The Book Thief

THE STRUGGLER, CONTINUED

We move forward now, to a cold night struggle. We’ll let the book thief catch up later.

It was November 3 and the floor of the train held on to his feet. In front of him, he read from the copy of Mein Kampf. His saviour. Sweat was swimming out of his hands. Fingermarks clutched the book.

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Behind Max Vandenburg, the city of Stuttgart opened its arms in mockery.

He was not welcome there, and he tried not to look back as the stale bread disintegrated in his stomach. A few times, he shifted again and watched the lights become only a handful and then disappear altogether.

Look proud, he advised himself. You cannot look afraid. Read the book. Smile at it. It’s a great book – the greatest book you’ve ever read. Ignore that woman on the other side. She’s asleep now anyway. Come on, Max, you’re only a few hours away.

As it had turned out, the promised return visit in the room of darkness didn’t take days, it had taken a week and a half. Then another week till the next, and another, until he lost all sense of the passing of days and hours. He was relocated once more, to another small storage room, where there was more light, more visits and more food. Time, however, was running out.

‘I’m leaving soon,’ his friend Walter Kugler told him. ‘You know how it is – the army.’

‘I’m sorry, Walter.’

Walter Kugler, Max’s friend from childhood, placed his hand on the Jew’s shoulder. ‘It could be worse.’ He looked his friend in his Jewish eyes. ‘I could be you.’

That was their last meeting. A final package was left in the corner, and this time there was a ticket. Walter opened Mein Kampf and slid it inside, next to the map he’d brought with the book itself. ‘Page thirteen,’ he smiled, ‘for luck, yes?’

‘For luck,’ and the two of them embraced.

When the door shut, Max opened the book and examined the ticket. Stuttgart to Munich to Pasing. It left in two days, in the night, just in time to make the last connection. From there, he would walk. The map was already in his head, folded in quarters. The key was still taped to the inside cover.

He sat for half an hour before stepping towards the bag and opening it. Apart from food, a few other items sat inside.

THE EXTRA CONTENTS OF WALTER KUGLER’S GIFT

When he left it, the storeroom was empty but for the floor.

‘Goodbye,’ he whispered.

The last thing Max saw was the small mound of hair, sitting casually against the wall.

Goodbye.

With a clean-shaven face and lopsided, yet neatly combed hair, he had walked out of that building a new man. In fact, he walked out German. Hang on a second, he was German. Or more to the point, he had been.

In his stomach was the electric combination of nourishment and nausea.

He walked to the station.

He showed his ticket and identity card, and now, he sat in a small box compartment of the train, directly in danger’s spotlight.

‘Papers.’

That was what he dreaded to hear.

It was bad enough when he was stopped on the platform. He knew he could not withstand it twice.

The shivering hands.

The smell – no, the stench – of guilt.

He simply couldn’t bear it again.

Fortunately, they came through early and only asked for the ticket, and now, all that was left was a window of small towns, the congregations of lights, and the woman snoring on the other side of the compartment.

For most of the journey, he made his way through the book, trying never to look up.

The words lolled about in his mouth.

Strangely, as he turned the pages and progressed through the chapters, it was only two words he ever tasted.

Mein Kampf. My struggle.

The title, over and over again, as the train prattled on, from one German town to the next.

Mein Kampf.

Of all the things to save him.