The Book Thief – by Markus Zusak

 

THE TOWN WALKER

The rot started with the washing and it rapidly increased.

When Liesel accompanied Rosa Hubermann on her deliveries across Molching, one of her customers, Ernst Vogel, informed them that he could no longer afford to have his washing and ironing done. "The times," he excused himself, "what can I say? They're getting harder. The war's making things tight." He looked at the girl. "I'm sure you get an allowance for keeping the little one, don't you?"

To Liesel's dismay, Mama was speechless.

An empty bag was at her side.

Come on, Liesel.

It was not said. It was pulled along, rough-handed.

Vogel called out from his front step. He was perhaps five foot nine and his greasy scraps of hair swung lifelessly across his forehead. "I'm sorry, Frau Hubermann!"

Liesel waved at him.

He waved back.

Mama castigated.

"Don't wave to that Arschloch," she said. "Now hurry up."

That night, when Liesel had a bath, Mama scrubbed her especially hard, muttering the whole time about that Vogel Saukerl and imitating him at two-minute intervals. " 'You must get an allowance for the girl. . . .' " She berated Liesel's naked chest as she scrubbed away. "You're not worth that much, Saumensch. You're not making me rich, you know."

Liesel sat there and took it.

Not more than a week after that particular incident, Rosa hauled her into the kitchen. "Right, Liesel." She sat her down at the table. "Since you spend half your time on the street playing soccer, you can make yourself useful out there. For a change."

Liesel watched only her own hands. "What is it, Mama?"

"From now on you're going to pick up and deliver the washing for me. Those rich people are less likely to fire us if you're the one standing in front of them. If they ask you where I am, tell them I'm sick. And look sad when you tell them. You're skinny and pale enough to get their pity."

"Herr Vogel didn't pity me."

"Well . . ." Her agitation was obvious. "The others might. So don't argue."

"Yes, Mama."

For a moment, it appeared that her foster mother would comfort her or pat her on the shoulder.

Good girl, Liesel. Good girl. Pat, pat, pat.

She did no such thing.

Instead, Rosa Hubermann stood up, selected a wooden spoon, and held it under Liesel's nose. It was a necessity as far as she was concerned. "When you're out on that street, you take the bag to each place and you bring it straight home, with the money, even though it's next to nothing. No going to Papa if he's actually working for once. No mucking around with that little Saukerl, Rudy Steiner. Straight. Home."

"Yes, Mama."

"And when you hold that bag, you hold it properly. You don't swing it, drop it, crease it, or throw it over your shoulder."

"Yes, Mama."

"Yes, Mama." Rosa Hubermann was a great imitator, and a fervent one. "You'd better not, Saumensch. I'll find out if you do; you know that, don't you?"

"Yes, Mama."

Saying those two words was often the best way to survive, as was doing what she was told, and from there, Liesel walked the streets of Molching, from the poor end to the rich, picking up and delivering the washing. At first, it was a solitary job, which she never complained about. After all, the very first time she took the sack through town, she turned the corner onto Munich Street, looked both ways, and gave it one enormous swing—a whole revolution—and then checked the contents inside. Thankfully, there were no creases. No wrinkles. Just a smile, and a promise never to swing it again.

Overall, Liesel enjoyed it. There was no share of the pay, but she was out of the house, and walking the streets without Mama was heaven in itself. No finger-pointing or cursing. No people staring at them as she was sworn at for holding the bag wrong. Nothing but serenity.

She came to like the people, too:

• The Pfaffelhürvers, inspecting the clothes and saying, "Ja, ja, sehr gut, sehr gut." Liesel imagined that they did everything twice.

• Gentle Helena Schmidt, handing the money over with an arthritic curl of the hand.

• The Weingartners, whose bent-whiskered cat always answered the door with them. Little Goebbels, that's what they called him, after Hitler's right-hand man.

• And Frau Hermann, the mayor's wife, standing fluffy-haired and shivery in her enormous, cold-aired doorway. Always silent. Always alone. No words, not once.

Sometimes Rudy came along.

"How much money do you have there?" he asked one afternoon. It was nearly dark and they were walking onto Himmel Street, past the shop. "You've heard about Frau Diller, haven't you? They say she's got candy hidden somewhere, and for the right price . . ."

"Don't even think about it." Liesel, as always, was gripping the money hard. "It's not so bad for you—you don't have to face my mama."

Rudy shrugged. "It was worth a try."

In the middle of January, schoolwork turned its attention to letter writing. After learning the basics, each student was to write two letters, one to a friend and one to somebody in another class.

Liesel's letter from Rudy went like this:

Dear Saumensch,

Are you still as useless at soccer as you were the last time we

played? I hope so. That means I can run past you again just like

Jesse Owens at the Olympics. . . .

 

When Sister Maria found it, she asked him a question, very amiably.

SISTER MARIA'S OFFER

"Do you feel like visiting the corridor, Mr. Steiner?"

 

Needless to say, Rudy answered in the negative, and the paper was torn up and he started again. The second attempt was written to someone named Liesel and inquired as to what her hobbies might be.

At home, while completing a letter for homework, Liesel decided that writing to Rudy or some other Saukerl was actually ridiculous. It meant nothing. As she wrote in the basement, she spoke over to Papa, who was repainting the wall again.

Both he and the paint fumes turned around. "Was wuistz?" Now this was the roughest form of German a person could speak, but it was spoken with an air of absolute pleasantness. "Yeah, what?"

"Would I be able to write a letter to Mama?"

A pause.

"What do you want to write a letter to her for? You have to put up with her every day." Papa was schmunzeling—a sly smile. "Isn't that bad enough?"

"Not that mama." She swallowed.

"Oh." Papa returned to the wall and continued painting. "Well, I guess so. You could send it to what's-her-name—the one who brought you here and visited those few times—from the foster people."

"Frau Heinrich."

"That's right. Send it to her. Maybe she can send it on to your mother." Even at the time, he sounded unconvincing, as if he wasn't telling Liesel something. Word of her mother had also been tight-lipped on Frau Heinrich's brief visits.

Instead of asking him what was wrong, Liesel began writing immediately, choosing to ignore the sense of foreboding that was quick to accumulate inside her. It took three hours and six drafts to perfect the letter, telling her mother all about Molching, her papa and his accordion, the strange but true ways of Rudy Steiner, and the exploits of Rosa Hubermann. She also explained how proud she was that she could now read and write a little. The next day, she posted it at Frau Diller's with a stamp from the kitchen drawer. And she began to wait.

The night she wrote the letter, she overheard a conversation between Hans and Rosa.

"What's she doing writing to her mother?" Mama was saying. Her voice was surprisingly calm and caring. As you can imagine, this worried the girl a great deal. She'd have preferred to hear them arguing. Whispering adults hardly inspired confidence.

"She asked me," Papa answered, "and I couldn't say no. How could I?"

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph." Again with the whisper. "She should just forget her. Who knows where she is? Who knows what they've done to her?"

In bed, Liesel hugged herself tight. She balled herself up.

She thought of her mother and repeated Rosa Hubermann's questions.

Where was she?

What had they done to her?

And once and for all, who, in actual fact, were they?

 

 

DEAD LETTERS

Flash forward to the basement, September 1943.

A fourteen-year-old girl is writing in a small dark-covered book. She is bony but strong and has seen many things. Papa sits with the accordion at his feet.

He says, "You know, Liesel? I nearly wrote you a reply and signed your mother's name." He scratches his leg, where the plaster used to be. "But I couldn't. I couldn't bring myself."

Several times, through the remainder of January and the entirety of February 1940, when Liesel searched the mailbox for a reply to her letter, it clearly broke her foster father's heart. "I'm sorry," he would tell her. "Not today, huh?" In hindsight, she saw that the whole exercise had been pointless. Had her mother been in a position to do so, she would have already made contact with the foster care people, or directly with the girl, or the Hubermanns. But there had been nothing.

To lend insult to injury, in mid-February, Liesel was given a letter from another ironing customer, the Pfaffelhürvers, from Heide Strasse. The pair of them stood with great tallness in the doorway, giving her a melancholic regard. "For your mama," the man said, handing her the envelope. "Tell her we're sorry. Tell her we're sorry."

That was not a good night in the Hubermann residence.

Even when Liesel retreated to the basement to write her fifth letter to her mother (all but the first one yet to be sent), she could hear Rosa swearing and carrying on about those Pfaffelhürver Arschlöcher and that lousy Ernst Vogel.

"Feuer soll'n's brunzen für einen Monat!" she heard her call out. Translation: "They should all piss fire for a month!"

Liesel wrote.

When her birthday came around, there was no gift. There was no gift because there was no money, and at the time, Papa was out of tobacco.

"I told you." Mama pointed a finger at him. "I told you not to give her both books at Christmas. But no. Did you listen? Of course not!"

"I know!" He turned quietly to the girl. "I'm sorry, Liesel. We just can't afford it."

Liesel didn't mind. She didn't whine or moan or stamp her feet. She simply swallowed the disappointment and decided on one calculated risk—a present from herself. She would gather all of the accrued letters to her mother, stuff them into one envelope, and use just a tiny portion of the washing and ironing money to mail it. Then, of course, she would take the Watschen, most likely in the kitchen, and she would not make a sound.

Three days later, the plan came to fruition.

"Some of it's missing." Mama counted the money a fourth time, with Liesel over at the stove. It was warm there and it cooked the fast flow of her blood. "What happened, Liesel?"

She lied. "They must have given me less than usual."

"Did you count it?"

She broke. "I spent it, Mama."

Rosa came closer. This was not a good sign. She was very close to the wooden spoons. "You what?"

Before she could answer, the wooden spoon came down on Liesel Meminger's body like the gait of God. Red marks like footprints, and they burned. From the floor, when it was over, the girl actually looked up and explained.

There was pulse and yellow light, all together. Her eyes blinked. "I mailed my letters."

What came to her then was the dustiness of the floor, the feeling that her clothes were more next to her than on her, and the sudden realization that this would all be for nothing—that her mother would never write back and she would never see her again. The reality of this gave her a second Watschen. It stung her, and it did not stop for many minutes.

Above her, Rosa appeared to be smudged, but she soon clarified as her cardboard face loomed closer. Dejected, she stood there in all her plumpness, holding the wooden spoon at her side like a club. She reached down and leaked a little. "I'm sorry, Liesel."

Liesel knew her well enough to understand that it was not for the hiding.

The red marks grew larger, in patches on her skin, as she lay there, in the dust and the dirt and the dim light. Her breathing calmed, and a stray yellow tear trickled down her face. She could feel herself against the floor. A forearm, a knee. An elbow. A cheek. A calf muscle.

The floor was cold, especially against her cheek, but she was unable to move.

She would never see her mother again.

For nearly an hour, she remained, spread out under the kitchen table, till Papa came home and played the accordion. Only then did she sit up and start to recover.

When she wrote about that night, she held no animosity toward Rosa Hubermann at all, or toward her mother for that matter. To her, they were only victims of circumstance. The only thought that continually recurred was the yellow tear. Had it been dark, she realized, that tear would have been black.

But it was dark, she told herself.

No matter how many times she tried to imagine that scene with the yellow light that she knew had been there, she had to struggle to visualize it. She was beaten in the dark, and she had remained there, on a cold, dark kitchen floor. Even Papa's music was the color of darkness.

Even Papa's music.

The strange thing was that she was vaguely comforted by that thought, rather than distressed by it.

The dark, the light.

What was the difference?

Nightmares had reinforced themselves in each, as the book thief began to truly understand how things were and how they would always be. If nothing else, she could prepare herself. Perhaps that's why on the Führer 's birthday, when the answer to the question of her mother's suffering showed itself completely, she was able to react, despite her perplexity and her rage.

Liesel Meminger was ready.

Happy birthday, Herr Hitler.

Many happy returns.

 

 

HITLER'S BIRTHDAY, 1940

Against all hopelessness, Liesel still checked the mailbox each afternoon, throughout March and well into April. This was despite a Hans-requested visit from Frau Heinrich, who explained to the Hubermanns that the foster care office had lost contact completely with Paula Meminger. Still, the girl persisted, and as you might expect, each day, when she searched the mail, there was nothing.

Molching, like the rest of Germany, was in the grip of preparing for Hitler's birthday. This particular year, with the development of the war and Hitler's current victorious position, the Nazi partisans of Molching wanted the celebration to be especially befitting. There would be a parade. Marching. Music. Singing. There would be a fire.

While Liesel walked the streets of Molching, picking up and delivering washing and ironing, Nazi Party members were accumulating fuel. A couple of times, Liesel was a witness to men and women knocking on doors, asking people if they had any material that they felt should be done away with or destroyed. Papa's copy of the Molching Express announced that there would be a celebratory fire in the town square, which would be attended by all local Hitler Youth divisions. It would commemorate not only the Führer's birthday, but the victory over his enemies and over the restraints that had held Germany back since the end of World War I. "Any materials," it requested, "from such times—newspapers, posters, books, flags—and any found propaganda of our enemies should be brought forward to the Nazi Party office on Munich Street." Even Schiller Strasse—the road of yellow stars—which was still awaiting its renovation, was ransacked one last time, to find something, anything, to burn in the name of the Führer's glory. It would have come as no surprise if certain members of the party had gone away and published a thousand or so books or posters of poisonous moral matter simply to incinerate them.

Everything was in place to make April 20 magnificent. It would be a day full of burning and cheering.

And book thievery.

In the Hubermann household that morning, all was typical.

"That Saukerl 's looking out the window again," cursed Rosa Hubermann. "Every day," she went on. "What are you looking at this time?"

"Ohhh," moaned Papa with delight. The flag cloaked his back from the top of the window. "You should have a look at this woman I can see." He glanced over his shoulder and grinned at Liesel. "I might just go and run after her. She leaves you for dead, Mama."

"Schwein!" She shook the wooden spoon at him.

Papa continued looking out the window, at an imaginary woman and a very real corridor of German flags.

On the streets of Molching that day, each window was decorated for the Führer. In some places, like Frau Diller's, the glass was vigorously washed, and the swastika looked like a jewel on a red-and-white blanket. In others, the flag trundled from the ledge like washing hung out to dry. But it was there.

Earlier, there had been a minor calamity. The Hubermanns couldn't find their flag.

"They'll come for us," Mama warned her husband. "They'll come and take us away." They. "We have to find it!" At one point, it seemed like Papa might have to go down to the basement and paint a flag on one of his drop sheets. Thankfully, it turned up, buried behind the accordion in the cupboard.

"That infernal accordion, it was blocking my view!" Mama swiveled. "Liesel!"

The girl had the honor of pinning the flag to the window frame.

Hans Junior and Trudy came home for the afternoon eating, like they did at Christmas or Easter. Now seems like a good time to introduce them a little more comprehensively:

Hans Junior had the eyes of his father and the height. The silver in his eyes, however, wasn't warm, like Papa's—they'd been Führer ed. There was more flesh on his bones, too, and he had prickly blond hair and skin like off-white paint.

Trudy, or Trudel, as she was often known, was only a few inches taller than Mama. She had cloned Rosa Hubermann's unfortunate, waddlesome walking style, but the rest of her was much milder. Being a live-in housemaid in a wealthy part of Munich, she was most likely bored of children, but she was always capable of at least a few smiled words in Liesel's direction. She had soft lips. A quiet voice.

They came home together on the train from Munich, and it didn't take long for old tensions to rise up.

A SHORT HISTORY OF

HANS HUBERMANN VS. HIS SON

 

The young man was a Nazi; his father was not. In the opinion of Hans Junior, his father was part of an old, decrepit Germany— one that allowed everyone else to take it for the proverbial ride while its own people suffered. As a teenager, he was aware that

his father had been called "Der Fuden Maler"—the Jew painter—for painting Jewish houses. Then came an incident I'll fully present to you soon enough—the day Hans blew it, on the verge of joining the party. Everyone knew you weren't supposed to paint over slurs written on a Jewish shop front. Such behavior

was bad for Germany, and it was bad for the transgressor.

"So have they let you in yet?" Hans Junior was picking up where they'd left off at Christmas.

"In what?"

"Take a guess—the party."

"No, I think they've forgotten about me."

"Well, have you even tried again? You can't just sit around waiting for the new world to take it with you. You have to go out and be part of it—despite your past mistakes."

Papa looked up. "Mistakes? I've made many mistakes in my life, but not joining the Nazi Party isn't one of them. They still have my application—you know that—but I couldn't go back to ask. I just . . ."

That was when a great shiver arrived.

It waltzed through the window with the draft. Perhaps it was the breeze of the Third Reich, gathering even greater strength. Or maybe it was just Europe again, breathing. Either way, it fell across them as their metallic eyes clashed like tin cans in the kitchen.

"You've never cared about this country," said Hans Junior. "Not enough, anyway."

Papa's eyes started corroding. It did not stop Hans Junior. He looked now for some reason at the girl. With her three books standing upright on the table, as if in conversation, Liesel was silently mouthing the words as she read from one of them. "And what trash is this girl reading? She should be reading Mein Kampf. "

Liesel looked up.

"Don't worry, Liesel," Papa said. "Just keep reading. He doesn't know what he's saying."

But Hans Junior wasn't finished. He stepped closer and said, "You're either for the Führer or against him—and I can see that you're against him. You always have been." Liesel watched Hans Junior in the face, fixated on the thinness of his lips and the rocky line of his bottom teeth. "It's pathetic—how a man can stand by and do nothing as a whole nation cleans out the garbage and makes itself great."

Trudy and Mama sat silently, scaredly, as did Liesel. There was the smell of pea soup, something burning, and confrontation.

They were all waiting for the next words.

They came from the son. Just two of them.

"You coward." He upturned them into Papa's face, and he promptly left the kitchen, and the house.

Ignoring futility, Papa walked to the doorway and called out to his son. "Coward? I'm the coward?!" He then rushed to the gate and ran pleadingly after him. Mama hurried to the window, ripped away the flag, and opened up. She, Trudy, and Liesel all crowded together, watching a father catch up to his son and grab hold of him, begging him to stop. They could hear nothing, but the manner in which Hans Junior shrugged loose was loud enough. The sight of Papa watching him walk away roared at them from up the street.

"Hansi!" Mama finally cried out. Both Trudy and Liesel flinched from her voice. "Come back!"

The boy was gone.

Yes, the boy was gone, and I wish I could tell you that everything worked out for the younger Hans Hubermann, but it didn't.

When he vanished from Himmel Street that day in the name of the Führer, he would hurtle through the events of another story, each step leading tragically to Russia.

To Stalingrad.

SOME FACTS ABOUT STALINGRAD

 

1. In 1942 and early '43, in that city, the sky was bleached bedsheet-white each morning.

2. All day long, as I carried the souls across it, that sheet was splashed with blood, until it was full and bulging to the earth.

3. In the evening, it would be wrung out and bleached again, ready for the next dawn.

4. And that was when the fighting was only during the day.

With his son gone, Hans Hubermann stood for a few moments longer. The street looked so big.

When he reappeared inside, Mama fixed her gaze on him, but no words were exchanged. She didn't admonish him at all, which, as you know, was highly unusual. Perhaps she decided he was injured enough, having been labeled a coward by his only son.

For a while, he remained silently at the table after the eating was finished. Was he really a coward, as his son had so brutally pointed out? Certainly, in World War I, he considered himself one. He attributed his survival to it. But then, is there cowardice in the acknowledgment of fear? Is there cowardice in being glad that you lived?

His thoughts crisscrossed the table as he stared into it.

"Papa?" Liesel asked, but he did not look at her. "What was he talking about? What did he mean when . . ."

"Nothing," Papa answered. He spoke quiet and calm, to the table. "It's nothing. Forget about him, Liesel." It took perhaps a minute for him to speak again. "Shouldn't you be getting ready?" He looked at her this time. "Don't you have a bonfire to go to?"

"Yes, Papa."

The book thief went and changed into her Hitler Youth uniform, and half an hour later, they left, walking to the BDM headquarters. From there, the children would be taken to the town square in their groups.

Speeches would be made.

A fire would be lit.

A book would be stolen.