The Book Thief

A GOOD GIRL

In November 1940, when Max Vandenburg arrived in the kitchen of 33 Himmel Street, he was twenty-four. His clothes seemed to weigh him down and his tiredness was such that an itch could break him in two. He stood shaking and shaken, in the doorway.

‘Do you still play the accordion?’

Of course, the question was really, ‘Will you still help me?’

Liesel’s papa walked to the front door and opened it. Cautiously, he looked outside, each way, and returned. The verdict was ‘Nothing.’

Max Vandenburg, the Jew, closed his eyes and drooped a little further into safety. The very idea of it was ludicrous, but he accepted it none the less.

Hans checked that the curtains were properly closed. Not a crack could be showing. As he did so, Max could no longer bear it. He crouched down and clasped his hands.

The darkness stroked him.

His fingers smelled of suitcase, metal, Mein Kampf and survival.

It was only when he lifted his head that the dim light from the hallway reached his eyes. He noticed the pyjamaed girl, standing there, in full view.

‘Papa?’

Max stood up, like a struck match. The darkness swelled now, around him.

‘Everything’s fine, Liesel,’ Papa said. ‘Go back to bed.’

She lingered a moment before her feet dragged from behind. When she stopped and stole one last look at the foreigner in the kitchen, she could decipher the outline of a book on the table.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ she heard Papa whisper. ‘She’s a good girl.’

For the next hour, the good girl lay wide awake in bed, listening to the quiet fumbling of sentences in the kitchen.

One wildcard was yet to be played.