The Book Thief (33 page)

The older boy
only swatted him away, the book held aloft. And he corrected him.

“No,” he said. “
I’ll
do anything
I
want,” and he proceeded to the river. Everyone
followed, at catch-up speed. Half walk, half run. Some protested. Some urged
him on.

It was so quick,
and relaxed. There was a question, and a mocking, friendly voice.

“Tell me,”
Viktor said. “Who was the last Olympic discus champion, in Berlin?” He turned
to face them. He warmed up his arm. “Who
was
it? Goddamn it, it’s on the
tip of my tongue. It was that American, wasn’t it? Carpenter or something . .
.”

“Please!”—Rudy.

The water
toppled.

Viktor Chemmel
did
the spin.

The book was
released gloriously from his hand. It opened and flapped, the pages rattling as
it covered ground in the air. More abruptly than expected, it stopped and
appeared to be sucked toward the water. It clapped when it hit the surface and
began to float downstream.

Viktor shook his
head. “Not enough height. A poor throw.” He smiled again. “But still good
enough to win, huh?”

Liesel and Rudy
didn’t stick around to hear the laughter.

Rudy in
particular had taken off down the riverbank, attempting to locate the book.

“Can you see
it?” Liesel called out.

Rudy ran.

He continued
down the water’s edge, showing her the book’s location. “Over there!” He
stopped and pointed and ran farther down to overtake it. Soon, he peeled off
his coat and jumped in, wading to the middle of the river.

Liesel, slowing
to a walk, could see the ache of each step. The painful cold.

When she was
close enough, she saw it move past him, but he soon caught up. His hand reached
in and collared what was now a soggy block of cardboard and paper.
“The
Whistler!”
the boy called out. It was the only book floating down the Amper
River that day, but he still felt the need to announce it.

Another note of
interest is that Rudy did not attempt to leave the devastatingly cold water as
soon as he held the book in his hand. For a good minute or so, he stayed. He
never did explain it to Liesel, but I think she knew very well that the reasons
were twofold.

1.
After months of failure, this moment was his only chance to revel in some
victory.

2.
Such a position of selflessness was a good
place to ask Liesel for
the usual favor.

“How about a
kiss,
Saumensch
?”

He stood
waist-deep in the water for a few moments longer before climbing out and
handing her the book. His pants clung to him, and he did not stop walking. In
truth, I think he was afraid. Rudy Steiner was scared of the book thief’s kiss.
He must have longed for it so much. He must have loved her so incredibly hard.
So hard that he would never ask for her lips again and would go to his grave
without them.

PART SIX

the
dream carrier

featuring:

death’s diary—the snowman—thirteen

presents—the next book—the nightmare of

a jewish corpse—a newspaper sky—a visitor—

a
schmunzeler
—and a final kiss on poisoned cheeks

DEATH’S DIARY: 1942

It was a year
for the ages, like 79, like 1346, to name just a few. Forget the scythe,
Goddamn it, I needed a broom or a mop. And I needed a vacation.

I actually feel
quite self-indulgent at the moment, telling you all about me, me, me. My
travels, what
I
saw in ’42. On the other hand, you’re a human—you should
understand self-obsession. The point is, there’s a reason for me explaining
what I saw in that time. Much of it would have repercussions for Liesel
Meminger. It brought the war closer to Himmel Street, and it dragged
me
along
for the ride.

There were
certainly some rounds to be made that year, from Poland to Russia to Africa and
back again. You might argue that I make the rounds no matter what year it is,
but sometimes the human race likes to crank things up a little. They increase
the production of bodies and their escaping souls. A few bombs usually do the
trick. Or some gas chambers, or the chitchat of faraway guns. If none of that
finishes proceedings, it at least strips people of their living arrangements,
and I witness the homeless everywhere. They often come after me as I wander
through the streets of molested cities. They beg me to take them with me, not
realizing I’m too busy as it is. “Your time will come,” I convince them, and I
try not to look back. At times, I wish I could say something like, “Don’t you
see I’ve already got enough on my plate?” but I never do. I complain internally
as I go about my work, and some years, the souls and bodies don’t add up; they
multiply.

1.
The desperate Jews—their spirits
in my lap as we sat on the roof,
next to the steaming chimneys.

2.
The Russian soldiers—taking only
small amounts of ammunition, relying
on the fallen for the rest of it.

3.
The soaked bodies of a French coast—
beached on the shingle and sand.

I could go on,
but I’ve decided for now that three examples will suffice. Three examples, if
nothing else, will give you the ashen taste in your mouth that defined my
existence during that year.

So many humans.

So many colors.

They keep
triggering inside me. They harass my memory. I see them tall in their heaps,
all mounted on top of each other. There is air like plastic, a horizon like
setting glue. There are skies manufactured by people, punctured and leaking,
and there are soft, coal-colored clouds, beating like black hearts.

And then.

There is death.

Making his way
through all of it.

On the surface:
unflappable, unwavering.

Below: unnerved,
untied, and undone.

In all honesty
(and I know I’m complaining excessively now), I was still getting over Stalin,
in Russia. The so-called
second revolution
—the murder of his own people.

Then came
Hitler.

They say that war
is death’s best friend, but I must offer you a different point of view on that
one. To me, war is like the new boss who expects the impossible. He stands over
your shoulder repeating one thing, incessantly: “Get it done, get it done.” So
you work harder. You get the job done. The boss, however, does not thank you.
He asks for more.

Often, I try to
remember the strewn pieces of beauty I saw in that time as well. I plow through
my library of stories.

In fact, I reach
for one now.

I believe you
know half of it already, and if you come with me, I’ll show you the rest. I’ll
show you the second half of a book thief.

Unknowingly, she
awaits a great many things that I alluded to just a minute ago, but she also
waits for you.

She’s carrying
some snow down to a basement, of all places.

Handfuls of
frosty water can make almost anyone smile, but it cannot make them forget.

Here she comes.

THE SNOWMAN

For Liesel
Meminger, the early stages of 1942 could be summed up like this:

She became
thirteen years of age. Her chest was still flat. She had not yet bled. The
young man from her basement was now in her bed.

Q&A

Opinions varied,
but Rosa Hubermann claimed that the seeds were sown at Christmas the previous
year.

December 24 had
been hungry and cold, but there was a major bonus—no lengthy visitations. Hans
Junior was simultaneously shooting at Russians and maintaining his strike on
family interaction. Trudy could only stop by on the weekend before Christmas,
for a few hours. She was going away with her family of employment. A holiday
for a very different class of Germany.

On Christmas
Eve, Liesel brought down a double handful of snow as a present for Max. “Close
your eyes,” she’d said. “Hold out your hands.” As soon as the snow was
transferred, Max shivered and laughed, but he still didn’t open his eyes. He
only gave the snow a quick taste, allowing it to sink into his lips.

“Is this today’s
weather report?”

Liesel stood
next to him.

Gently, she
touched his arm.

He raised it
again to his mouth. “Thanks, Liesel.”

It was the
beginning of the greatest Christmas ever. Little food. No presents. But there
was a snowman in their basement.

After delivering
the first handfuls of snow, Liesel checked that no one else was outside, then
proceeded to take as many buckets and pots out as she could. She filled them
with the mounds of snow and ice that blanketed the small strip of world that
was Himmel Street. Once they were full, she brought them in and carried them
down to the basement.

All things being
fair, she first threw a snowball at Max and collected a reply in the stomach.
Max even threw one at Hans Hubermann as he made his way down the basement
steps.

“Arschloch!”
Papa yelped.
“Liesel, give me some of that snow. A whole bucket!” For a few minutes, they
all forgot. There was no more yelling or calling out, but they could not
contain the small snatches of laughter. They were only humans, playing in the
snow, in a house.

Papa looked at
the snow-filled pots. “What do we do with the rest of it?”

“A snowman,”
Liesel replied. “We have to make a snowman.”

Papa called out
to Rosa.

The usual
distant voice was hurled back. “What is it now,
Saukerl
?”

“Come down here,
will you!”

When his wife
appeared, Hans Hubermann risked his life by throwing a most excellent snowball
at her. Just missing, it disintegrated when it hit the wall, and Mama had an
excuse to swear for a long time without taking a breath. Once she recovered,
she came down and helped them. She even brought the buttons for the eyes and
nose and some string for a snowman smile. Even a scarf and hat were provided
for what was really only a two-foot man of snow.

“A midget,” Max
had said.

“What do we do
when it melts?” Liesel asked.

Rosa had the
answer. “You mop it up,
Saumensch,
in a hurry.”

Papa disagreed.
“It won’t melt.” He rubbed his hands and blew into them. “It’s freezing down
here.”

Melt it did,
though, but somewhere in each of them, that snowman was still upright. It must
have been the last thing they saw that Christmas Eve when they finally fell
asleep. There was an accordion in their ears, a snowman in their eyes, and for
Liesel, there was the thought of Max’s last words before she left him by the
fire.

Unfortunately,
that night signaled a severe downslide in Max’s health. The early signs were
innocent enough, and typical. Constant coldness. Swimming hands. Increased
visions of boxing with the
Führer.
It was only when he couldn’t warm up
after his push-ups and sit-ups that it truly began to worry him. As close to
the fire as he sat, he could not raise himself to any degree of approximate
health. Day by day, his weight began to stumble off him. His exercise regimen
faltered and fell apart, with his cheek against the surly basement floor.

All through
January, he managed to hold himself together, but by early February, Max was in
worrisome shape. He would struggle to wake up next to the fire, sleeping well
into the morning instead, his mouth distorted and his cheekbones starting to
swell. When asked, he said he was fine.

In mid-February,
a few days before Liesel was thirteen, he came to the fireplace on the verge of
collapse. He nearly fell into the fire.

“Hans,” he
whispered, and his face seemed to cramp. His legs gave way and his head hit the
accordion case.

At once, a
wooden spoon fell into some soup and Rosa Hubermann was at his side. She held
Max’s head and barked across the room at Liesel, “Don’t just stand there, get
the extra blankets. Take them to your bed. And you!” Papa was next. “Help me
pick him up and carry him to Liesel’s room.
Schnell!
”