The Book Thief

THE BREAD EATERS

It had been a long and eventful year in Molching, and it was finally drawing to a close.

Liesel spent the last few months of 1942 consumed by thoughts of what she called three desperate men. She wondered where they were and what they were doing.

One afternoon, she lifted the accordion from its case and polished it with a rag. Only once, just before she put it away, did she take the step that Mama could not. She placed her finger on one of the keys and softly pumped the bellows. Rosa had been right. It only made the room feel emptier.

Whenever she met Rudy, she asked if there had been any word from his father. Sometimes he described to her in detail one of Alex Steiner’s letters. By comparison, the one letter her own papa had sent was something of a disappointment.

Max, of course, was entirely up to her imagination.

It was with great optimism that she envisioned him walking alone on a deserted road. Once in a while she imagined him falling into a doorway of safety somewhere, his identity card enough to fool the right person.

The three men would turn up everywhere.

She saw her papa in the window at school. Max often sat with her by the fire. Alex Steiner arrived when she was with Rudy, staring back at them after they’d slammed the bikes down on Munich Street and looked into the shop.

‘Look at those suits,’ Rudy would say to her, his head and hands against the glass. ‘All going to waste.’

Strangely, one of Liesel’s favourite distractions was Frau Holtzapfel. The reading sessions included Wednesday now as well, and they’d finished the water-abridged version of The Whistler and were onto The Dream Carrier. The old woman sometimes made tea, or gave Liesel some soup that was infinitely better than Mama’s. Less watery.

Between October and December, there had been one more parade of Jews, with one to follow. As on the previous occasion, Liesel had rushed to Munich Street, this time to see if Max Vandenburg was among them. She was torn between the obvious urge to see him – to know that he was still alive – and an absence that could mean any number of things, one of which being freedom.

In mid-December, a small collection of Jews and other miscreants was brought down Munich Street again, to Dachau. Parade number three.

Rudy walked purposefully down Himmel Street and returned from number thirty-five with a small bag and two bikes.

‘You game, Saumensch?’

THE CONTENTS OF RUDY’S BAG

They pedalled ahead of the parade, towards Dachau, and stopped at an empty piece of road. Rudy passed Liesel the bag. ‘Take a handful.’

‘I’m not sure this is a good idea.’

He slapped some bread onto her palm. ‘Your papa did.’

How could she argue? It was worth a whipping.

‘If we’re fast we won’t get caught.’ He started dispersing the bread. ‘So move it, Saumensch.’

Liesel couldn’t help herself. There was the trace of a grin on her face as she and Rudy Steiner, her best friend, distributed the pieces of bread on the road. When they were finished, they took their bikes and hid amongst the Christmas trees.

The road was cold and straight. It wasn’t long till the soldiers came with the Jews.

In the tree shadows, Liesel watched the boy. How things had changed, from fruit stealer to bread giver. His blond hair, although darkening, was like a candle. She heard his stomach growl – and he was giving people bread.

Was this Germany?

Was this Nazi Germany?

The first soldier did not see the bread – he was not hungry – but the first Jew saw it.

His ragged hand reached down and picked a piece up and shoved it deliriously to his mouth.

Is that Max? Liesel thought.

She could not see properly and moved to get a better view.

‘Hey!’ Rudy was livid. ‘Don’t move. If they find us here and match us to the bread, we’re history.’

Liesel continued.

More Jews were bending down and taking bread from the road, and from the edge of the trees, the book thief examined each and every one of them. Max Vandenburg was not there.

Relief was short-lived.

It stirred itself around her just as one of the soldiers noticed a prisoner drop a hand to the road for a piece of bread. Everyone was ordered to stop. The road was closely examined. The prisoners chewed as fast and silently as they could. Collectively, they gulped.

The soldier picked up a few pieces and studied each side of the road. The prisoners also looked.

‘In there!’

One of the soldiers was striding over, to the girl by the closest trees. Next he saw the boy. Both began to run.

They chose different directions, under the rafters of branches and the tall ceiling of the trees.

‘Don’t stop running, Liesel!’

‘What about the bikes?’

‘Scheiss drauf! Shit on them, who cares!’

They ran, and after a hundred metres, the hunched breath of the soldier drew closer. It sidled up next to her and she waited for the accompanying hand.

She was lucky.

All she received was a boot up the arse and a fistful of words. ‘Keep running, little girl, you don’t belong here!’ She ran and she did not stop for at least another mile. Branches sliced her arms. Pine cones rolled at her feet, and the taste of Christmas needles chimed inside her lungs.

A good forty-five minutes had passed by the time she made it back, and Rudy was sitting by the rusty bikes. He’d collected up what was left of the bread and was chewing on a stale, stiff portion.

‘I told you not to get too close,’ he said.

She showed him her backside. ‘Have I got a footprint?’