بخش 01-01

PART ONE

the grave diggers handbook

featuring: himmel streetthe art of saumenschingan ironfisted womana kiss attemptjesse owens sandpaperthe smell of friendshipa heavyweight championand the mother of all watschens ARRIVAL ON HIMMEL STREET

That last time. That red sky . . . How does a book thief end up kneeling and howling and flanked by a man-made heap of ridiculous, greasy, cooked-up rubble? Years earlier, the start was snow. The time had come. For one.

A SPECTACULARLY TRAGIC MOMENT A train was moving quickly. It was packed with humans. A six-year-old boy died in the third carriage.

The book thief and her brother were traveling down toward Munich, where they would soon be given over to foster parents. We now know, of course, that the boy didnt make it.

HOW IT HAPPENED There was an intense spurt of coughing. Almost an inspired spurt. And soon afternothing.

When the coughing stopped, there was nothing but the nothingness of life moving on with a shuffle, or a near-silent twitch. A suddenness found its way onto his lips then, which were a corroded brown color and peeling, like old paint. In desperate need of redoing. Their mother was asleep. I entered the train. My feet stepped through the cluttered aisle and my palm was over his mouth in an instant. No one noticed. The train galloped on. Except the girl. With one eye open, one still in a dream, the book thiefalso known as Liesel Memingercould see without question that her younger brother, Werner, was now sideways and dead. His blue eyes stared at the floor. Seeing nothing. Prior to waking up, the book thief was dreaming about the Fhrer, Adolf Hitler. In the dream, she was attending a rally at which he spoke, looking at the skull-colored part in his hair and the perfect square of his mustache. She was listening contentedly to the torrent of words spilling from his mouth. His sentences glowed in the light. In a quieter moment, he actually crouched down and smiled at her. She returned the smile and said, Guten Tag, Herr Fhrer. Wie gehts dir heut? She hadnt learned to speak too well, or even to read, as she had rarely frequented school. The reason for that she would find out in due course. Just as the Fhrer was about to reply, she woke up. It was January 1939. She was nine years old, soon to be ten. Her brother was dead. One eye open. One still in a dream. It would be better for a complete dream, I think, but I really have no control over that. The second eye jumped awake and she caught me out, no doubt about it. It was exactly when I knelt down and extracted his soul, holding it limply in my swollen arms. He warmed up soon after, but when I picked him up originally, the boys spirit was soft and cold, like ice cream. He started melting in my arms. Then warming up completely. Healing. For Liesel Meminger, there was the imprisoned stiffness of movement and the staggered onslaught of thoughts. Es stimmt nicht. This isnt happening. This isnt happening. And the shaking. Why do they always shake them? Yes, I know, I know, I assume it has something to do with instinct. To stem the flow of truth. Her heart at that point was slippery and hot, and loud, so loud so loud. Stupidly, I stayed. I watched. Next, her mother. She woke her up with the same distraught shake. If you cant imagine it, think clumsy silence. Think bits and pieces of floating despair. And drowning in a train. Snow had been falling consistently, and the service to Munich was forced to stop due to faulty track work. There was a woman wailing. A girl stood numbly next to her. In panic, the mother opened the door. She climbed down into the snow, holding the small body. What could the girl do but follow? As youve been informed, two guards also exited the train. They discussed and argued over what to do. The situation was unsavory to say the least. It was eventually decided that all three of them should be taken to the next township and left there to sort things out. This time, the train limped through the snowed-in country. It hobbled in and stopped. They stepped onto the platform, the body in her mothers arms. They stood. The boy was getting heavy. Liesel had no idea where she was. All was white, and as they remained at the station, she could only stare at the faded lettering of the sign in front of her. For Liesel, the town was nameless, and it was there that her brother, Werner, was buried two days later. Witnesses included a priest and two shivering grave diggers.

AN OBSERVATION A pair of train guards. A pair of grave diggers. When it came down to it, one of them called the shots. The other did what he was told. The question is, what if the other is a lot more than one?

Mistakes, mistakes, its all I seem capable of at times. For two days, I went about my business. I traveled the globe as always, handing souls to the conveyor belt of eternity. I watched them trundle passively on. Several times, I warned myself that I should keep a good distance from the burial of Liesel Memingers brother. I did not heed my advice. From miles away, as I approached, I could already see the small group of humans standing frigidly among the wasteland of snow. The cemetery welcomed me like a friend, and soon, I was with them. I bowed my head. Standing to Liesels left, the grave diggers were rubbing their hands together and whining about the snow and the current digging conditions. So hard getting through all the ice, and so forth. One of them couldnt have been more than fourteen. An apprentice. When he walked away, after a few dozen paces, a black book fell innocuously from his coat pocket without his knowledge. A few minutes later, Liesels mother started leaving with the priest. She was thanking him for his performance of the ceremony. The girl, however, stayed. Her knees entered the ground. Her moment had arrived. Still in disbelief, she started to dig. He couldnt be dead. He couldnt be dead. He couldnt Within seconds, snow was carved into her skin. Frozen blood was cracked across her hands. Somewhere in all the snow, she could see her broken heart, in two pieces. Each half was glowing, and beating under all that white. She realized her mother had come back for her only when she felt the boniness of a hand on her shoulder. She was being dragged away. A warm scream filled her throat.

A SMALL IMAGE, PERHAPS * TWENTY METERS AWAY When the dragging was done, the mother and the girl stood and breathed. There was something black and rectangular lodged in the snow. Only the girl saw it. She bent down and picked it up and held it firmly in her fingers. The book had silver writing on it.

They held hands. A final, soaking farewell was let go of, and they turned and left the cemetery, looking back several times. As for me, I remained a few moments longer. I waved. No one waved back. Mother and daughter vacated the cemetery and made their way toward the next train to Munich. Both were skinny and pale. Both had sores on their lips. Liesel noticed it in the dirty, fogged-up window of the train when they boarded just before midday. In the written words of the book thief herself, the journey continued like everything had happened. When the train pulled into the Bahnhof in Munich, the passengers slid out as if from a torn package. There were people of every stature, but among them, the poor were the most easily recognized. The impoverished always try to keep moving, as if relocating might help. They ignore the reality that a new version of the same old problem will be waiting at the end of the tripthe relative you cringe to kiss. I think her mother knew this quite well. She wasnt delivering her children to the higher echelons of Munich, but a foster home had apparently been found, and if nothing else, the new family could at least feed the girl and the boy a little better, and educate them properly. The boy. Liesel was sure her mother carried the memory of him, slung over her shoulder. She dropped him. She saw his feet and legs and body slap the platform. How could that woman walk? How could she move? Thats the sort of thing Ill never know, or comprehendwhat humans are capable of. She picked him up and continued walking, the girl clinging now to her side. Authorities were met and questions of lateness and the boy raised their vulnerable heads. Liesel remained in the corner of the small, dusty office as her mother sat with clenched thoughts on a very hard chair. There was the chaos of goodbye. It was a goodbye that was wet, with the girls head buried into the woolly, worn shallows of her mothers coat. There had been some more dragging. Quite a way beyond the outskirts of Munich, there was a town called Molching, said best by the likes of you and me as Molking. Thats where they were taking her, to a street by the name of Himmel.

A TRANSLATION Himmel = Heaven

Whoever named Himmel Street certainly had a healthy sense of irony. Not that it was a living hell. It wasnt. But it sure as hell wasnt heaven, either. Regardless, Liesels foster parents were waiting. The Hubermanns. Theyd been expecting a girl and a boy and would be paid a small allowance for having them. Nobody wanted to be the one to tell Rosa Hubermann that the boy didnt survive the trip. In fact, no one ever really wanted to tell her anything. As far as dispositions go, hers wasnt really enviable, although she had a good record with foster kids in the past. Apparently, shed straightened a few out. For Liesel, it was a ride in a car. Shed never been in one before. There was the constant rise and fall of her stomach, and the futile hopes that theyd lose their way or change their minds. Among it all, her thoughts couldnt help turning toward her mother, back at the Bahnhof, waiting to leave again. Shivering. Bundled up in that useless coat. Shed be eating her nails, waiting for the train. The platform would be long and uncomfortablea slice of cold cement. Would she keep an eye out for the approximate burial site of her son on the return trip? Or would sleep be too heavy? The car moved on, with Liesel dreading the last, lethal turn. The day was gray, the color of Europe. Curtains of rain were drawn around the car. Nearly there. The foster care lady, Frau Heinrich, turned around and smiled. Dein neues Heim. Your new home. Liesel made a clear circle on the dribbled glass and looked out.

A PHOTO OF HIMMEL STREET The buildings appear to be glued together, mostly small houses and apartment blocks that look nervous. There is murky snow spread out like carpet. There is concrete, empty hat-stand trees, and gray air.

A man was also in the car. He remained with the girl while Frau Heinrich disappeared inside. He never spoke. Liesel assumed he was there to make sure she wouldnt run away or to force her inside if she gave them any trouble. Later, however, when the trouble did start, he simply sat there and watched. Perhaps he was only the last resort, the final solution. After a few minutes, a very tall man came out. Hans Hubermann, Liesels foster father. On one side of him was the medium-height Frau Heinrich. On the other was the squat shape of Rosa Hubermann, who looked like a small wardrobe with a coat thrown over it. There was a distinct waddle to her walk. Almost cute, if it wasnt for her face, which was like creased-up cardboard and annoyed, as if she was merely tolerating all of it. Her husband walked straight, with a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. He rolled his own. The fact was this: Liesel would not get out of the car. Was ist los mit dem Kind? Rosa Hubermann inquired. She said it again. Whats wrong with this child? She stuck her face inside the car and said, Na, komm. Komm. The seat in front was flung forward. A corridor of cold light invited her out. She would not move. Outside, through the circle shed made, Liesel could see the tall mans fingers, still holding the cigarette. Ash stumbled from its edge and lunged and lifted several times until it hit the ground. It took nearly fifteen minutes to coax her from the car. It was the tall man who did it. Quietly. There was the gate next, which she clung to. A gang of tears trudged from her eyes as she held on and refused to go inside. People started to gather on the street until Rosa Hubermann swore at them, after which they reversed back, whence they came.

A TRANSLATION OF ROSA HUBERMANNS ANNOUNCEMENT What are you assholes looking at?

Eventually, Liesel Meminger walked gingerly inside. Hans Hubermann had her by one hand. Her small suitcase had her by the other. Buried beneath the folded layer of clothes in that suitcase was a small black book, which, for all we know, a fourteen-year-old grave digger in a nameless town had probably spent the last few hours looking for. I promise you, I imagine him saying to his boss, I have no idea what happened to it. Ive looked everywhere. Everywhere! Im sure he would never have suspected the girl, and yet, there it wasa black book with silver words written against the ceiling of her clothes:

THE GRAVE DIGGERS HANDBOOK A Twelve-Step Guide to Grave-Digging Success Published by the Bayern Cemetery Association

The book thief had struck for the first timethe beginning of an illustrious career. GROWING UP A SAUMENSCH

Yes, an illustrious career. I should hasten to admit, however, that there was a considerable hiatus between the first stolen book and the second. Another noteworthy point is that the first was stolen from snow and the second from fire. Not to omit that others were also given to her. All told, she owned fourteen books, but she saw her story as being made up predominantly of ten of them. Of those ten, six were stolen, one showed up at the kitchen table, two were made for her by a hidden Jew, and one was delivered by a soft, yellow-dressed afternoon. When she came to write her story, she would wonder exactly when the books and the words started to mean not just something, but everything. Was it when she first set eyes on the room with shelves and shelves of them? Or when Max Vandenburg arrived on Himmel Street carrying handfuls of suffering and Hitlers Mein Kampf ? Was it reading in the shelters? The last parade to Dachau? Was it The Word Shaker? Perhaps there would never be a precise answer as to when and where it occurred. In any case, thats getting ahead of myself. Before we make it to any of that, we first need to tour Liesel Memingers beginnings on Himmel Street and the art of saumensching: Upon her arrival, you could still see the bite marks of snow on her hands and the frosty blood on her fingers. Everything about her was undernourished. Wirelike shins. Coat hanger arms. She did not produce it easily, but when it came, she had a starving smile. Her hair was a close enough brand of German blond, but she had dangerous eyes. Dark brown. You didnt really want brown eyes in Germany around that time. Perhaps she received them from her father, but she had no way of knowing, as she couldnt remember him. There was really only one thing she knew about her father. It was a label she did not understand.

A STRANGE WORD Kommunist

Shed heard it several times in the past few years. Communist. There were boardinghouses crammed with people, rooms filled with questions. And that word. That strange word was always there somewhere, standing in the corner, watching from the dark. It wore suits, uniforms. No matter where they went, there it was, each time her father was mentioned. She could smell it and taste it. She just couldnt spell or understand it. When she asked her mother what it meant, she was told that it wasnt important, that she shouldnt worry about such things. At one boardinghouse, there was a healthier woman who tried to teach the children to write, using charcoal on the wall. Liesel was tempted to ask her the meaning, but it never eventuated. One day, that woman was taken away for questioning. She didnt come back. When Liesel arrived in Molching, she had at least some inkling that she was being saved, but that was not a comfort. If her mother loved her, why leave her on someone elses doorstep? Why? Why? Why? The fact that she knew the answerif only at the most basic levelseemed beside the point. Her mother was constantly sick and there was never any money to fix her. Liesel knew that. But that didnt mean she had to accept it. No matter how many times she was told that she was loved, there was no recognition that the proof was in the abandonment. Nothing changed the fact that she was a lost, skinny child in another foreign place, with more foreign people. Alone. The Hubermanns lived in one of the small, boxlike houses on Himmel Street. A few rooms, a kitchen, and a shared outhouse with neighbors. The roof was flat and there was a shallow basement for storage. It was supposedly not a basement of adequate depth. In 1939, this wasnt a problem. Later, in 42 and 43, it was. When air raids started, they always needed to rush down the street to a better shelter. In the beginning, it was the profanity that made an immediate impact. It was so vehement and prolific. Every second word was either Saumensch or Saukerl or Arschloch. For people who arent familiar with these words, I should explain. Sau, of course, refers to pigs. In the case of Saumensch, it serves to castigate, berate, or plain humiliate a female. Saukerl (pronounced saukairl) is for a male. Arschloch can be translated directly into asshole. That word, however, does not differentiate between the sexes. It simply is. Saumensch, du dreckiges! Liesels foster mother shouted that first evening when she refused to have a bath. You filthy pig! Why wont you get undressed? She was good at being furious. In fact, you could say that Rosa Hubermann had a face decorated with constant fury. That was how the creases were made in the cardboard texture of her complexion. Liesel, naturally, was bathed in anxiety. There was no way she was getting into any bath, or into bed for that matter. She was twisted into one corner of the closetlike washroom, clutching for the nonexistent arms of the wall for some level of support. There was nothing but dry paint, difficult breath, and the deluge of abuse from Rosa. Leave her alone. Hans Hubermann entered the fray. His gentle voice made its way in, as if slipping through a crowd. Leave her to me. He moved closer and sat on the floor, against the wall. The tiles were cold and unkind. You know how to roll a cigarette? he asked her, and for the next hour or so, they sat in the rising pool of darkness, playing with the tobacco and the cigarette papers and Hans Hubermann smoking them. When the hour was up, Liesel could roll a cigarette moderately well. She still didnt have a bath.

SOME FACTS ABOUT HANS HUBERMANN He loved to smoke. The main thing he enjoyed about smoking was the rolling. He was a painter by trade and played the piano accordion. This came in handy, especially in winter, when he could make a little money playing in the pubs of Molching, like the Knoller. He had already cheated me in one world war but would later be put into another (as a perverse kind of reward), where he would somehow manage to avoid me again.

To most people, Hans Hubermann was barely visible. An un-special person. Certainly, his painting skills were excellent. His musical ability was better than average. Somehow, though, and Im sure youve met people like this, he was able to appear as merely part of the background, even if he was standing at the front of a line. He was always just there. Not noticeable. Not important or particularly valuable. The frustration of that appearance, as you can imagine, was its complete misleadence, lets say. There most definitely was value in him, and it did not go unnoticed by Liesel Meminger. (The human childso much cannier at times than the stupefyingly ponderous adult.) She saw it immediately. His manner. The quiet air around him. When he turned the light on in the small, callous washroom that night, Liesel observed the strangeness of her foster fathers eyes. They were made of kindness, and silver. Like soft silver, melting. Liesel, upon seeing those eyes, understood that Hans Hubermann was worth a lot.

SOME FACTS ABOUT ROSA HUBERMANN She was five feet, one inch tall and wore her browny gray strands of elastic hair in a bun. To supplement the Hubermann income, she did the washing and ironing for five of the wealthier households in Molching. Her cooking was atrocious.

She possessed the unique ability to aggravate almost anyone she ever met. But she did love Liesel Meminger. Her way of showing it just happened to be strange. It involved bashing her with wooden spoon and words at various intervals.

When Liesel finally had a bath, after two weeks of living on Himmel Street, Rosa gave her an enormous, injury-inducing hug. Nearly choking her, she said, Saumensch, du dreckigesits about time! After a few months, they were no longer Mr. and Mrs. Hubermann. With a typical fistful of words, Rosa said, Now listen, Lieselfrom now on you call me Mama. She thought a moment. What did you call your real mother? Liesel answered quietly. Auch Mamaalso Mama. Well, Im Mama Number Two, then. She looked over at her husband. And him over there. She seemed to collect the words in her hand, pat them together, and hurl them across the table. That Saukerl, that filthy pigyou call him Papa, verstehst? Understand? Yes, Liesel promptly agreed. Quick answers were appreciated in this household. Yes, Mama, Mama corrected her. Saumensch. Call me Mama when you talk to me. At that moment, Hans Hubermann had just completed rolling a cigarette, having licked the paper and joined it all up. He looked over at Liesel and winked. She would have no trouble calling him Papa. THE WOMAN WITH THE IRON FIST

Those first few months were definitely the hardest. Every night, Liesel would nightmare. Her brothers face. Staring at the floor. She would wake up swimming in her bed, screaming, and drowning in the flood of sheets. On the other side of the room, the bed that was meant for her brother floated boatlike in the darkness. Slowly, with the arrival of consciousness, it sank, seemingly into the floor. This vision didnt help matters, and it would usually be quite a while before the screaming stopped. Possibly the only good to come out of these nightmares was that it brought Hans Hubermann, her new papa, into the room, to soothe her, to love her. He came in every night and sat with her. The first couple of times, he simply stayeda stranger to kill the aloneness. A few nights after that, he whispered, Shhh, Im here, its all right. After three weeks, he held her. Trust was accumulated quickly, due primarily to the brute strength of the mans gentleness, his thereness. The girl knew from the outset that Hans Hubermann would always appear midscream, and he would not leave.

A DEFINITION NOT FOUND IN THE DICTIONARY Not leaving: an act of trust and love, often deciphered by children

Hans Hubermann sat sleepy-eyed on the bed and Liesel would cry into his sleeves and breathe him in. Every morning, just after two oclock, she fell asleep again to the smell of him. It was a mixture of dead cigarettes, decades of paint, and human skin. At first, she sucked it all in, then breathed it, until she drifted back down. Each morning, he was a few feet away from her, crumpled, almost halved, in the chair. He never used the other bed. Liesel would climb out and cautiously kiss his cheek and he would wake up and smile. Some days Papa told her to get back into bed and wait a minute, and he would return with his accordion and play for her. Liesel would sit up and hum, her cold toes clenched with excitement. No one had ever given her music before. She would grin herself stupid, watching the lines drawing themselves down his face and the soft metal of his eyesuntil the swearing arrived from the kitchen. STOPTHATNOISE, SAUKERL! Papa would play a little longer. He would wink at the girl, and clumsily, shed wink back. A few times, purely to incense Mama a little further, he also brought the instrument to the kitchen and played through breakfast. Papas bread and jam would be half eaten on his plate, curled into the shape of bite marks, and the music would look Liesel in the face. I know it sounds strange, but thats how it felt to her. Papas right hand strolled the tooth-colored keys. His left hit the buttons. (She especially loved to see him hit the silver, sparkled buttonthe C major.) The accordions scratched yet shiny black exterior came back and forth as his arms squeezed the dusty bellows, making it suck in the air and throw it back out. In the kitchen on those mornings, Papa made the accordion live. I guess it makes sense, when you really think about it. How do you tell if somethings alive? You check for breathing. The sound of the accordion was, in fact, also the announcement of safety. Daylight. During the day, it was impossible to dream of her brother. She would miss him and frequently cry in the tiny washroom as quietly as possible, but she was still glad to be awake. On her first night with the Hubermanns, she had hidden her last link to him The Grave Diggers Handbookunder her mattress, and occasionally she would pull it out and hold it. Staring at the letters on the cover and touching the print inside, she had no idea what any of it was saying. The point is, it didnt really matter what that book was about. It was what it meant that was more important.

THE BOOKS MEANING

The last time she saw her brother. The last time she saw her mother. Sometimes she would whisper the word Mama and see her mothers face a hundred times in a single afternoon. But those were small miseries compared to the terror of her dreams. At those times, in the enormous mileage of sleep, she had never felt so completely alone. As Im sure youve already noticed, there were no other children in the house. The Hubermanns had two of their own, but they were older and had moved out. Hans Junior worked in the center of Munich, and Trudy held a job as a housemaid and child minder. Soon, they would both be in the war. One would be making bullets. The other would be shooting them. School, as you might imagine, was a terrific failure. Although it was state-run, there was a heavy Catholic influence, and Liesel was Lutheran. Not the most auspicious start. Then they discovered she couldnt read or write. Humiliatingly, she was cast down with the younger kids, who were only just learning the alphabet. Even though she was thin-boned and pale, she felt gigantic among the midget children, and she often wished she was pale enough to disappear altogether. Even at home, there wasnt much room for guidance. Dont ask him for help, Mama pointed out. That Saukerl. Papa was staring out the window, as was often his habit. He left school in fourth grade. Without turning around, Papa answered calmly, but with venom, Well, dont ask her, either. He dropped some ash outside. She left school in third grade. There were no books in the house (apart from the one she had secreted under her mattress), and the best Liesel could do was speak the alphabet under her breath before she was told in no uncertain terms to keep quiet. All that mumbling. It wasnt until later, when there was a bed-wetting incident midnightmare, that an extra reading education began. Unofficially, it was called the midnight class, even though it usually commenced at around two in the morning. More of that soon. In mid-February, when she turned ten, Liesel was given a used doll that had a missing leg and yellow hair. It was the best we could do, Papa apologized. What are you talking about? Shes lucky to have that much, Mama corrected him. Hans continued his examination of the remaining leg while Liesel tried on her new uniform. Ten years old meant Hitler Youth. Hitler Youth meant a small brown uniform. Being female, Liesel was enrolled into what was called the BDM.

EXPLANATION OF THE ABBREVIATION It stood for Bund Deutscher Mdchen Band of German Girls.

The first thing they did there was make sure your heil Hitler was working properly. Then you were taught to march straight, roll bandages, and sew up clothes. You were also taken hiking and on other such activities. Wednesday and Saturday were the designated meeting days, from three in the afternoon until five. Each Wednesday and Saturday, Papa would walk Liesel there and pick her up two hours later. They never spoke about it much. They just held hands and listened to their feet, and Papa had a cigarette or two. The only anxiety Papa brought her was the fact that he was constantly leaving. Many evenings, he would walk into the living room (which doubled as the Hubermanns bedroom), pull the accordion from the old cupboard, and squeeze past in the kitchen to the front door. As he walked up Himmel Street, Mama would open the window and cry out, Dont be home too late! Not so loud, he would turn and call back. Saukerl! Lick my ass! Ill speak as loud as I want! The echo of her swearing followed him up the street. He never looked back, or at least, not until he was sure his wife was gone. On those evenings, at the end of the street, accordion case in hand, he would turn around, just before Frau Dillers corner shop, and see the figure who had replaced his wife in the window. Briefly, his long, ghostly hand would rise before he turned again and walked slowly on. The next time Liesel saw him would be at two in the morning, when he dragged her gently from her nightmare. Evenings in the small kitchen were raucous, without fail. Rosa Hubermann was always talking, and when she was talking, it took the form of schimpfen. She was constantly arguing and complaining. There was no one to really argue with, but Mama managed it expertly every chance she had. She could argue with the entire world in that kitchen, and almost every evening, she did. Once they had eaten and Papa was gone, Liesel and Rosa would usually remain there, and Rosa would do the ironing. A few times a week, Liesel would come home from school and walk the streets of Molching with her mama, picking up and delivering washing and ironing from the wealthier parts of town. Knaupt Strasse, Heide Strasse. A few others. Mama would deliver the ironing or pick up the washing with a dutiful smile, but as soon as the door was shut and she walked away, she would curse these rich people, with all their money and laziness. Too gschtinkerdt to wash their own clothes, she would say, despite her dependence on them. Him, she accused Herr Vogel from Heide Strasse. Made all his money from his father. He throws it away on women and drink. And washing and ironing, of course. It was like a roll call of scorn. Herr Vogel, Herr and Frau Pfaffelhrver, Helena Schmidt, the Weingartners. They were all guilty of something. Apart from his drunkenness and expensive lechery, Ernst Vogel, according to Rosa, was constantly scratching his louse-ridden hair, licking his fingers, and then handing over the money. I should wash it before I come home, was her summation. The Pfaffelhrvers scrutinized the results. Not one crease in these shirts, please, Rosa imitated them. Not one wrinkle in this suit. And then they stand there and inspect it all, right in front of me. Right under my nose! What a Gsindelwhat trash. The Weingartners were apparently stupid people with a constantly molting Saumensch of a cat. Do you know how long it takes me to get rid of all that fur? Its everywhere! Helena Schmidt was a rich widow. That old cripplesitting there just wasting away. Shes never had to do a days work in all her life. Rosas greatest disdain, however, was reserved for 8 Grande Strasse. A large house, high on a hill, in the upper part of Molching. This one, shed pointed out to Liesel the first time they went there, is the mayors house. That crook. His wife sits at home all day, too mean to light a fireits always freezing in there. Shes crazy. She punctuated the words. Absolutely. Crazy. At the gate, she motioned to the girl. You go. Liesel was horrified. A giant brown door with a brass knocker stood atop a small flight of steps. What? Mama shoved her. Dont you what me, Saumensch. Move it. Liesel moved it. She walked the path, climbed the steps, hesitated, and knocked. A bathrobe answered the door. Inside it, a woman with startled eyes, hair like fluff, and the posture of defeat stood in front of her. She saw Mama at the gate and handed the girl a bag of washing. Thank you, Liesel said, but there was no reply. Only the door. It closed. You see? said Mama when she returned to the gate. This is what I have to put up with. These rich bastards, these lazy swine . . . Holding the washing as they walked away, Liesel looked back. The brass knocker eyed her from the door. When she finished berating the people she worked for, Rosa Hubermann would usually move on to her other favorite theme of abuse. Her husband. Looking at the bag of washing and the hunched houses, she would talk, and talk, and talk. If your papa was any good, she informed Liesel every time they walked through Molching, I wouldnt have to do this. She sniffed with derision. A painter! Why marry that Arschloch ? Thats what they told memy family, that is. Their footsteps crunched along the path. And here I am, walking the streets and slaving in my kitchen because that Saukerl never has any work. No real work, anyway. Just that pathetic accordion in those dirt holes every night. Yes, Mama. Is that all youve got to say? Mamas eyes were like pale blue cutouts, pasted to her face. Theyd walk on. With Liesel carrying the sack. At home, it was washed in a boiler next to the stove, hung up by the fireplace in the living room, and then ironed in the kitchen. The kitchen was where the action was. Did you hear that? Mama asked her nearly every night. The iron was in her fist, heated from the stove. Light was dull all through the house, and Liesel, sitting at the kitchen table, would be staring at the gaps of fire in front of her. What? shed reply. What is it? That was that Holtzapfel. Mama was already out of her seat. That Saumensch just spat on our door again. It was a tradition for Frau Holtzapfel, one of their neighbors, to spit on the Hubermanns door every time she walked past. The front door was only meters from the gate, and lets just say that Frau Holtzapfel had the distanceand the accuracy. The spitting was due to the fact that she and Rosa Hubermann were engaged in some kind of decade-long verbal war. No one knew the origin of this hostility. Theyd probably forgotten it themselves. Frau Holtzapfel was a wiry woman and quite obviously spiteful. Shed never married but had two sons, a few years older than the Hubermann offspring. Both were in the army and both will make cameo appearances by the time were finished here, I assure you. In the spiteful stakes, I should also say that Frau Holtzapfel was thorough with her spitting, too. She never neglected to spuck on the door of number thirty-three and say, Schweine! each time she walked past. One thing Ive noticed about the Germans: They seem very fond of pigs.

A SMALL QUESTION AND ITS ANSWER And who do you think was made to clean the spit off the door each night? Yesyou got it.

When a woman with an iron fist tells you to get out there and clean spit off the door, you do it. Especially when the irons hot. It was all just part of the routine, really. Each night, Liesel would step outside, wipe the door, and watch the sky. Usually it was like spillagecold and heavy, slippery and graybut once in a while some stars had the nerve to rise and float, if only for a few minutes. On those nights, she would stay a little longer and wait. Hello, stars. Waiting. For the voice from the kitchen. Or till the stars were dragged down again, into the waters of the German sky. THE KISS

(A Childhood Decision Maker)

As with most small towns, Molching was filled with characters. A handful of them lived on Himmel Street. Frau Holtzapfel was only one cast member. The others included the likes of these: Rudy Steinerthe boy next door who was obsessed with the black American athlete Jesse Owens. Frau Dillerthe staunch Aryan corner-shop owner. Tommy Mllera kid whose chronic ear infections had resulted in several operations, a pink river of skin painted across his face, and a tendency to twitch. A man known primarily as Pfiffikuswhose vulgarity made Rosa Hubermann look like a wordsmith and a saint. On the whole, it was a street filled with relatively poor people, despite the apparent rise of Germanys economy under Hitler. Poor sides of town still existed. As mentioned already, the house next door to the Hubermanns was rented by a family called Steiner. The Steiners had six children. One of them, the infamous Rudy, would soon become Liesels best friend, and later, her partner and sometime catalyst in crime. She met him on the street. A few days after Liesels first bath, Mama allowed her out, to play with the other kids. On Himmel Street, friendships were made outside, no matter the weather. The children rarely visited each others homes, for they were small and there was usually very little in them. Also, they conducted their favorite pastime, like professionals, on the street. Soccer. Teams were well set. Garbage cans were used to mark out the goals. Being the new kid in town, Liesel was immediately shoved between one pair of those cans. (Tommy Mller was finally set free, despite being the most useless soccer player Himmel Street had ever seen.) It all went nicely for a while, until the fateful moment when Rudy Steiner was upended in the snow by a Tommy Mller foul of frustration. What?! Tommy shouted. His face twitched in desperation. What did I do?! A penalty was awarded by everyone on Rudys team, and now it was Rudy Steiner against the new kid, Liesel Meminger. He placed the ball on a grubby mound of snow, confident of the usual outcome. After all, Rudy hadnt missed a penalty in eighteen shots, even when the opposition made a point of booting Tommy Mller out of goal. No matter whom they replaced him with, Rudy would score. On this occasion, they tried to force Liesel out. As you might imagine, she protested, and Rudy agreed. No, no. He smiled. Let her stay. He was rubbing his hands together. Snow had stopped falling on the filthy street now, and the muddy footprints were gathered between them. Rudy shuffled in, fired the shot, and Liesel dived and somehow deflected it with her elbow. She stood up grinning, but the first thing she saw was a snowball smashing into her face. Half of it was mud. It stung like crazy. How do you like that? The boy grinned, and he ran off in pursuit of the ball. Saukerl, Liesel whispered. The vocabulary of her new home was catching on fast.

SOME FACTS ABOUT RUDY STEINER He was eight months older than Liesel and had bony legs, sharp teeth, gangly blue eyes, and hair the color of a lemon. One of six Steiner children, he was permanently hungry.

On Himmel Street, he was considered a little crazy. This was on account of an event that was rarely spoken about but widely regarded as The Jesse Owens Incident, in which he painted himself charcoal black and ran the 100 meters at the local playing field one night. Insane or not, Rudy was always destined to be Liesels best friend. A snowball in the face is surely the perfect beginning to a lasting friendship. A few days after Liesel started school, she went along with the Steiners. Rudys mother, Barbara, made him promise to walk with the new girl, mainly because shed heard about the snowball. To Rudys credit, he was happy enough to comply. He was not the junior misogynistic type of boy at all. He liked girls a lot, and he liked Liesel (hence, the snowball). In fact, Rudy Steiner was one of those audacious little bastards who actually fancied himself with the ladies. Every childhood seems to have exactly such a juvenile in its midst and mists. Hes the boy who refuses to fear the opposite sex, purely because everyone else embraces that particular fear, and hes the type who is unafraid to make a decision. In this case, Rudy had already made up his mind about Liesel Meminger. On the way to school, he tried to point out certain landmarks in the town, or at least, he managed to slip it all in, somewhere between telling his younger siblings to shut their faces and the older ones telling him to shut his. His first point of interest was a small window on the second floor of an apartment block. Thats where Tommy Mller lives. He realized that Liesel didnt remember him. The twitcher? When he was five years old, he got lost at the markets on the coldest day of the year. Three hours later, when they found him, he was frozen solid and had an awful earache from the cold. After a while, his ears were all infected inside and he had three or four operations and the doctors wrecked his nerves. So now he twitches. Liesel chimed in, And hes bad at soccer. The worst. Next was the corner shop at the end of Himmel Street. Frau Dillers.

AN IMPORTANT NOTE ABOUT FRAU DILLER She had one golden rule.

Frau Diller was a sharp-edged woman with fat glasses and a nefarious glare. She developed this evil look to discourage the very idea of stealing from her shop, which she occupied with soldierlike posture, a refrigerated voice, and even breath that smelled like heil Hitler. The shop itself was white and cold, and completely bloodless. The small house compressed beside it shivered with a little more severity than the other buildings on Himmel Street. Frau Diller administered this feeling, dishing it out as the only free item from her premises. She lived for her shop and her shop lived for the Third Reich. Even when rationing started later in the year, she was known to sell certain hard-to-get items under the counter and donate the money to the Nazi Party. On the wall behind her usual sitting position was a framed photo of the Fhrer. If you walked into her shop and didnt say heil Hitler, you wouldnt be served. As they walked by, Rudy drew Liesels attention to the bulletproof eyes leering from the shop window. Say heil when you go in there, he warned her stiffly. Unless you want to walk a little farther. Even when they were well past the shop, Liesel looked back and the magnified eyes were still there, fastened to the window. Around the corner, Munich Street (the main road in and out of Molching) was strewn with slosh. As was often the case, a few rows of troops in training came marching past. Their uniforms walked upright and their black boots further polluted the snow. Their faces were fixed ahead in concentration. Once theyd watched the soldiers disappear, the group of Steiners and Liesel walked past some shop windows and the imposing town hall, which in later years would be chopped off at the knees and buried. A few of the shops were abandoned and still labeled with yellow stars and anti-Jewish slurs. Farther down, the church aimed itself at the sky, its rooftop a study of collaborated tiles. The street, overall, was a lengthy tube of graya corridor of dampness, people stooped in the cold, and the splashed sound of watery footsteps. At one stage, Rudy rushed ahead, dragging Liesel with him. He knocked on the window of a tailors shop. Had she been able to read the sign, she would have noticed that it belonged to Rudys father. The shop was not yet open, but inside, a man was preparing articles of clothing behind the counter. He looked up and waved. My papa, Rudy informed her, and they were soon among a crowd of various-sized Steiners, each waving or blowing kisses at their father or simply standing and nodding hello (in the case of the oldest ones), then moving on, toward the final landmark before school.

THE LAST STOP The road of yellow stars

It was a place nobody wanted to stay and look at, but almost everyone did. Shaped like a long, broken arm, the road contained several houses with lacerated windows and bruised walls. The Star of David was painted on their doors. Those houses were almost like lepers. At the very least, they were infected sores on the injured German terrain. Schiller Strasse, Rudy said. The road of yellow stars. At the bottom, some people were moving around. The drizzle made them look like ghosts. Not humans, but shapes, moving about beneath the lead-colored clouds. Come on, you two, Kurt (the oldest of the Steiner children) called back, and Rudy and Liesel walked quickly toward him. At school, Rudy made a special point of seeking Liesel out during the breaks. He didnt care that others made noises about the new girls stupidity. He was there for her at the beginning, and he would be there later on, when Liesels frustration boiled over. But he wouldnt do it for free.

THE ONLY THING WORSE THAN A BOY WHO HATES YOU A boy who loves you.

In late April, when theyd returned from school for the day, Rudy and Liesel waited on Himmel Street for the usual game of soccer. They were slightly early, and no other kids had turned up yet. The one person they saw was the gutter-mouthed Pfiffikus. Look there. Rudy pointed.

A PORTRAIT OF PFIFFIKUS He was a delicate frame. He was white hair. He was a black raincoat, brown pants, decomposing shoes, and a mouthand what a mouth it was.

Hey, Pfiffikus! As the distant figure turned, Rudy started whistling. The old man simultaneously straightened and proceeded to swear with a ferocity that can only be described as a talent. No one seemed to know the real name that belonged to him, or at least if they did, they never used it. He was only called Pfiffikus because you give that name to someone who likes to whistle, which Pfiffikus most definitely did. He was constantly whistling a tune called the Radetzky March, and all the kids in town would call out to him and duplicate that tune. At that precise moment, Pfiffikus would abandon his usual walking style (bent forward, taking large, lanky steps, arms behind his raincoated back) and erect himself to deliver abuse. It was then that any impression of serenity was violently interrupted, for his voice was brimming with rage. On this occasion, Liesel followed Rudys taunt almost as a reflex action. Pfiffikus! she echoed, quickly adopting the appropriate cruelty that childhood seems to require. Her whistling was awful, but there was no time to perfect it. He chased them, calling out. It started with Geh scheissen! and deteriorated rapidly from there. At first, he leveled his abuse only at the boy, but soon enough, it was Liesels turn. You little slut! he roared at her. The words clobbered her in the back. Ive never seen you before! Fancy calling a ten-year-old girl a slut. That was Pfiffikus. It was widely agreed that he and Frau Holtzapfel would have made a lovely couple. Get back here! were the last words Liesel and Rudy heard as they continued running. They ran until they were on Munich Street. Come on, Rudy said, once theyd recovered their breath. Just down here a little. He took her to Hubert Oval, the scene of the Jesse Owens incident, where they stood, hands in pockets. The track was stretched out in front of them. Only one thing could happen. Rudy started it. Hundred meters, he goaded her. I bet you cant beat me. Liesel wasnt taking any of that. I bet you I can. What do you bet, you little Saumensch? Have you got any money? Of course not. Do you? No. But Rudy had an idea. It was the lover boy coming out of him. If I beat you, I get to kiss you. He crouched down and began rolling up his trousers. Liesel was alarmed, to put it mildly. What do you want to kiss me for? Im filthy. So am I. Rudy clearly saw no reason why a bit of filth should get in the way of things. It had been a while between baths for both of them. She thought about it while examining the weedy legs of her opposition. They were about equal with her own. Theres no way he can beat me, she thought. She nodded seriously. This was business. You can kiss me if you win. But if I win, I get out of being goalie at soccer. Rudy considered it. Fair enough, and they shook on it. All was dark-skied and hazy, and small chips of rain were starting to fall. The track was muddier than it looked. Both competitors were set. Rudy threw a rock in the air as the starting pistol. When it hit the ground, they could start running. I cant even see the finish line, Liesel complained. And I can? The rock wedged itself into the earth. They ran next to each other, elbowing and trying to get in front. The slippery ground slurped at their feet and brought them down perhaps twenty meters from the end. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! yelped Rudy. Im covered in shit! Its not shit, Liesel corrected him, its mud, although she had her doubts. Theyd slid another five meters toward the finish. Do we call it a draw, then? Rudy looked over, all sharp teeth and gangly blue eyes. Half his face was painted with mud. If its a draw, do I still get my kiss? Not in a million years. Liesel stood up and flicked some mud off her jacket. Ill get you out of goalie. Stick your goalie. As they walked back to Himmel Street, Rudy forewarned her. One day, Liesel, he said, youll be dying to kiss me. But Liesel knew. She vowed. As long as both she and Rudy Steiner lived, she would never kiss that miserable, filthy Saukerl, especially not this day. There were more important matters to attend to. She looked down at her suit of mud and stated the obvious. Shes going to kill me. She, of course, was Rosa Hubermann, also known as Mama, and she very nearly did kill her. The word Saumensch featured heavily in the administration of punishment. She made mincemeat out of her.