The Book Thief – by Markus Zusak

 

THE SOUND OF SIRENS

With the small collection of money Hans had earned in the summer, he brought home a secondhand radio. "This way," he said, "we can hear when the raids are coming even before the sirens start. They make a cuckoo sound and then announce the regions at risk."

He placed it on the kitchen table and switched it on. They also tried to make it work in the basement, for Max, but there was nothing but static and severed voices in the speakers.

In September, they did not hear it as they slept.

Either the radio was already half broken, or it was swallowed immediately by the crying sound of sirens.

A hand was shoved gently at Liesel's shoulder as she slept.

Papa's voice followed it in, afraid.

"Liesel, wake up. We have to go."

There was the disorientation of interrupted sleep, and Liesel could barely decipher the outline of Papa's face. The only thing truly visible was his voice.

In the hallway, they stopped.

"Wait," said Rosa.

Through the dark, they rushed to the basement.

The lamp was lit.

Max edged out from behind the paint cans and drop sheets. His face was tired and he hitched his thumbs nervously into his pants. "Time to go, huh?"

Hans walked to him. "Yes, time to go." He shook his hand and slapped his arm. "We'll see you when we get back, right?"

"Of course."

Rosa hugged him, as did Liesel.

"Goodbye, Max."

Weeks earlier, they'd discussed whether they should all stay together in their own basement or if the three of them should go down the road, to a family by the name of Fiedler. It was Max who convinced them. "They said it's not deep enough here. I've already put you in enough danger."

Hans had nodded. "It's a shame we can't take you with us. It's a disgrace."

"It's how it is."

Outside, the sirens howled at the houses, and the people came running, hobbling, and recoiling as they exited their homes. Night watched. Some people watched it back, trying to find the tin-can planes as they drove across the sky.

Himmel Street was a procession of tangled people, all wrestling with their most precious possessions. In some cases, it was a baby. In others, a stack of photo albums or a wooden box. Liesel carried her books, between her arm and her ribs. Frau Holtzapfel was heaving a suitcase, laboring on the footpath with bulbous eyes and small-stepped feet.

Papa, who'd forgotten everything—even his accordion—rushed back to her and rescued the suitcase from her grip. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what have you got in here?" he asked. "An anvil?"

Frau Holtzapfel advanced alongside him. "The necessities."

The Fiedlers lived six houses down. They were a family of four, all with wheat-colored hair and good German eyes. More important, they had a nice, deep basement. Twenty-two people crammed themselves into it, including the Steiner family, Frau Holtzapfel, Pfiffikus, a young man, and a family named Jenson. In the interest of a civil environment, Rosa Hubermann and Frau Holtzapfel were kept separated, though some things were above petty arguments.

One light globe dangled from the ceiling and the room was dank and cold. Jagged walls jutted out and poked people in the back as they stood and spoke. The muffled sound of sirens leaked in from somewhere. They could hear a distorted version of them that somehow found a way inside. Although creating considerable apprehension about the quality of the shelter, at least they could hear the three sirens that would signal the end of the raid and safety. They didn't need a Luftschutzwart—an air-raid supervisor.

It wasn't long before Rudy found Liesel and was standing next to her. His hair was pointing at something on the ceiling. "Isn't this great?"

She couldn't resist some sarcasm. "It's lovely."

"Ah, come on, Liesel, don't be like that. What's the worst that can happen, apart from all of us being flattened or fried or whatever bombs do?"

Liesel looked around, gauging the faces. She started compiling a list of who was most afraid.

THE HIT LIST

1. Frau Holtzapfel

2. Mr. Fiedler

3. The young man

4. Rosa Hubermann

Frau Holtzapfel's eyes were trapped open. Her wiry frame was stooped forward, and her mouth was a circle. Herr Fiedler busied himself by asking people, sometimes repeatedly, how they were feeling. The young man, Rolf Schultz, kept to himself in the corner, speaking silently at the air around him, castigating it. His hands were cemented into his pockets. Rosa rocked back and forth, ever so gently. "Liesel," she whispered, "come here." She held the girl from behind, tightening her grip. She sang a song, but it was so quiet that Liesel could not make it out. The notes were born on her breath, and they died at her lips. Next to them, Papa remained quiet and motionless. At one point, he placed his warm hand on Liesel's cool skull. You'll live, it said, and it was right.

To their left, Alex and Barbara Steiner stood with the younger of their children, Emma and Bettina. The two girls were attached to their mother's right leg. The oldest boy, Kurt, stared ahead in a perfect Hitler Youth stance, holding the hand of Karin, who was tiny, even for her seven years. The ten-year-old, Anna-Marie, played with the pulpy surface of the cement wall.

On the other side of the Steiners were Pfiffikus and the Jenson family.

Pfiffikus kept himself from whistling.

The bearded Mr. Jenson held his wife tightly, and their two kids drifted in and out of silence. Occasionally they pestered each other, but they held back when it came to the beginning of true argument.

After ten minutes or so, what was most prominent in the cellar was a kind of nonmovement. Their bodies were welded together and only their feet changed position or pressure. Stillness was shackled to their faces. They watched each other and waited.

DUDEN DICTIONARY MEANING #3

Angst —Fear:

An unpleasant, often strong

emotion caused by anticipation

or awareness of danger.

Related words: terror, horror,

panic, fright, alarm.

 

From other shelters, there were stories of singing "Deutschland über Alles" or of people arguing amid the staleness of their own breath. No such things happened in the Fiedler shelter. In that place, there was only fear and apprehension, and the dead song at Rosa Hubermann's cardboard lips.

Not long before the sirens signaled the end, Alex Steiner—the man with the immovable, wooden face—coaxed the kids from his wife's legs. He was able to reach out and grapple for his son's free hand. Kurt, still stoic and full of stare, took it up and tightened his grip gently on the hand of his sister. Soon, everyone in the cellar was holding the hand of another, and the group of Germans stood in a lumpy circle. The cold hands melted into the warm ones, and in some cases, the feeling of another human pulse was transported. It came through the layers of pale, stiffened skin. Some of them closed their eyes, waiting for their final demise, or hoping for a sign that the raid was finally over.

Did they deserve any better, these people?

How many had actively persecuted others, high on the scent of Hitler's gaze, repeating his sentences, his paragraphs, his opus? Was Rosa Hubermann responsible? The hider of a Jew? Or Hans? Did they all deserve to die? The children?

The answer to each of these questions interests me very much, though I cannot allow them to seduce me. I only know that all of those people would have sensed me that night, excluding the youngest of the children. I was the suggestion. I was the advice, my imagined feet walking into the kitchen and down the corridor.

As is often the case with humans, when I read about them in the book thief's words, I pitied them, though not as much as I felt for the ones I scooped up from various camps in that time. The Germans in basements were pitiable, surely, but at least they had a chance. That basement was not a washroom. They were not sent there for a shower. For those people, life was still achievable.

In the uneven circle, the minutes soaked by.

Liesel held Rudy's hand, and her mama's.

Only one thought saddened her.

Max.

How would Max survive if the bombs arrived on Himmel Street?

Around her, she examined the Fiedlers' basement. It was much sturdier and considerably deeper than the one at 33 Himmel Street.

Silently, she asked her papa.

Are you thinking about him, too?

Whether the silent question registered or not, he gave the girl a quick nod. It was followed a few minutes later by the three sirens of temporary peace.

The people at 45 Himmel Street sank with relief.

Some clenched their eyes and opened them again.

A cigarette was passed around.

Just as it made its way to Rudy Steiner's lips, it was snatched away by his father. "Not you, Jesse Owens."

The children hugged their parents, and it took many minutes for all of them to fully realize that they were alive, and that they were goingto be alive. Only then did their feet climb the stairs, to Herbert Fiedler's kitchen.

Outside, a procession of people made its way silently along the street. Many of them looked up and thanked God for their lives.

When the Hubermanns made it home, they headed directly to the basement, but it seemed that Max was not there. The lamp was small and orange and they could not see him or hear an answer.

"Max?"

"He's disappeared."

"Max, are you there?"

"I'm here."

They originally thought the words had come from behind the drop sheets and paint cans, but Liesel was first to see him, in front of them. His jaded face was camouflaged among the painting materials and fabric. He was sitting there with stunned eyes and lips.

When they walked across, he spoke again.

"I couldn't help it," he said.

It was Rosa who replied. She crouched down to face him. "What are you talking about, Max?"

"I . . ." He struggled to answer. "When everything was quiet, I went up to the corridor and the curtain in the living room was open just a crack. . . . I could see outside. I watched, only for a few seconds." He had not seen the outside world for twenty-two months.

There was no anger or reproach.

It was Papa who spoke.

"How did it look?"

Max lifted his head, with great sorrow and great astonishment. "There were stars," he said. "They burned my eyes."

Four of them.

Two people on their feet. The other two remained seated.

All had seen a thing or two that night.

This place was the real basement. This was the real fear. Max gathered himself and stood to move back behind the sheets. He wished them good night, but he didn't make it beneath the stairs. With Mama's permission, Liesel stayed with him till morning, reading A Song in the Dark as he sketched and wrote in his book.

From a Himmel Street window, he wrote, the stars set fire to my eyes.

 

 

THE SKY STEALER

The first raid, as it turned out, was not a raid at all. Had people waited to see the planes, they would have stood there all night. That accounted for the fact that no cuckoo had called from the radio. The Molching Express reported that a certain flak tower operator had become a little overexcited. He'd sworn that he could hear the rattle of planes and see them on the horizon. He sent the word.

"He might have done it on purpose," Hans Hubermann pointed out. "Would you want to sit in a flak tower, shooting up at planes carrying bombs?"

Sure enough, as Max continued reading the article in the basement, it was reported that the man with the outlandish imagination had been stood down from his original duty. His fate was most likely some sort of service elsewhere.

"Good luck to him," Max said. He seemed to understand as he moved on to the crossword.

The next raid was real.

On the night of September 19, the cuckoo called from the radio, and it was followed by a deep, informative voice. It listed Molching as a possible target.

Again, Himmel Street was a trail of people, and again, Papa left his accordion. Rosa reminded him to take it, but he refused. "I didn't take it last time," he explained, "and we lived." War clearly blurred the distinction between logic and superstition.

Eerie air followed them down to the Fiedlers' basement. "I think it's real tonight," said Mr. Fiedler, and the children quickly realized that their parents were even more afraid this time around. Reacting the only way they knew, the youngest of them began to wail and cry as the room seemed to swing.

Even from the cellar, they could vaguely hear the tune of bombs. Air pressure shoved itself down like a ceiling, as if to mash the earth. A bite was taken of Molching's empty streets.

Rosa held furiously on to Liesel's hand.

The sound of crying children kicked and punched.

Even Rudy stood completely erect, feigning nonchalance, tensing himself against the tension. Arms and elbows fought for room. Some of the adults tried to calm the infants. Others were unsuccessful in calming themselves.

"Shut that kid up!" Frau Holtzapfel clamored, but her sentence was just another hapless voice in the warm chaos of the shelter. Grimy tears were loosened from children's eyes, and the smell of night breath, underarm sweat, and overworn clothes was stirred and stewed in what was now a cauldron swimming with humans.

Although they were right next to each other, Liesel was forced to call out, "Mama?" Again, "Mama, you're squashing my hand!"

"What?"

"My hand!"

Rosa released her, and for comfort, to shut out the din of the basement, Liesel opened one of her books and began to read. The book on top of the pile was The Whistler and she spoke it aloud to help her concentrate. The opening paragraph was numb in her ears.

"What did you say?" Mama roared, but Liesel ignored her. She remained focused on the first page.

When she turned to page two, it was Rudy who noticed. He paid direct attention to what Liesel was reading, and he tapped his brother and his sisters, telling them to do the same. Hans Hubermann came closer and called out, and soon, a quietness started bleeding through the crowded basement. By page three, everyone was silent but Liesel.

She didn't dare to look up, but she could feel their frightened eyes hanging on to her as she hauled the words in and breathed them out. A voice played the notes inside her. This, it said, is your accordion.

The sound of the turning page carved them in half.

Liesel read on.

For at least twenty minutes, she handed out the story. The youngest kids were soothed by her voice, and everyone else saw visions of the whistler running from the crime scene. Liesel did not. The book thief saw only the mechanics of the words—their bodies stranded on the paper, beaten down for her to walk on. Somewhere, too, in the gaps between a period and the next capital letter, there was also Max. She remembered reading to him when he was sick. Is he in the basement? she wondered. Or is he stealing a glimpse of the sky again?

A NICE THOUGHT

One was a book thief.

The other stole the sky.

 

Everyone waited for the ground to shake.

That was still an immutable fact, but at least they were distracted now, by the girl with the book. One of the younger boys contemplated crying again, but Liesel stopped at that moment and imitated her papa, or even Rudy for that matter. She winked at him and resumed.

Only when the sirens leaked into the cellar again did someone interrupt her. "We're safe," said Mr. Jenson.

"Shhh!" said Frau Holtzapfel.

Liesel looked up. "There are only two paragraphs till the end of the chapter," she said, and she continued reading with no fanfare or added speed. Just the words.

DUDEN DICTIONARY MEANING #4

Wort —Word:

A meaningful unit of

language / a promise / a

short remark, statement,

or conversation.

Related words: term,

name, expression.

 

Out of respect, the adults kept everyone quiet, and Liesel finished chapter one of The Whistler.

On their way up the stairs, the children rushed by her, but many of the older people—even Frau Holtzapfel, even Pfiffikus (how appropriate, considering the title she read from)—thanked the girl for the distraction. They did so as they made their way past and hurried from the house to see if Himmel Street had sustained any damage.

Himmel Street was untouched.

The only sign of war was a cloud of dust migrating from east to west. It looked through the windows, trying to find a way inside, and as it simultaneously thickened and spread, it turned the trail of humans into apparitions.

There were no people on the street anymore.

They were rumors carrying bags.

At home, Papa told Max all about it. "There's fog and ash—I think they let us out too early." He looked to Rosa. "Should I go out? To see if they need help where the bombs dropped?"

Rosa was not impressed. "Don't be so idiotic," she said. "You'll choke on the dust. No, no, Saukerl, you're staying here." A thought came to her. She looked at Hans very seriously now. In fact, her face was crayoned with pride. "Stay here and tell him about the girl." Her voice loudened, just slightly. "About the book."

Max gave her some added attention.

"The Whistler," Rosa informed him. "Chapter one." She explained exactly what had happened in the shelter.

As Liesel stood in a corner of the basement, Max watched her and rubbed a hand along his jaw. Personally, I think that was the moment he conceived the next body of work for his sketchbook.

The Word Shaker.

He imagined the girl reading in the shelter. He must have watched her literally handing out the words. However, as always, he must also have seen the shadow of Hitler. He could probably already hear his footsteps coming toward Himmel Street and the basement, for later.

After a lengthy pause, he looked ready to speak, but Liesel beat him to it.

"Did you see the sky tonight?"

"No." Max looked at the wall and pointed. On it, they all watched the words and the picture he'd painted more than a year earlier—the rope and the dripping sun. "Only that one tonight," and from there, no more was spoken. Nothing but thoughts.

Max, Hans, and Rosa I cannot account for, but I know that Liesel Meminger was thinking that if the bombs ever landed on Himmel Street, not only did Max have less chance of survival than everyone else, but he would die completely alone.

 

 

FRAU HOLTZAPFEL'S OFFER

In the morning, the damage was inspected. No one died, but two apartment blocks were reduced to pyramids of rubble, and Rudy's favorite Hitler Youth field had an enormous bowl spooned out of it. Half the town stood around its circumference. People estimated its depth, to compare it with their shelters. Several boys and girls spat into it.

Rudy was standing next to Liesel. "Looks like they need to fertilize again."

When the next few weeks were raid-free, life almost returned to normal. Two telling moments, however, were on their way.

THE DUAL EVENTS

OF OCTOBER

The hands of Frau Holtzapfel.

The parade of Jews.

 

Her wrinkles were like slander. Her voice was akin to a beating with a stick.

It was actually quite fortunate that they saw Frau Holtzapfel coming from the living room window, for her knuckles on the door were hard and decisive. They meant business.

Liesel heard the words she dreaded.

"You go and answer it," Mama said, and the girl, knowing only too well what was good for her, did as she was told.

"Is your mama home?" Frau Holtzapfel inquired. Constructed of fifty-year-old wire, she stood on the front step, looking back every so often to view the street. "Is that swine of a mother of yours here today?"

Liesel turned and called out.

DUDEN DICTIONARY MEANING #5

Gelegenheit —Opportunity:

A chance for advancement or progress.

Related words:

prospect, opening, break.

 

Soon, Rosa was behind her. "What do you want here? You want to spit on my kitchen floor now, too?"

Frau Holtzapfel was not deterred in the slightest. "Is that how you greet everyone who shows up at your front door? What a G'sindel."

Liesel watched. She was unfortunate enough to be sandwiched between them. Rosa pulled her out of the way. "Well, are you going to tell me why you're here or not?"

Frau Holtzapfel looked once more at the street and back. "I have an offer for you."

Mama shifted her weight. "Is that right?"

"No, not you." She dismissed Rosa with a shrug of the voice and focused now on Liesel. "You."

"Why did you ask for me, then?"

"Well, I at least need your permission."

Oh, Maria, Liesel thought, this is all I need. What the hell can Holtzapfel want with me?

"I liked that book you read in the shelter."

No. You're not getting it. Liesel was convinced of that. "Yes?"

"I was hoping to hear the rest of it in the shelter, but it looks like we're safe for now." She rolled her shoulders and straightened the wire in her back. "So I want you to come to my place and read it to me."

"You've got some nerve, Holtzapfel." Rosa was deciding whether to be furious or not. "If you think—"

"I'll stop spitting on your door," she interrupted. "And I'll give you my coffee ration."

Rosa decided against being furious. "And some flour?"

"What, are you a Jew? Just the coffee. You can swap the coffee with someone else for the flour."

It was decided.

By everyone but the girl.

"Good, then, it's done."

"Mama?"

"Quiet, Saumensch. Go and get the book." Mama faced Frau Holtzapfel again. "What days suit you?"

"Monday and Friday, four o'clock. And today, right now."

Liesel followed the regimented footsteps to Frau Holtzapfel's lodging next door, which was a mirror image of the Hubermanns'. If anything, it was slightly larger.

When she sat down at the kitchen table, Frau Holtzapfel sat directly in front of her but faced the window. "Read," she said.

"Chapter two?"

"No, chapter eight. Of course chapter two! Now get reading before I throw you out."

"Yes, Frau Holtzapfel."

"Never mind the 'yes, Frau Holtzapfels.' Just open the book. We don't have all day."

Good God, Liesel thought. This is my punishment for all that stealing. It's finally caught up with me.

She read for forty-five minutes, and when the chapter was finished, a bag of coffee was deposited on the table.

"Thank you," the woman said. "It's a good story." She turned toward the stove and started on some potatoes. Without looking back, she said, "Are you still here, are you?"

Liesel took that as her cue to leave. "Danke schön, Frau Holtzapfel." By the door, when she saw the framed photos of two young men in military uniform, she also threw in a "heil Hitler," her arm raised in the kitchen.

"Yes." Frau Holtzapfel was proud and afraid. Two sons in Russia. "Heil Hitler." She put her water down to boil and even found the manners to walk the few steps with Liesel to the front door. "Bis morgen?"

The next day was Friday. "Yes, Frau Holtzapfel. Until tomorrow."

Liesel calculated that there were four more reading sessions like that with Frau Holtzapfel before the Jews were marched through Molching.

They were going to Dachau, to concentrate.

That makes two weeks, she would later write in the basement. Two weeks to change the world, and fourteen days to ruin it.