The Book Thief Part 50

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 antic.i.p.ation

or awareness of danger.

Related words: terror, horror,

panic, fright, alarm.

From other shelters, there were stories of singing "Deutschland ber 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 bas.e.m.e.nts were pitiable, surely, but at least they had a chance. That bas.e.m.e.nt 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' bas.e.m.e.nt. It was much st.u.r.dier 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 pa.s.sed around.

Just as it made its way to Rudy Steiner's lips, it was s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 going to 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 G.o.d for their lives.

When the Hubermanns made it home, they headed directly to the bas.e.m.e.nt, 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 bas.e.m.e.nt. 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 bas.e.m.e.nt, 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 superst.i.tion.

Eerie air followed them down to the Fiedlers' bas.e.m.e.nt. "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?"