The Book Thief (23 page)

At the end of August and summer, they found one pfennig on the ground. Pure excitement.

It was sitting half rotten in some dirt, on the washing and ironing route. A solitary corroded coin.

“Take a look at that!”

Rudy swooped on it. The excitement almost stung as they rushed back to Frau Diller’s, not even considering that a single pfennig might not be the
right price
. They burst through the door and stood in front of the Aryan shopkeeper, who regarded them with contempt.

“I’m waiting,” she said. Her hair was tied back and her black dress choked her body. The framed photo of the
Führer
kept watch from the wall.

“Heil
Hitler,” Rudy led.

“Heil
Hitler,” she responded, straightening taller behind the counter. “And you?” She glared at Liesel, who promptly gave her a
“heil
Hitler” of her own.

It didn’t take Rudy long to dig the coin from his pocket and place it firmly on the counter. He looked straight into Frau Diller’s spectacled eyes and said, “Mixed candy, please.”

Frau Diller smiled. Her teeth elbowed each other for room in her mouth, and her unexpected kindness made Rudy and Liesel smile as well. Not for long.

She bent down, did some searching, and came back. “Here,” she said, tossing a single piece of candy onto the counter. “Mix it yourself.”

Outside, they unwrapped it and tried biting it in half, but the sugar was like glass. Far too tough, even for Rudy’s animal-like choppers. Instead, they had to trade sucks on it until it was finished. Ten sucks for Rudy. Ten for Liesel. Back and forth.

“This,” Rudy announced at one point, with a candy-toothed grin, “is the good life,” and Liesel didn’t disagree. By the time they were finished, both their mouths were an exaggerated red, and as they
walked home, they reminded each other to keep their eyes peeled, in case they found another coin.

Naturally, they found nothing. No one can be that lucky twice in one year, let alone a single afternoon.

Still, with red tongues and teeth, they walked down Himmel Street, happily searching the ground as they went.

The day had been a great one, and Nazi Germany was a wondrous place.

We move forward now, to a cold night struggle. We’ll let the book thief catch up later.

It was November 3, and the floor of the train held on to his feet. In front of him, he read from the copy of
Mein Kampf
. His savior. Sweat was swimming out of his hands. Fingermarks clutched the book.

Behind Max Vandenburg, the city of Stuttgart opened its arms in mockery.

He was not welcome there, and he tried not to look back as the stale bread disintegrated in his stomach. A few times, he shifted again
and watched the lights become only a handful and then disappear altogether.

Look proud, he advised himself. You cannot look afraid. Read the book. Smile at it. It’s a great book—the greatest book you’ve ever read. Ignore that woman on the other side. She’s asleep now anyway. Come on, Max, you’re only a few hours away.

As it had turned out, the promised return visit in the room of darkness didn’t take days; it had taken a week and a half. Then another week till the next, and another, until he lost all sense of the passing of days and hours. He was relocated once more, to another small storage room, where there was more light, more visits, and more food. Time, however, was running out.

“I’m leaving soon,” his friend Walter Kugler told him. “You know how it is—the army.”

“I’m sorry, Walter.”

Walter Kugler, Max’s friend from childhood, placed his hand on the Jew’s shoulder. “It could be worse.” He looked his friend in his Jewish eyes. “I could be you.”

That was their last meeting. A final package was left in the corner, and this time, there was a ticket. Walter opened
Mein Kampf
and slid it inside, next to the map he’d brought with the book itself. “Page thirteen.” He smiled. “For luck, yes?”

“For luck,” and the two of them embraced.

When the door shut, Max opened the book and examined the ticket.
Stuttgart to Munich to Pasing
. It left in two days, in the night, just in time to make the last connection. From there, he would walk. The map was already in his head, folded in quarters. The key was still taped to the inside cover.

He sat for half an hour before stepping toward the bag and opening it. Apart from food, a few other items sat inside.

When he left it, the storeroom was empty but for the floor.

“Goodbye,” he whispered.

The last thing Max saw was the small mound of hair, sitting casually against the wall.

Goodbye.

With a clean-shaven face and lopsided yet neatly combed hair, he had walked out of that building a new man. In fact, he walked out German. Hang on a second, he
was
German. Or more to the point, he
had
been.

In his stomach was the electric combination of nourishment and nausea.

He walked to the station.

He showed his ticket and identity card, and now he sat in a small box compartment of the train, directly in danger’s spotlight.

“Papers.”

That was what he dreaded to hear.

It was bad enough when he was stopped on the platform. He knew he could not withstand it twice.

The shivering hands.

The smell—no, the stench—of guilt.

He simply couldn’t bear it again.

Fortunately, they came through early and only asked for the ticket, and now all that was left was a window of small towns, the congregations of lights, and the woman snoring on the other side of the compartment.

For most of the journey, he made his way through the book, trying never to look up.

The words lolled about in his mouth as he read them.

Strangely, as he turned the pages and progressed through the chapters, it was only two words he ever tasted.

Mein Kampf
. My struggle—

The title, over and over again, as the train prattled on, from one German town to the next.

Mein Kampf
.

Of all the things to save him.

You could argue that Liesel Meminger had it easy. She
did
have it easy compared to Max Vandenburg. Certainly, her brother practically died in her arms. Her mother abandoned her.

But anything was better than being a Jew.

In the time leading up to Max’s arrival, another washing customer was lost, this time the Weingartners. The obligatory
Schimpferei
occurred in the kitchen, and Liesel composed herself with the fact that there were still two left, and even better, one of them was the mayor, the wife, the books.

As for Liesel’s other activities, she was still causing havoc with Rudy Steiner. I would even suggest that they were polishing their wicked ways.

They made a few more journeys with Arthur Berg and his friends, keen to prove their worth and extend their thieving repertoire. They took potatoes from one farm, onions from another. Their biggest victory, however, they performed alone.

As witnessed earlier, one of the benefits of walking through town was the prospect of finding things on the ground. Another was
noticing people, or more important, the
same
people, doing identical things week after week.

A boy from school, Otto Sturm, was one such person. Every Friday afternoon, he rode his bike to church, carrying goods to the priests.

For a month, they watched him, as good weather turned to bad, and Rudy in particular was determined that one Friday, in an abnormally frosty week in October, Otto wouldn’t quite make it.

“All those priests,” Rudy explained as they walked through town. “They’re all too fat anyway. They could do without a feed for a week or so.” Liesel could only agree. First of all, she wasn’t Catholic. Second, she was pretty hungry herself. As always, she was carrying the washing. Rudy was carrying two buckets of cold water, or as he put it, two buckets of future ice.

Just before two o’clock, he went to work.

Without any hesitation, he poured the water onto the road in the exact position where Otto would pedal around the corner.

Liesel had to admit it.

There was a small portion of guilt at first, but the plan was perfect, or at least as close to perfect as it could be. At just after two o’clock every Friday, Otto Sturm turned onto Munich Street with the produce in his front basket, at the handlebars. On this particular Friday, that was as far as he would travel.

The road was icy as it was, but Rudy put on the extra coat, barely able to contain a grin. It ran across his face like a skid.

“Come on,” he said, “that bush there.”

After approximately fifteen minutes, the diabolical plan bore its fruit, so to speak.

Rudy pointed his finger into a gap in the bush. “There he is.”

Otto came around the corner, dopey as a lamb.

He wasted no time in losing control of the bike, sliding across the ice, and lying facedown on the road.

When he didn’t move, Rudy looked at Liesel with alarm. “Crucified Christ,” he said, “I think we might have
killed
him!” He crept slowly out, removed the basket, and they made their getaway.

“Was he breathing?” Liesel asked, farther down the street.

“Keine Ahnung,”
Rudy said, clinging to the basket. He had no idea.

From far down the hill, they watched as Otto stood up, scratched his head, scratched his crotch, and looked everywhere for the basket.

“Stupid
Scheisskopf
.” Rudy grinned, and they looked through the spoils. Bread, broken eggs, and the big one,
Speck
. Rudy held the fatty ham to his nose and breathed it gloriously in. “Beautiful.”