s let him enjoy it.

We’ll give him seven months.

Then we come for him.

And, oh, how we come.