That
was something he told Liesel on the steps of 8 Grande Strasse, when he rushed
up there after hearing of her survival.
That
day, on the steps, Alex Steiner was sawn apart.
Liesel
told him that she had kissed Rudy’s lips. It embarrassed her, but she thought
he might have liked to know. There were wooden teardrops and an oaky smile. In
Liesel’s vision, the sky I saw was gray and glossy. A silver afternoon.
MAX
When
the war was over and Hitler had delivered himself to my arms, Alex Steiner
resumed work in his tailor shop. There was no money in it, but he busied
himself there for a few hours each day, and Liesel often accompanied him. They
spent many days together, often walking to Dachau after its liberation, only to
be denied by the Americans.
Finally,
in October 1945, a man with swampy eyes, feathers of hair, and a clean-shaven
face walked into the shop. He approached the counter. “Is there someone here by
the name of Liesel Meminger?”
“Yes,
she’s in the back,” said Alex. He was hopeful, but he wanted to be sure. “May I
ask who is calling on her?”
Liesel
came out.
They
hugged and cried and fell to the floor.
THE HANDOVER MAN
Yes, I
have seen a great many things in this world. I attend the greatest disasters
and work for the greatest villains.
But
then there are other moments.
There’s
a multitude of stories (a mere handful, as I have previously suggested) that I
allow to distract me as I work, just as the colors do. I pick them up in the
unluckiest, unlikeliest places and I make sure to remember them as I go about
my work.
The Book Thief
is one such story.
When I
traveled to Sydney and took Liesel away, I was finally able to do something I’d
been waiting on for a long time. I put her down and we walked along Anzac
Avenue, near the soccer field, and I pulled a dusty black book from my pocket.
The old
woman was astonished. She took it in her hand and said, “Is this really it?”
I
nodded.
With
great trepidation, she opened
The Book Thief
and turned the pages. “I
can’t believe . . .” Even though the text had faded, she was able to read her
words. The fingers of her soul touched the story that was written so long ago
in her Himmel Street basement.
She sat
down on the curb, and I joined her.
“Did
you read it?” she asked, but she did not look at me. Her eyes were fixed to the
words.
I
nodded. “Many times.”
“Could
you understand it?”
And at
that point, there was a great pause.
A few
cars drove by, each way. Their drivers were Hitlers and Hubermanns, and Maxes,
killers, Dillers, and Steiners. . . .
I
wanted to tell the book thief many things, about beauty and brutality. But what
could I tell her about those things that she didn’t already know? I wanted to
explain that I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human
race—that rarely do I ever simply
estimate
it. I wanted to ask her how
the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so
damning and brilliant.
None of
those things, however, came out of my mouth.
All I
was able to do was turn to Liesel Meminger and tell her the only truth I truly
know. I said it to the book thief and I say it now to you.
A
LAST NOTE FROM YOUR NARRATOR
I am haunted by humans.
Acknowledgments
I would
like to start by thanking Anna McFarlane (who is as warm as she is
knowledgeable) and Erin Clarke (for her foresight, kindness, and always having
the right advice at the right time). Special thanks must also go to Bri
Tunnicliffe for putting up with me and trying to believe my delivery dates for
rewrites.
I am
indebted to Trudy White for her grace and talent. It’s an honor to have her
artwork in these pages.
A big
thank-you to Melissa Nelson, for making a difficult job look easy. It hasn’t
gone unnoticed.
This
book also wouldn’t be possible without the following people: Cate Paterson,
Nikki Christer, Jo Jarrah, Anyez Lindop, Jane Novak, Fiona Inglis, and
Catherine Drayton. Thank you for putting your valuable time into this story,
and into me. I appreciate it more than I can say.
Thanks
also to the Sydney Jewish Museum, the Australian War Memorial, Doris Seider at
the Jewish Museum of Munich, Andreus Heusler at the Munich City Archive, and
Rebecca Biehler (for information on the seasonal habits of apple trees).
I am
grateful to Dominika Zusak, Kinga Kovacs, and Andrew Janson for all the pep
talks and endurance.
Lastly,
special thanks must go to Lisa and Helmut Zusak—for the stories we find hard to
believe, for laughter, and for showing me another side.