The Book Thief Part 23

This time, they played it smarter. They ate one chestnut each and sold the rest of them door to door.

"If you have a few pfennig to spare," Liesel said at each house, "I have chestnuts." They ended up with sixteen coins.

"Now," Rudy grinned, "revenge."

That same afternoon, they returned to Frau Diller's, "heil Hitlered," and waited.

"Mixed candy again?" She schmunzeled, to which they nodded. The money splashed the counter and Frau Diller's smile fell slightly ajar.

"Yes, Frau Diller," they said in unison. "Mixed candy, please."

The framed Fhrer looked proud of them.

Triumph before the storm.

THE STRUGGLER, CONCLUDED.

The juggling comes to an end now, but the struggling does not. I have Liesel Meminger in one hand, Max Vandenburg in the other. Soon, I will clap them together. Just give me a few pages.

The struggler: If they killed him tonight, at least he would die alive.

The train ride was far away now, the snorer most likely tucked up in the carriage she'd made her bed, traveling on. Now there were only footsteps between Max and survival. Footsteps and thoughts, and doubts.

He followed the map in his mind, from Pasing to Molching. It was late when he saw the town. His legs ached terribly, but he was nearly there-the most dangerous place to be. Close enough to touch it.

Just as it was described, he found Munich Street and made his way along the footpath.

Everything stiffened.

Glowing pockets of streetlights.

Dark, pa.s.sive buildings.

The town hall stood like a giant ham-fisted youth, too big for his age. The church disappeared in darkness the farther his eyes traveled upward.

It all watched him.

He shivered.

He warned himself. "Keep your eyes open."

(German children were on the lookout for stray coins. German Jews kept watch for possible capture.) In keeping with the usage of number thirteen for luck, he counted his footsteps in groups of that number. Just thirteen footsteps, he would tell himself. Come on, just thirteen more. As an estimate, he completed ninety sets, till at last, he stood on the corner of Himmel Street.

In one hand, he held his suitcase.

The other was still holding Mein Kampf.

Both were heavy, and both were handled with a gentle secretion of sweat.

Now he turned on to the side street, making his way to number thirty-three, resisting the urge to smile, resisting the urge to sob or even imagine the safety that might be awaiting him. He reminded himself that this was no time for hope. Certainly, he could almost touch it. He could feel it, somewhere just out of reach. Instead of acknowledging it, he went about the business of deciding again what to do if he was caught at the last moment or if by some chance the wrong person awaited him inside.

Of course, there was also the scratchy feeling of sin.

How could he do this?

How could he show up and ask people to risk their lives for him? How could he be so selfish?

Thirty-three.

They looked at each other.

The house was pale, almost sick-looking, with an iron gate and a brown spit-stained door.

From his pocket, he pulled out the key. It did not sparkle but lay dull and limp in his hand. For a moment, he squeezed it, half expecting it to come leaking toward his wrist. It didn't. The metal was hard and flat, with a healthy set of teeth, and he squeezed it till it pierced him.

Slowly, then, the struggler leaned forward, his cheek against the wood, and he removed the key from his fist.

PART FOUR.

the standover man featuring:

the accordionist-a promise keeper-a good girl-

a jewish fist fighter-the wrath of rosa-a lecture-

a sleeper-the swapping of nightmares-

and some pages from the bas.e.m.e.nt

THE ACCORDIONIST.

(The Secret Life of Hans Hubermann) There was a young man standing in the kitchen. The key in his hand felt like it was rusting into his palm. He didn't speak anything like h.e.l.lo, or please help, or any other such expected sentence. He asked two questions.

QUESTION ONE.

"Hans Hubermann?"

QUESTION TWO.

"Do you still play the accordion?"

As he looked uncomfortably at the human shape before him, the young man's voice was sc.r.a.ped out and handed across the dark like it was all that remained of him.

Papa, alert and appalled, stepped closer.

To the kitchen, he whispered, "Of course I do."

It all dated back many years, to World War I.

They're strange, those wars.

Full of blood and violence-but also full of stories that are equally difficult to fathom. "It's true," people will mutter. "I don't care if you don't believe me. It was that fox who saved my life," or, "They died on either side of me and I was left standing there, the only one without a bullet between my eyes. Why me? Why me and not them?"

Hans Hubermann's story was a little like that. When I found it within the book thief's words, I realized that we pa.s.sed each other once in a while during that period, though neither of us scheduled a meeting. Personally, I had a lot of work to do. As for Hans, I think he was doing his best to avoid me.

The first time we were in the vicinity of each other, Hans was twenty-two years old, fighting in France. The majority of young men in his platoon were eager to fight. Hans wasn't so sure. I had taken a few of them along the way, but you could say I never even came close to touching Hans Hubermann. He was either too lucky, or he deserved to live, or there was a good reason for him to live.

In the army, he didn't stick out at either end. He ran in the middle, climbed in the middle, and he could shoot straight enough so as not to affront his superiors. Nor did he excel enough to be one of the first chosen to run straight at me.

A SMALL BUT NOTE WORTHY NOTE.

I've seen so many young men over the years who think they're running at other young men.

They are not.

They're running at me.

He'd been in the fight for almost six months when he ended up in France, where, at face value, a strange event saved his life. Another perspective would suggest that in the nonsense of war, it made perfect sense.

On the whole, his time in the Great War had astonished him from the moment he entered the army. It was like a serial. Day after day after day. After day: The conversation of bullets.

Resting men.

The best dirty jokes in the world.

Cold sweat-that malignant little friend-outstaying its welcome in the armpits and trousers.

He enjoyed the card games the most, followed by the few games of chess, despite being thoroughly pathetic at it. And the music. Always the music.

It was a man a year older than himself-a German Jew named Erik Vandenburg-who taught him to play the accordion. The two of them gradually became friends due to the fact that neither of them was terribly interested in fighting. They preferred rolling cigarettes to rolling in snow and mud. They preferred shooting c.r.a.ps to shooting bullets. A firm friendship was built on gambling, smoking, and music, not to mention a shared desire for survival. The only trouble with this was that Erik Vandenburg would later be found in several pieces on a gra.s.sy hill. His eyes were open and his wedding ring was stolen. I shoveled up his soul with the rest of them and we drifted away. The horizon was the color of milk. Cold and fresh. Poured out among the bodies.

All that was really left of Erik Vandenburg was a few personal items and the fingerprinted accordion. Everything but the instrument was sent home. It was considered too big. Almost with self-reproach, it sat on his makeshift bed at the base camp and was given to his friend, Hans Hubermann, who happened to be the only man to survive.