The Book Thief Part 13

"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 acc.u.mulate 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 bas.e.m.e.nt, 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 Pfaffelhrvers, from Heide Stra.s.se. 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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 Pfaffelhrver Arschlcher and that lousy Ernst Vogel.

"Feuer soll'n's brunzen fr einen Monat!" she heard her call out. Translation: "They should all p.i.s.s 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 G.o.d. 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 circ.u.mstance. 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 Fhrer'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 n.a.z.i 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, n.a.z.i Party members were acc.u.mulating 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 Fhrer'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 n.a.z.i Party office on Munich Street." Even Schiller Stra.s.se-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 Fhrer'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 Fhrer. In some places, like Frau Diller's, the gla.s.s 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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 Fhrered. There was more flesh on his bones, too, and he had p.r.i.c.kly 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 n.a.z.i; 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 Juden 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 n.a.z.i 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 Fhrer 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.