The Book Thief

FRESH AIR, AN OLD NIGHTMARE, AND WHAT TO DO WITH A JEWISH CORPSE

They were by the Amper River and Liesel had just told Rudy that she was interested in obtaining another book from the mayor’s house. In place of The Whistler, she’d read The Standover Man several times at Max’s bedside. That was only a few minutes per reading. She’d also tried The Shoulder Shrug, even The Gravedigger’s Handbook, but none of it seemed quite right. I want something new, she thought.

‘Did you even read the last one?’

‘Of course I did.’

Rudy threw a stone into the water. ‘Was it any good?’

‘Of course it was.’

‘Of course I did, of course it was.’ He tried to dig another rock out of the ground but cut his finger.

‘That’ll teach you.’

‘Saumensch.’

When a person’s last response was Saumensch or Saukerl or Arschloch, you knew you had them beaten.

In terms of stealing, conditions were perfect. It was a gloomy afternoon early in March and only a few degrees above zero – always more uncomfortable than ten degrees below. Very few people were out on the streets. Rain like grey pencil shavings.

‘Are we going?’

‘Bikes,’ said Rudy. ‘You can use one of ours.’

On this occasion, Rudy was considerably more enthusiastic about being the enterer. ‘Today it’s my turn,’ he said as their fingers froze to the bike handles.

Liesel thought fast. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t, Rudy. There’s stuff all over the place in there. And it’s dark. An idiot like you is bound to trip over or run into something.’

‘Thanks very much.’ In this mood, Rudy was hard to contain.

‘There’s the drop, too. It’s deeper than you think.’

‘Are you saying you don’t think I can do it?’

Liesel stood up on the pedals. ‘Not at all.’

They crossed the bridge and serpentined up the hill to Grande Strasse. The window was open.

Like last time, they surveyed the house. Vaguely, they could see inside, to where a light was on downstairs, in what was probably the kitchen. A shadow moved back and forth.

‘We’ll just ride around the block a few times,’ Rudy said. ‘Lucky we brought the bikes, huh?’

‘Just make sure you remember to take yours home.’

‘Very funny, Saumensch. It’s a bit bigger than your filthy shoes.’

They rode for perhaps fifteen minutes, and still, the mayor’s wife was downstairs, a little too close for comfort. How dare she occupy the kitchen with such vigilance! For Rudy, the kitchen was undoubtedly the actual goal. He’d have gone in, robbed as much food as was physically possible, then if (and only if) he had a last moment to spare, he would stuff a book down his trousers on the way out. Any book would do.

Rudy’s weakness, however, was impatience. ‘It’s getting late,’ he said, and began to ride off. ‘You coming?’

Liesel didn’t come.

There was no decision to be made. She’d lugged that rusty bike all the way up there and she wasn’t leaving without a book. She placed the handlebars in the gutter, looked out for any neighbours and walked to the window. There was good speed but no hurry. This time she took her shoes off using her feet, treading on the heels with her toes.

Her fingers tightened on the wood and she made her way inside.

This time, if only slightly, she felt more at ease. In a few precious moments, she circled the room, looking for a title that grabbed her. On three or four occasions, she nearly reached out. She even considered taking more than one, but again, she didn’t want to abuse what was a kind of system. For now, only one book was necessary. She studied the shelves and waited.

An extra darkness climbed through the window behind her. The smell of dust and theft loitered in the background, and she saw it.

The book was red, with black writing on the spine. Der Traum Träger. The Dream Carrier. She thought of Max Vandenburg and his dreams. Of guilt. Surviving. Leaving his family. Fighting the Führer. She also thought of her own dream – her brother, dead on the train, and his appearance on the steps just around the corner from this very room. The book thief watched his bloodied knee from the shove of her own hand.

She slid the book from the shelf, tucked it under her arm, climbed to the window ledge and jumped out, all in the one motion.

This time, Rudy had her shoes. He had her bike ready. Once the shoes were on, they rode.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Meminger.’ He’d never called her Meminger before. ‘You’re an absolute lunatic. Do you know that?’

Liesel agreed as she pedalled like hell. ‘I know it.’

At the bridge, Rudy summed up the afternoon’s proceedings. ‘Those people are either completely crazy,’ he said, ‘or they just like their fresh air.’

A SMALL SUGGESTION

Liesel placed The Dream Carrier beneath her jacket and began reading it the minute she returned home. In the wooden chair next to her bed, she opened the book and whispered.

‘It’s a new one, Max. Just for you.’ She started reading. ‘Chapter One: It was quite fitting that the entire town was sleeping when the dream carrier was born … ’

Every day, Liesel read two chapters of the book. One in the morning before school, and one as soon as she came home. On certain nights, when she was not able to sleep, she read half of a third chapter as well. Sometimes she would fall asleep slumped forward onto the side of the bed.

It became her mission.

She gave The Dream Carrier to Max as if the words alone could nourish him. On a Tuesday, she thought there was movement. She could have sworn his eyes had opened. If they had, it was only momentarily, and it was more likely just her imagination, and wishful thinking.

By mid-March, the cracks began to appear.

Rosa Hubermann – the good woman for a crisis – was at breaking point one afternoon in the kitchen. She raised her voice, then brought it quickly down. Liesel stopped reading and made her way quietly to the hall. As close as she stood, she could still barely make out her mama’s words. When she was able to hear them, she wished she hadn’t, for what she heard was horrific. It was reality.

THE CONTENTS OF MAMA’S VOICE

She was absolutely right.

A Jewish corpse was a major problem. The Hubermanns needed to revive Max Vandenburg not only for his sake, but for their own. Even Papa, who was always the ultimate calming influence, was feeling the pressure.

‘Look.’ His voice was quiet but heavy. ‘If it happens – if he dies – we’ll simply need to find a way.’ Liesel could have sworn she heard him swallow. A gulp like a blow to the windpipe. ‘My paint cart, some dust sheets …’

Liesel entered the kitchen.

‘Not now, Liesel.’ It was Papa who spoke, though he did not look at her. He was watching his warped face in a turned-over spoon. His elbows were buried into the table.

The book thief did not retreat. She took a few extra steps and sat down. Her cold hands felt for her sleeves and a sentence dropped from her mouth. ‘He’s not dead yet.’ The words landed on the table and positioned themselves in the middle. All three people looked at them. Half-hopes didn’t dare rise any higher. He isn’t dead yet. He isn’t dead yet. It was Rosa who spoke next.

‘Who’s hungry?’

Possibly the only time that Max’s illness didn’t hurt was at dinner. There was no denying it as the three of them sat at the kitchen table with their extra bread, and extra soup or potatoes. They all thought it, but no-one spoke.

In the night, just a few hours later, Liesel awoke and wondered at the height of her heart. (She had learned that expression from The Dream Carrier, which was essentially the complete antithesis of The Whistler – a book about an abandoned child who wanted to be a priest.) She sat up and sucked deeply at the night-time air.

‘Liesel?’ Papa rolled over. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing, Papa, everything’s good,’ but the very moment she’d finished the sentence, she saw exactly what had happened in her dream.

ONE SMALL IMAGE

‘Liesel?’

‘I said everything’s good.’

Shivering, she climbed from the mattress. Stupid with fear, she walked through the hallway to Max. After many minutes at his side, when everything slowed, she attempted to interpret the dream. Was it a premonition of Max’s death? Or was it merely a reaction to the afternoon conversation in the kitchen? Had Max now replaced her brother? And if so, how could she discard her own flesh and blood in such a way? Perhaps it was even a deep-seated wish for Max to die. After all, if it was good enough for Werner, her brother, it was good enough for this Jew.

‘Is that what you think?’ she whispered, standing above the bed. ‘No.’ She could not believe it. Her answer was sustained as the numbness of the dark waned and outlined the various shapes, big and small, on the bedside table. The presents.

‘Wake up,’ she said.

Max did not wake up.

For eight more days.

At school, there was a rapping of knuckles on the door.

‘Come in,’ called Frau Olendrich.

The door opened and the entire classroom of children looked on in surprise as Rosa Hubermann stood in the doorway. One or two gasped at the sight – a small wardrobe of a woman with a lipstick sneer and chlorine eyes. This. Was the legend. She was wearing her best clothes but her hair was a mess, and it was a towel of elastic grey strands.

The teacher was obviously afraid. ‘Frau Hubermann …’ Her movements were cluttered. She searched through the class. ‘Liesel?’

Liesel looked at Rudy, stood, and walked quickly towards the door to end the embarrassment as fast as possible. It shut behind her, and now, she was alone, in the corridor, with Rosa.

Rosa faced the other way.

‘What, Mama?’

She turned. ‘Don’t you what Mama me, you little Saumensch!’ Liesel was gored, by the speed of it. ‘My hairbrush!’ A trickle of laughter rolled from under the door, but it was drawn instantly back.

‘Mama?’

Her face was severe, but it was smiling. ‘What the hell did you do with my hairbrush, you stupid Saumensch, you little thief? I’ve told you a hundred times to leave that thing alone, but do you listen? Of course not!’

The tirade went on for perhaps another minute, with Liesel making a desperate suggestion or two about the possible location of the said brush. It ended abruptly, with Rosa pulling Liesel close, just for a few seconds. Her whisper was almost impossible to hear, even at such close proximity. ‘You told me to yell at you. You said they’d all believe it.’ She looked, left and right, her voice like needle and thread. ‘He woke up, Liesel. He’s awake.’ From her pocket, she pulled out the toy soldier with the scratched exterior. ‘He said to give you this. It was his favourite.’ She handed it over, held her arms tightly and smiled. Before Liesel had a chance to answer, she finished it off. ‘Well? Answer me! Do you have any other idea where you might have left it?’

He’s alive, Liesel thought. ‘… No, Mama. I’m sorry, Mama, I —’

‘Well what good are you then?’ She let go, nodded and walked away.

For a few moments, Liesel stood. The corridor was huge. She examined the soldier in her palm. Instinct told her to run home immediately, but common sense did not allow it. Instead, she placed the ragged soldier in her pocket and returned to the classroom.

Everyone waited.

‘Stupid cow,’ she whispered under her breath.

Again, kids laughed. Frau Olendrich did not.

‘What was that?’

Liesel was on such a high that she felt indestructible. ‘I said’ – she beamed – ‘stupid cow,’ and she didn’t have to wait a single moment for the teacher’s hand to slap her cheek.

‘Don’t speak about your mother like that,’ she said, but it had little effect. The girl merely stood there and attempted to hold off the grin. After all, she could absorb a Watschen with the best of them. ‘Now get to your seat.’

‘Yes, Frau Olendrich.’

Next to her, Rudy dared to speak.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ he whispered, ‘I can see her hand on your face. A big red hand. Five fingers!’

‘Good,’ said Liesel, because Max was alive.

When she made it home that afternoon, he was sitting up in bed with the deflated football on his lap. His beard itched him and his swampy eyes fought to stay open. An empty bowl of soup was next to the gifts.

They did not say hello.

It was more like edges.

The door creaked, the girl came in, and she stood before him, looking at the bowl. ‘Is Mama forcing it down your throat?’

He nodded, content, fatigued. ‘It was very good, though.’

‘Mama’s soup? Really?’

It was not a smile he gave her. ‘Thank you for the presents.’ More just a slight tear of the mouth. ‘Thank you for the cloud. Your papa explained that one a little further.’

After an hour, Liesel also made an attempt at the truth. ‘We didn’t know what we’d do if you’d died, Max. We—’

It didn’t take him long. ‘You mean, how to get rid of me?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘No.’ He was not offended. ‘You were right.’ He played weakly with the ball. ‘You were right to think that way. In your situation, a dead Jew is just as dangerous as a live one, if not worse.’

‘I also dreamed.’ In detail, she explained it, with the soldier in her grip. She was on the verge of apologising again when Max intervened.

‘Liesel.’ He made her look at him. ‘Don’t ever apologise to me. It should be me who apologises to you.’ He looked at everything she’d brought him. ‘Look at all this. These gifts.’ He held the button in his hand. ‘And Rosa said you read to me twice every day, sometimes more.’ Now he looked at the curtains as if he could see out of them. He sat up a little higher and paused for a dozen silent sentences. Trepidation found its way onto his face and he made a confession to the girl. ‘Liesel?’ He moved slightly to the right. ‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘of falling asleep again.’

Liesel was resolute. ‘Then I’ll read to you. And I’ll slap your face if you start dozing off. I’ll close the book and shake you till you wake up.’

That afternoon, and well into the night, Liesel read to Max Vandenburg. He sat in bed and absorbed the words, awake this time, until just after ten o’clock. When Liesel took a quick rest, she looked over the book and Max was asleep. Nervously, she nudged him with it. He awoke.

Another three times, he fell asleep. Twice more, she woke him.

For the next four days, he woke up every morning in Liesel’s bed, then next to the fireplace, and eventually, by mid-April, in the basement. His health had improved, the beard was gone, and small scraps of weight had returned.

In Liesel’s inside world, there was great relief in that time. Outside, things were starting to look shaky. Late in March, a place called Lübeck was hailed with bombs. Next in line would be Cologne, and soon enough, many more German cities, including Munich.

Yes, the boss was at my shoulder.

‘Get it done, get it done.’

The bombs were coming – and so was I.