Papa stretched
with his fists closed and his eyes grinding shut, and it was a morning that
didn’t dare to be rainy. They each stood and walked to the kitchen, and through
the fog and frost of the window, they were able to see the pink bars of light
on the snowy banks of Himmel Street’s rooftops.
“Look at the
colors,” Papa said. It’s hard not to like a man who not only notices the
colors, but speaks them.
Liesel still
held the book. She gripped it tighter as the snow turned orange. On one of the
rooftops, she could see a small boy, sitting, looking at the sky. “His name was
Werner,” she mentioned. The words trotted out, involuntarily.
Papa said,
“Yes.”
At school during
that time, there had been no more reading tests, but as Liesel slowly gathered
confidence, she did pick up a stray textbook before class one morning to see if
she could read it without trouble. She could read every word, but she remained
stranded at a much slower pace than that of her classmates. It’s much easier,
she realized, to be on the verge of something than to actually be it. This
would still take time.
One afternoon,
she was tempted to steal a book from the class bookshelf, but frankly, the
prospect of another corridor
Watschen
at the hands of Sister Maria was a
powerful enough deterrent. On top of that, there was actually no real desire in
her to take the books from school. It was most likely the intensity of her
November failure that caused this lack of interest, but Liesel wasn’t sure. She
only knew that it was there.
In class, she
did not speak.
She didn’t so
much as look the wrong way.
As winter set
in, she was no longer a victim of Sister Maria’s frustrations, preferring to
watch as others were marched out to the corridor and given their just rewards.
The sound of another student struggling in the hallway was not particularly
enjoyable, but the fact that it was
someone else
was, if not a true comfort,
a relief.
When school
broke up briefly for
Weihnachten,
Liesel even afforded Sister Maria a
“merry Christmas” before going on her way. Knowing that the Hubermanns were
essentially broke, still paying off debts and paying rent quicker than the
money could come in, she was not expecting a gift of any sort. Perhaps only
some better food. To her surprise, on Christmas Eve, after sitting in church at
midnight with Mama, Papa, Hans Junior, and Trudy, she came home to find
something wrapped in newspaper under the Christmas tree.
“From Saint
Niklaus,” Papa said, but the girl was not fooled. She hugged both her foster
parents, with snow still laid across her shoulders.
Unfurling the
paper, she unwrapped two small books. The first one,
Faust the Dog,
was
written by a man named Mattheus Ottleberg. All told, she would read that book
thirteen times. On Christmas Eve, she read the first twenty pages at the
kitchen table while Papa and Hans Junior argued about a thing she did not
understand. Something called politics.
Later, they read
some more in bed, adhering to the tradition of circling the words she didn’t
know and writing them down.
Faust the
Dog
also had
pictures—lovely curves and ears and caricatures of a German Shepherd with an
obscene drooling problem and the ability to talk.
The second book
was called
The Lighthouse
and was written by a woman, Ingrid
Rippinstein. That particular book was a little longer, so Liesel was able to
get through it only nine times, her pace increasing ever so slightly by the end
of such prolific readings.
It was a few
days after Christmas that she asked a question regarding the books. They were
eating in the kitchen. Looking at the spoonfuls of pea soup entering Mama’s
mouth, she decided to shift her focus to Papa. “There’s something I need to
ask.”
At first, there
was nothing.
“And?”
It was Mama, her
mouth still half full.
“I just wanted
to know how you found the money to buy my books.”
A short grin was
smiled into Papa’s spoon. “You really want to know?”
“Of course.”
From his pocket,
Papa took what was left of his tobacco ration and began rolling a cigarette, at
which Liesel became impatient.
“Are you going
to tell me or not?”
Papa laughed.
“But I
am
telling you, child.” He completed the production of one
cigarette, flipped it on the table, and began on another. “Just like this.”
That was when
Mama finished her soup with a clank, suppressed a cardboard burp, and answered
for him. “That
Saukerl,
” she said. “You know what he did? He rolled up
all of his filthy cigarettes, went to the market when it was in town, and
traded them with some gypsy.”
“Eight
cigarettes per book.” Papa shoved one to his mouth, in triumph. He lit up and
took in the smoke. “Praise the Lord for cigarettes, huh, Mama?”
Mama only handed
him one of her trademark looks of disgust, followed by the most common ration
of her vocabulary.
“Saukerl.”
Liesel swapped a
customary wink with her papa and finished eating her soup. As always, one of
her books was next to her. She could not deny that the answer to her question
had been more than satisfactory. There were not many people who could say that
their education had been paid for with cigarettes.
Mama, on the
other hand, said that if Hans Hubermann was any good at all, he would trade
some tobacco for the new dress she was in desperate need of or some better
shoes. “But no . . .” She emptied the words out into the sink. “When it comes
to me, you’d rather smoke a whole ration, wouldn’t you?
Plus
some of
next door’s.”
A few nights
later, however, Hans Hubermann came home with a box of eggs. “Sorry, Mama.” He
placed them on the table. “They were all out of shoes.”
Mama didn’t
complain.
She even sang to
herself while she cooked those eggs to the brink of burndom. It appeared that
there was great joy in cigarettes, and it was a happy time in the Hubermann
household.
It ended a few
weeks later.
THE TOWN WALKER
The rot started
with the washing and it rapidly increased.
When Liesel
accompanied Rosa Hubermann on her deliveries across Molching, one of her
customers, Ernst Vogel, informed them that he could no longer afford to have
his washing and ironing done. “The times,” he excused himself, “what can I say?
They’re getting harder. The war’s making things tight.” He looked at the girl.
“I’m sure you get an allowance for keeping the little one, don’t you?”
To Liesel’s
dismay, Mama was speechless.
An empty bag was
at her side.
Come on, Liesel.
It was not said.
It was pulled along, rough-handed.
Vogel called out
from his front step. He was perhaps five foot nine and his greasy scraps of
hair swung lifelessly across his forehead. “I’m sorry, Frau Hubermann!”
Liesel waved at
him.
He waved back.
Mama castigated.
“Don’t wave to
that
Arschloch,
” she said. “Now hurry up.”
That night, when
Liesel had a bath, Mama scrubbed her especially hard, muttering the whole time
about that Vogel
Saukerl
and imitating him at two-minute intervals. “
‘You must get an allowance for the girl. . . .’ ” She berated Liesel’s naked
chest as she scrubbed away. “You’re not worth
that
much,
Saumensch.
You’re
not making me rich, you know.”
Liesel sat there
and took it.
Not more than a
week after that particular incident, Rosa hauled her into the kitchen. “Right,
Liesel.” She sat her down at the table. “Since you spend half your time on the
street playing soccer, you can make yourself useful out there. For a change.”
Liesel watched
only her own hands. “What is it, Mama?”
“From now on
you’re going to pick up and deliver the washing for me. Those rich people are
less likely to fire us if
you’re
the one standing in front of them. If
they ask you where I am, tell them I’m sick. And look sad when you tell them.
You’re skinny and pale enough to get their pity.”
“Herr Vogel
didn’t pity me.”
“Well . . .” Her
agitation was obvious. “The others
might.
So don’t argue.”
“Yes, Mama.”
For a moment, it
appeared that her foster mother would comfort her or pat her on the shoulder.
Good girl,
Liesel. Good girl. Pat, pat, pat.
She did no such
thing.
Instead, Rosa
Hubermann stood up, selected a wooden spoon, and held it under Liesel’s nose.
It was a necessity as far as she was concerned. “When you’re out on that
street, you take the bag to each place and you bring it straight home,
with
the
money, even though it’s next to nothing. No going to Papa if he’s actually
working for once. No mucking around with that little
Saukerl,
Rudy
Steiner. Straight. Home.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“And when you
hold that bag, you hold it
properly.
You don’t swing it, drop it, crease
it, or throw it over your shoulder.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Rosa Hubermann was a great imitator, and a fervent one. “You’d better not,
Saumensch.
I’ll find out if you do; you know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mama.”
Saying those two
words was often the best way to survive, as was doing what she was told, and
from there, Liesel walked the streets of Molching, from the poor end to the
rich, picking up and delivering the washing. At first, it was a solitary job,
which she never complained about. After all, the very first time she took the
sack through town, she turned the corner onto Munich Street, looked both ways,
and gave it one enormous swing—a whole revolution—and then checked the contents
inside. Thankfully, there were no creases. No wrinkles. Just a smile, and a
promise never to swing it again.
Overall, Liesel
enjoyed it. There was no share of the pay, but she was out of the house, and
walking the streets without Mama was heaven in itself. No finger-pointing or
cursing. No people staring at them as she was sworn at for holding the bag
wrong. Nothing but serenity.
She came to like
the people, too:
•
The Pfaffelhürvers, inspecting the clothes and saying, “Ja, ja,
sehr gut,
sehr gut.”
Liesel imagined that they did everything twice.
•
Gentle Helena Schmidt, handing the money over with an arthritic curl of the
hand.
•
The Weingartners, whose bent-whiskered cat always answered the door with them.
Little Goebbels, that’s what they called him, after Hitler’s right-hand man.
•
And Frau Hermann, the mayor’s wife, standing fluffy-haired and shivery in her
enormous, cold-aired doorway. Always silent. Always alone. No words, not once.
Sometimes Rudy
came along.
“How much money
do you have there?” he asked one afternoon. It was nearly dark and they were
walking onto Himmel Street, past the shop. “You’ve heard about Frau Diller,
haven’t you? They say she’s got candy hidden somewhere, and for the right price
. . .”
“Don’t even
think about it.” Liesel, as always, was gripping the money hard. “It’s not so
bad for you—you don’t have to face my mama.”
Rudy shrugged.
“It was worth a try.”
In the middle of
January, schoolwork turned its attention to letter writing. After learning the
basics, each student was to write two letters, one to a friend and one to
somebody in another class.
Liesel’s letter
from Rudy went like this:
Dear Saumensch,
Are you still as useless at soccer as you were the last time we
played? I hope so. That means I can run past you again just like
Jesse Owens at the Olympics. . . .
When Sister
Maria found it, she asked him a question, very amiably.
SISTER
MARIA’S OFFER
“Do you feel like visiting the corridor, Mr. Steiner?”
Needless to say,
Rudy answered in the negative, and the paper was torn up and he started again.
The second attempt was written to someone named Liesel and inquired as to what
her hobbies might be.
At home, while
completing a letter for homework, Liesel decided that writing to Rudy or some
other
Saukerl
was actually ridiculous. It meant nothing. As she wrote in
the basement, she spoke over to Papa, who was repainting the wall again.
Both he and the
paint fumes turned around.
“Was wuistz?”
Now this was the roughest form
of German a person could speak, but it was spoken with an air of absolute
pleasantness. “Yeah, what?”
“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.