The Book Thief (30 page)

“Last year,” she
listed, “I stole at least three hundred apples and dozens of potatoes. I have
little trouble with barbed wire fences and I can keep up with anyone here.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes.” She did
not shrink or step away. “All I ask is a small part of anything we take. A
dozen apples here or there. A few leftovers for me and my friend.”

“Well, I suppose
that can be arranged.” Viktor lit a cigarette and raised it to his mouth. He
made a concerted effort to blow his next mouthful in Liesel’s face.

Liesel did not
cough.

It was the same
group as the previous year, the only exception being the leader. Liesel
wondered why none of the other boys had assumed the helm, but looking from face
to face, she realized that none of them had it. They had no qualms about
stealing, but they needed to be told. They
liked
to be told, and Viktor
Chemmel liked to be the teller. It was a nice microcosm.

For a moment,
Liesel longed for the reappearance of Arthur Berg. Or would he, too, have
fallen under the leadership of Chemmel? It didn’t matter. Liesel only knew that
Arthur Berg did not have a tyrannical bone in his body, whereas the new leader
had hundreds of them. Last year, she knew that if she was stuck in a tree,
Arthur would come back for her, despite claiming otherwise. This year, by
comparison, she was instantly aware that Viktor Chemmel wouldn’t even bother to
look back.

He stood,
regarding the lanky boy and the malnourished-looking girl. “So you want to
steal with me?”

What did they
have to lose? They nodded.

He stepped
closer and grabbed Rudy’s hair. “I want to hear it.”

“Definitely,”
Rudy said, before being shoved back, fringe first.

“And you?”

“Of course.”
Liesel was quick enough to avoid the same treatment.

Viktor smiled.
He squashed his cigarette, breathed deeply in, and scratched his chest. “My
gentlemen, my whore, it looks like it’s time to go shopping.”

As the group
walked off, Liesel and Rudy were at the back, as they’d always been in the
past.

“Do you like
him?” Rudy whispered.

“Do you?”

Rudy paused a
moment. “I think he’s a complete bastard.”

“Me too.”

The group was
getting away from them.

“Come on,” Rudy
said, “we’ve fallen behind.”

After a few
miles, they reached the first farm. What greeted them was a shock. The trees
they’d imagined to be swollen with fruit were frail and injured-looking, with
only a small array of apples hanging miserly from each branch. The next farm
was the same. Maybe it was a bad season, or their timing wasn’t quite right.

By the end of
the afternoon, when the spoils were handed out, Liesel and Rudy were given one
diminutive apple between them. In fairness, the takings were incredibly poor,
but Viktor Chemmel also ran a tighter ship.

“What do you
call this?” Rudy asked, the apple resting in his palm.

Viktor didn’t
even turn around. “What does it look like?” The words were dropped over his
shoulder.

“One lousy
apple?”

“Here.” A
half-eaten one was also tossed their way, landing chewed-side-down in the dirt.
“You can have that one, too.”

Rudy was
incensed. “To hell with this. We didn’t walk ten miles for one and a half
scrawny apples, did we, Liesel?”

Liesel did not
answer.

She did not have
time, for Viktor Chemmel was on top of Rudy before she could utter a word. His
knees had pinned Rudy’s arms and his hands were around his throat. The apples
were scooped up by none other than Andy Schmeikl, at Viktor’s request.

“You’re hurting
him,” Liesel said.

“Am I?” Viktor
was smiling again. She hated that smile.

“He’s
not
hurting
me.” Rudy’s words were rushed together and his face was red with strain. His
nose began to bleed.

After an
extended moment or two of increased pressure, Viktor let Rudy go and climbed
off him, taking a few careless steps. He said, “Get up, boy,” and Rudy,
choosing wisely, did as he was told.

Viktor came
casually closer again and faced him. He gave him a gentle rub on the arm. A
whisper. “Unless you want me to turn that blood into a fountain, I suggest you
go away, little boy.” He looked at Liesel. “And take the little slut with you.”

No one moved.

“Well, what are
you waiting for?”

Liesel took
Rudy’s hand and they left, but not before Rudy turned one last time and spat
some blood and saliva at Viktor Chemmel’s feet. It evoked one final remark.

Say what you
will about Viktor Chemmel, but he certainly had patience and a good memory. It
took him approximately five months to turn his statement into a true one.

SKETCHES

If the summer of
1941 was walling up around the likes of Rudy and Liesel, it was writing and
painting itself into the life of Max Vandenburg. In his loneliest moments in
the basement, the words started piling up around him. The visions began to pour
and fall and occasionally limp from out of his hands.

He had what he
called just a small ration of tools:

A painted book.

A handful of
pencils.

A mindful of
thoughts.

Like a simple
puzzle, he put them together.

Originally, Max
had intended to write his own story.

The idea was to
write about everything that had happened to him—all that had led him to a
Himmel Street basement—but it was not what came out. Max’s exile produced
something else entirely. It was a collection of random thoughts and he chose to
embrace them. They felt
true.
They were more real than the letters he
wrote to his family and to his friend Walter Kugler, knowing very well that he
could never send them. The desecrated pages of
Mein Kampf
were becoming
a series of sketches, page after page, which to him summed up the events that
had swapped his former life for another. Some took minutes. Others hours. He
resolved that when the book was finished, he’d give it to Liesel, when she was
old enough, and hopefully, when all this nonsense was over.

From the moment
he tested the pencils on the first painted page, he kept the book close at all
times. Often, it was next to him or still in his fingers as he slept.

One afternoon,
after his push-ups and sit-ups, he fell asleep against the basement wall. When
Liesel came down, she found the book sitting next to him, slanted against his
thigh, and curiosity got the better of her. She leaned over and picked it up,
waiting for him to stir. He didn’t. Max was sitting with his head and shoulder
blades against the wall. She could barely make out the sound of his breath,
coasting in and out of him, as she opened the book and glimpsed a few random
pages. . . .

Frightened by
what she saw, Liesel placed the book back down, exactly as she found it,
against Max’s leg.

A voice startled
her.

“Danke schön,”
it said, and
when she looked across, following the trail of sound to its owner, a small sign
of satisfaction was present on his Jewish lips.

“Holy Christ,”
Liesel gasped. “You scared me, Max.”

He returned to
his sleep, and behind her, the girl dragged the same thought up the steps.

You scared me,
Max.

THE WHISTLER AND THE SHOES

The same pattern
continued through the end of summer and well into autumn. Rudy did his best to
survive the Hitler Youth. Max did his push-ups and made his sketches. Liesel
found newspapers and wrote her words on the basement wall.

It’s also worthy
of mention that every pattern has at least one small bias, and one day it will
tip itself over, or fall from one page to another. In this case, the dominant
factor was Rudy. Or at least, Rudy and a freshly fertilized sports field.

Late in October,
all appeared to be usual. A filthy boy was walking down Himmel Street. Within a
few minutes, his family would expect his arrival, and he would lie that
everyone in his Hitler Youth division was given extra drills in the field. His
parents would even expect some laughter. They didn’t get it.

Today Rudy was
all out of laughter and lies.

On this
particular Wednesday, when Liesel looked more closely, she could see that Rudy
Steiner was shirtless. And he was furious.

“What happened?”
she asked as he trudged past.

He reversed back
and held out the shirt. “Smell it,” he said.

“What?”

“Are you deaf? I
said smell it.”

Reluctantly,
Liesel leaned in and caught a ghastly whiff of the brown garment. “Jesus, Mary,
and Joseph! Is that—?”

The boy nodded.
“It’s on my chin, too. My chin! I’m lucky I didn’t swallow it!”

“Jesus, Mary,
and Joseph.”

“The field at
Hitler Youth just got fertilized.” He gave his shirt another halfhearted,
disgusted appraisal. “It’s cow manure, I think.”

“Did
what’s-his-name—Deutscher—know it was there?”

“He says he
didn’t. But he was grinning.”

“Jesus, Mary,
and—”

“Could you stop
saying that?!”

What Rudy needed
at this point in time was a victory. He had lost in his dealings with Viktor
Chemmel. He’d endured problem after problem at the Hitler Youth. All he wanted
was a small scrap of triumph, and he was determined to get it.

He continued
home, but when he reached the concrete step, he changed his mind and came
slowly, purposefully back to the girl.

Careful and
quiet, he spoke. “You know what would cheer me up?”

Liesel cringed.
“If you think I’m going to—in that state . . .”

He seemed
disappointed in her. “No, not that.” He sighed and stepped closer. “Something
else.” After a moment’s thought, he raised his head, just a touch. “Look at me.
I’m filthy. I stink like cow shit, or dog shit, whatever your opinion, and as
usual, I’m absolutely starving.” He paused. “I need a win, Liesel. Honestly.”

Liesel knew.

She’d have gone
closer but for the smell of him.

Stealing.

They had to
steal something.

No.

They had to
steal something
back.
It didn’t matter what. It needed only to be soon.

“Just you and me
this time,” Rudy suggested. “No Chemmels, no Schmeikls. Just you and me.”

The girl couldn’t
help it.

Her hands
itched, her pulse split, and her mouth smiled all at the same time. “Sounds
good.”

“It’s agreed,
then,” and although he tried not to, Rudy could not hide the fertilized grin
that grew on his face. “Tomorrow?”

Liesel nodded.
“Tomorrow.”

Their plan was
perfect but for one thing:

They had no idea
where to start.

Fruit was out.
Rudy snubbed his nose at onions and potatoes, and they drew the line at another
attempt on Otto Sturm and his bikeful of farm produce. Once was immoral. Twice
was complete bastardry.

“So where the
hell do we go?” Rudy asked.

“How should I
know? This was your idea, wasn’t it?”

“That doesn’t
mean you shouldn’t think a little, too. I can’t think of everything.”

“You can barely
think of
anything
. . . .”

They argued on as
they walked through town. On the outskirts, they witnessed the first of the
farms and the trees standing like emaciated statues. The branches were gray and
when they looked up at them, there was nothing but ragged limbs and empty sky.