The Book Thief

THREE ACTS OF STUPIDITY BY RUDY STEINER

RUDY STEINER, PURE GENIUS

The problem with Rudy’s first act was greed. It was a typically dreary afternoon in mid-November 1941.

Earlier, he’d woven through the women with their coupons quite brilliantly – almost, dare I say it, with a touch of criminal genius. He nearly went completely unnoticed.

Inconspicuous as he was, however, he managed to take hold of the biggest potato of the lot – the very same one that several people in the queue had been watching. They all looked on as a thirteen-year-old fist rose up and grabbed it. A choir of heavy-set Helgas pointed him out, and Thomas Mamer came storming towards the dirty fruit.

‘Meine Erdäpfel,’ he said. ‘My earth apples.’

The potato was still in Rudy’s hands (he couldn’t hold it in just the one), and the women gathered around him like a troupe of wrestlers. Some fast talking was required.

‘My family,’ Rudy explained. A convenient stream of clear fluid began to trickle from his nose. He made a point of not wiping it away. ‘We’re all starving. My sister needed a new coat. The last one was stolen.’

Mamer was no fool. Still holding Rudy by the collar he said, ‘And you plan to dress her with a potato?’

‘No, sir.’ He looked diagonally into the one eye he could see of his captor. Mamer was a barrel of a man, with two small bullet-holes to look out of. His teeth were like a football crowd, crammed in. ‘We traded all our points for the coat three weeks ago and now we have nothing to eat.’

The grocer held Rudy in one hand and the potato in the other. He called out the dreaded word to his wife. ‘Polizei.’

‘No,’ Rudy begged, ‘please.’ He would tell Liesel later on that he was not the slightest bit afraid, but his heart was certainly bursting at that moment, I’m sure. ‘Not the police. Please, not the police.’

‘Polizei.’ Mamer remained unmoved as the boy wriggled and fought with the air.

Also in the queue that afternoon was a teacher, Herr Link. He was in the percentage of teachers at school who were not priests or nuns. Rudy found him and accosted him in the eyes.

‘Herr Link.’ This was his last chance. ‘Herr Link, tell him, please. Tell him how poor I am.’

The grocer looked with enquiring eyes at the teacher.

Herr Link stepped forward and said, ‘Yes, Herr Mamer. This boy is poor. He’s from Himmel Street.’ The crowd of predominantly women conferred at that point, knowing that Himmel Street was not exactly the epitome of idyllic Molching living. It was well known as a relatively poor neighbourhood. ‘He has eight brothers and sisters.’

Eight!

Rudy had to hold back a smile, though he wasn’t in the clear yet. At least he had the teacher lying now. He’d somehow managed to add three more children to the Steiner family.

‘Often he comes to school without breakfast,’ and the crowd of women was conferring again. It was like a coat of paint on the situation, adding a little extra potency and atmosphere.

‘So that means he should be allowed to steal my potatoes?’

‘The biggest one!’ one of the women ejaculated.

‘Keep quiet, Frau Metzing,’ Mamer warned her, and she quickly settled down.

At first, all attention was on Rudy and the scruff of his neck. It then moved back and forth, from the boy to the potato to Mamer – from best-looking to worst – and exactly what made the grocer decide in Rudy’s favour would for ever be unanswered.

Was it the pathetic nature of the boy?

The dignity of Herr Link?

The annoyance of Frau Metzing?

Whatever it was, Mamer dropped the potato back on the pile and dragged Rudy from his premises. He gave him a good push with his right boot and said, ‘Don’t come back.’

From outside, Rudy looked on as Mamer reached the counter to serve his next customer with food and sarcasm. ‘I wonder which potato you’re going to ask for,’ he said, keeping one eye open for the boy.

For Rudy, it was yet another failure.

The second act of stupidity was equally dangerous, but for different reasons. Rudy would finish this particular altercation with a black eye, cracked ribs and a haircut.

Again, at the Hitler Youth meetings, Tommy Muller was having his problems, and Franz Deutscher was just waiting for Rudy to step in. It didn’t take long.

Rudy and Tommy were given another comprehensive drill session while the others went inside to learn tactics. As they ran in the cold they could see the warm heads and shoulders through the windows. Even when they joined the rest of the group, the drills weren’t quite finished. As Rudy slumped into the corner and flicked mud from his sleeve at the window, Franz fired him the Hitler Youth’s favourite question.

‘When was our Führer Adolf Hitler born?’

Rudy looked up. ‘Sorry?’

The question was repeated, and the very stupid Rudy Steiner, who knew all too well that it was April 20 1889, answered with the birth of Christ. He even threw in Bethlehem as an added piece of information.

Franz smeared his hands together.

A very bad sign.

He walked over to Rudy and ordered him back outside for some more laps of the field.

Rudy ran them alone, and after every lap, he was asked again the date of the Führer’s birthday. He did seven laps before he got it right.

The major trouble occurred a few days after the meeting.

On Munich Street, Rudy noticed Deutscher walking along the footpath with some friends and felt the need to throw a rock at him. You might well ask just what the hell he was thinking. The answer is probably nothing at all. He’d probably say that he was exercising his God-given right to stupidity. Either that, or the very sight of Franz Deutscher gave him the urge to destroy himself.

The rock hit its mark on the spine, though not as hard as Rudy might have hoped. Franz Deutscher spun round and looked happy to find him standing there, with Liesel, Tommy, and Tommy’s little sister, Kristina.

‘Let’s run,’ Liesel urged him, but Rudy didn’t move.

‘We’re not at Hitler Youth now,’ he informed her. The older boys had already arrived. Liesel remained next to her friend, as did the twitching Tommy and the delicate Kristina.

‘Mr Steiner,’ Franz declared, before picking him up and throwing him to the pavement.

When Rudy stood up, it only served to infuriate Deutscher even more. He brought him to the ground for a second time, following him down with a knee to the ribcage.

Again, Rudy stood up, and the group of older boys laughed now, at their friend. This was not the best news for Rudy. ‘Can’t you make him feel it?’ the tallest of them said. His eyes were as blue and cold as the sky, and the words were all the incentive Franz needed. He was determined that Rudy would hit the ground and stay there.

A larger crowd made its way around them as Rudy swung at Franz Deutscher’s stomach, missing him completely. Simultaneously, he felt the burning sensation of a fist on his left eye-socket. It arrived with sparks, and he was on the ground before he even realised. He was punched again, in the same place, and he could feel the bruise turn yellow and blue and black all at once. Three layers of exhilarating pain.

The developing crowd gathered and leered, to see if Rudy might get up again. He didn’t. This time, he remained on the cold wet ground, feeling it rise through his clothes and spread itself out.

The sparks were still in his eyes, and he didn’t notice until it was too late that Franz now stood above him with a brand new pocket knife, about to crouch down and cut him.

‘No!’ Liesel protested, but the tall one held her back. In her ear, his words were deep and old.

‘Don’t worry,’ he assured her. ‘He won’t do it. He doesn’t have the guts.’

He was wrong.

Franz merged into a kneeling position as he leaned closer to Rudy and whispered:

‘When was our Führer born?’ Each word was carefully articulated and fed into his ear. ‘Come on, Rudy, when was he born? You can tell me, everything’s fine, don’t be afraid.’

And Rudy?

How did he reply?

Did he respond prudently, or did he allow his stupidity to sink himself deeper into the mire?

He looked happily into the pale blue eyes of Franz Deutscher and answered. ‘Easter Monday.’

Within a few seconds, the knife was applied to his hair. It was Haircut Number Two in this section of Liesel’s life. The hair of a Jew was cut with rusty scissors. Her best friend was taken to with a gleaming knife. She knew nobody who actually paid for a haircut.

As for Rudy, so far this year he’d swallowed mud, bathed himself in fertiliser, been slapped around by a developing criminal, and was now receiving something at least nearing the icing on the cake – public humiliation on Munich Street.

For the most part, his fringe was sliced away freely, but with each stroke, there were always a few hairs that held on for dear life and were pulled out completely. As each one was plucked, Rudy winced, his black eye throbbing in the process, and his ribs flashing in pain.

‘April the twentieth, eighteen eighty-nine!’ Franz lectured him, and when he led his cohorts away, the audience dispersed, leaving only Liesel, Tommy and Kristina with their friend.

Rudy lay quietly on the ground, in the rising damp.

Which leaves us only with stupid act number three – skipping the Hitler Youth meetings.

He didn’t stop going straight away, purely to show Deutscher that he wasn’t afraid of him, but after another few weeks Rudy ceased his involvement altogether.

Dressed proudly in his uniform, he exited Himmel Street and kept walking, his loyal subject, Tommy, by his side.

Instead of attending the Hitler Youth, they walked out of town and along the Amper, skipping stones, heaving enormous rocks into the water and generally getting up to no good. He made sure to get the uniform dirty enough to fool his mother, at least until the first letter arrived. That was when he heard the dreaded call from the kitchen.

First, his parents threatened him. He didn’t attend.

They begged him to go. He refused.

Eventually, it was the opportunity to join a different division that swayed Rudy in the right direction. This was fortunate, because if he didn’t show his face soon, the Steiners would be fined for his non-attendance. His older brother, Kurt, enquired as to whether Rudy might join the Flieger Division, which specialised in the teaching of aircraft and flying. Mostly, they built model aeroplanes, and there was no Franz Deutscher. Rudy accepted, and Tommy also joined. It was the one time in his life that his idiotic behaviour delivered beneficial results.

In his new division, whenever he was asked the famous Führer question, Rudy would smile and answer, ‘April 20 1889,’ and then to Tommy, he’d whisper a different date, like Beethoven’s birthday, or Mozart’s, or Strauss’s. They’d been learning about composers in school where, despite his obvious stupidity, Rudy excelled.