بخش 01-02

THE JESSE OWENS INCIDENT

As we both know, Liesel wasnt on hand on Himmel Street when Rudy performed his act of childhood infamy. When she looked back, though, it felt like shed actually been there. In her memory, she had somehow become a member of Rudys imaginary audience. Nobody else mentioned it, but Rudy certainly made up for that, so much that when Liesel came to recollect her story, the Jesse Owens incident was as much a part of it as everything she witnessed firsthand. It was 1936. The Olympics. Hitlers games. Jesse Owens had just completed the 4 100m relay and won his fourth gold medal. Talk that he was subhuman because he was black and Hitlers refusal to shake his hand were touted around the world. Even the most racist Germans were amazed with the efforts of Owens, and word of his feat slipped through the cracks. No one was more impressed than Rudy Steiner. Everyone in his family was crowded together in their family room when he slipped out and made his way to the kitchen. He pulled some charcoal from the stove and gripped it in the smallness of his hands. Now. There was a smile. He was ready. He smeared the charcoal on, nice and thick, till he was covered in black. Even his hair received a once-over. In the window, the boy grinned almost maniacally at his reflection, and in his shorts and tank top, he quietly abducted his older brothers bike and pedaled it up the street, heading for Hubert Oval. In one of his pockets, hed hidden a few pieces of extra charcoal, in case some of it wore off later. In Liesels mind, the moon was sewn into the sky that night. Clouds were stitched around it. The rusty bike crumbled to a halt at the Hubert Oval fence line and Rudy climbed over. He landed on the other side and trotted weedily up toward the beginning of the hundred. Enthusiastically, he conducted an awkward regimen of stretches. He dug starting holes into the dirt. Waiting for his moment, he paced around, gathering concentration under the darkness sky, with the moon and the clouds watching, tightly. Owens is looking good, he began to commentate. This could be his greatest victory ever. . . . He shook the imaginary hands of the other athletes and wished them luck, even though he knew. They didnt have a chance. The starter signaled them forward. A crowd materialized around every square inch of Hubert Ovals circumference. They were all calling out one thing. They were chanting Rudy Steiners nameand his name was Jesse Owens. All fell silent. His bare feet gripped the soil. He could feel it holding on between his toes. At the request of the starter, he raised to crouching positionand the gun clipped a hole in the night. For the first third of the race, it was pretty even, but it was only a matter of time before the charcoaled Owens drew clear and streaked away. Owens in front, the boys shrill voice cried as he ran down the empty track, straight toward the uproarious applause of Olympic glory. He could even feel the tape break in two across his chest as he burst through it in first place. The fastest man alive. It was only on his victory lap that things turned sour. Among the crowd, his father was standing at the finish line like the bogeyman. Or at least, the bogeyman in a suit. (As previously mentioned, Rudys father was a tailor. He was rarely seen on the street without a suit and tie. On this occasion, it was only the suit and a disheveled shirt.) Was ist los? he said to his son when he showed up in all his charcoal glory. What the hell is going on here? The crowd vanished. A breeze sprang up. I was asleep in my chair when Kurt noticed you were gone. Everyones out looking for you. Mr. Steiner was a remarkably polite man under normal circumstances. Discovering one of his children smeared charcoal black on a summer evening was not what he considered normal circumstances. The boy is crazy, he muttered, although he conceded that with six kids, something like this was bound to happen. At least one of them had to be a bad egg. Right now, he was looking at it, waiting for an explanation. Well? Rudy panted, bending down and placing his hands on his knees. I was being Jesse Owens. He answered as though it was the most natural thing on earth to be doing. There was even something implicit in his tone that suggested something along the lines of, What the hell does it look like? The tone vanished, however, when he saw the sleep deprivation whittled under his fathers eyes. Jesse Owens? Mr. Steiner was the type of man who was very wooden. His voice was angular and true. His body was tall and heavy, like oak. His hair was like splinters. What about him? You know, Papa, the Black Magic one. Ill give you black magic. He caught his sons ear between his thumb and forefinger. Rudy winced. Ow, that really hurts. Does it? His father was more concerned with the clammy texture of charcoal contaminating his fingers. He covered everything, didnt he? he thought. Its even in his ears, for Gods sake. Come on. On the way home, Mr. Steiner decided to talk politics with the boy as best he could. Only in the years ahead would Rudy understand it all when it was too late to bother understanding anything.

THE CONTRADICTORY POLITICS OF ALEX STEINER Point One: He was a member of the Nazi Party, but he did not hate the Jews, or anyone else for that matter. Point Two: Secretly, though, he couldnt help feeling a percentage of relief (or worsegladness!) when Jewish shop owners were put out of business propaganda informed him that it was only a matter of time before a plague of Jewish tailors showed up and stole his customers. Point Three: But did that mean they should be driven out completely? Point Four: His family. Surely, he had to do whatever he could to support them. If that meant being in the party, it meant being in the party. Point Five: Somewhere, far down, there was an itch in his heart, but he made it a point not to scratch it. He was afraid of what might come leaking out.

They walked around a few corners onto Himmel Street, and Alex said, Son, you cant go around painting yourself black, you hear? Rudy was interested, and confused. The moon was undone now, free to move and rise and fall and drip on the boys face, making him nice and murky, like his thoughts. Why not, Papa? Because theyll take you away. Why? Because you shouldnt want to be like black people or Jewish people or anyone who is . . . not us. Who are Jewish people? You know my oldest customer, Mr. Kaufmann? Where we bought your shoes? Yes. Well, hes Jewish. I didnt know that. Do you have to pay to be Jewish? Do you need a license? No, Rudy. Mr. Steiner was steering the bike with one hand and Rudy with the other. He was having trouble steering the conversation. He still hadnt relinquished the hold on his sons earlobe. Hed forgotten about it. Its like youre German or Catholic. Oh. Is Jesse Owens Catholic? I dont know! He tripped on a bike pedal then and released the ear. They walked on in silence for a while, until Rudy said, I just wish I was like Jesse Owens, Papa. This time, Mr. Steiner placed his hand on Rudys head and explained, I know, sonbut youve got beautiful blond hair and big, safe blue eyes. You should be happy with that; is that clear? But nothing was clear. Rudy understood nothing, and that night was the prelude of things to come. Two and a half years later, the Kaufmann Shoe Shop was reduced to broken glass, and all the shoes were flung aboard a truck in their boxes. THE OTHER SIDE OF SANDPAPER

People have defining moments, I suppose, especially when theyre children. For some its a Jesse Owens incident. For others its a moment of bed-wetting hysteria: It was late May 1939, and the night had been like most others. Mama shook her iron fist. Papa was out. Liesel cleaned the front door and watched the Himmel Street sky. Earlier, there had been a parade. The brown-shirted extremist members of the NSDAP (otherwise known as the Nazi Party) had marched down Munich Street, their banners worn proudly, their faces held high, as if on sticks. Their voices were full of song, culminating in a roaring rendition of Deutschland ber Alles. Germany over Everything. As always, they were clapped. They were spurred on as they walked to who knows where. People on the street stood and watched, some with straight-armed salutes, others with hands that burned from applause. Some kept faces that were contorted by pride and rally like Frau Diller, and then there were the scatterings of odd men out, like Alex Steiner, who stood like a human-shaped block of wood, clapping slow and dutiful. And beautiful. Submission. On the footpath, Liesel stood with her papa and Rudy. Hans Hubermann wore a face with the shades pulled down.

SOME CRUNCHED NUMBERS In 1933, 90 percent of Germans showed unflinching support for Adolf Hitler. That leaves 10 percent who didnt. Hans Hubermann belonged to the 10 percent. There was a reason for that.

In the night, Liesel dreamed like she always did. At first, she saw the brownshirts marching, but soon enough, they led her to a train, and the usual discovery awaited. Her brother was staring again. When she woke up screaming, Liesel knew immediately that on this occasion, something had changed. A smell leaked out from under the sheets, warm and sickly. At first, she tried convincing herself that nothing had happened, but as Papa came closer and held her, she cried and admitted the fact in his ear. Papa, she whispered, Papa, and that was all. He could probably smell it. He lifted her gently from the bed and carried her into the washroom. The moment came a few minutes later. We take the sheets off, Papa said, and when he reached under and pulled at the fabric, something loosened and landed with a thud. A black book with silver writing on it came hurtling out and landed on the floor, between the tall mans feet. He looked down at it. He looked at the girl, who timidly shrugged. Then he read the title, with concentration, aloud: The Grave Diggers Handbook. So thats what its called, Liesel thought. A patch of silence stood among them now. The man, the girl, the book. He picked it up and spoke soft as cotton.

A 2 A.M. CONVERSATION Is this yours? Yes, Papa. Do you want to read it? Again, Yes, Papa. A tired smile. Metallic eyes, melting. Well, wed better read it, then.

Four years later, when she came to write in the basement, two thoughts struck Liesel about the trauma of wetting the bed. First, she felt extremely lucky that it was Papa who discovered the book. (Fortunately, when the sheets had been washed previously, Rosa had made Liesel strip the bed and make it up. And be quick about it, Saumensch! Does it look like weve got all day?) Second, she was clearly proud of Hans Hubermanns part in her education. You wouldnt think it, she wrote, but it was not so much the school who helped me to read. It was Papa. People think hes not so smart, and its true that he doesnt read too fast, but I would soon learn that words and writing actually saved his life once. Or at least, words and a man who taught him the accordion . . . First things first, Hans Hubermann said that night. He washed the sheets and hung them up. Now, he said upon his return. Lets get this midnight class started. The yellow light was alive with dust. Liesel sat on cold clean sheets, ashamed, elated. The thought of bed-wetting prodded her, but she was going to read. She was going to read the book. The excitement stood up in her. Visions of a ten-year-old reading genius were set alight. If only it was that easy. To tell you the truth, Papa explained upfront, I am not such a good reader myself. But it didnt matter that he read slowly. If anything, it might have helped that his own reading pace was slower than average. Perhaps it would cause less frustration in coping with the girls lack of ability. Still, initially, Hans appeared a little uncomfortable holding the book and looking through it. When he came over and sat next to her on the bed, he leaned back, his legs angling over the side. He examined the book again and dropped it on the blanket. Now why would a nice girl like you want to read such a thing? Again, Liesel shrugged. Had the apprentice been reading the complete works of Goethe or any other such luminary, that was what would have sat in front of them. She attempted to explain. I when . . . It was sitting in the snow, and The soft-spoken words fell off the side of the bed, emptying to the floor like powder. Papa knew what to say, though. He always knew what to say. He ran a hand through his sleepy hair and said, Well, promise me one thing, Liesel. If I die anytime soon, you make sure they bury me right. She nodded, with great sincerity. No skipping chapter six or step four in chapter nine. He laughed, as did the bed wetter. Well, Im glad thats settled. We can get on with it now. He adjusted his position and his bones creaked like itchy floorboards. The fun begins. Amplified by the still of night, the book openeda gust of wind. Looking back, Liesel could tell exactly what her papa was thinking when he scanned the first page of The Grave Diggers Handbook. As he realized the difficulty of the text, he was clearly aware that such a book was hardly ideal. There were words in there that hed have trouble with himself. Not to mention the morbidity of the subject. As for the girl, there was a sudden desire to read it that she didnt even attempt to understand. On some level, perhaps she wanted to make sure her brother was buried right. Whatever the reason, her hunger to read that book was as intense as any ten-year-old human could experience. Chapter one was called The First Step: Choosing the Right Equipment. In a short introductory passage, it outlined the kind of material to be covered in the following twenty pages. Types of shovels, picks, gloves, and so forth were itemized, as well as the vital need to properly maintain them. This grave digging was serious. As Papa flicked through it, he could surely feel Liesels eyes on him. They reached over and gripped him, waiting for something, anything, to slip from his lips. Here. He shifted again and handed her the book. Look at this page and tell me how many words you can read. She looked at itand lied. About half. Read some for me. But of course, she couldnt. When he made her point out any words she could read and actually say them, there were only threethe three main German words for the. The whole page must have had two hundred words on it. This might be harder than I thought. She caught him thinking it, just for a moment. He lifted himself forward, rose to his feet, and walked out. This time, when he came back, he said, Actually, I have a better idea. In his hand, there was a thick painters pencil and a stack of sandpaper. Lets start from scratch. Liesel saw no reason to argue. In the left corner of an upturned piece of sandpaper, he drew a square of perhaps an inch and shoved a capital A inside it. In the other corner, he placed a lowercase one. So far, so good. A, Liesel said. A for what? She smiled. Apfel. He wrote the word in big letters and drew a misshapen apple under it. He was a housepainter, not an artist. When it was complete, he looked over and said, Now for B. As they progressed through the alphabet, Liesels eyes grew larger. She had done this at school, in the kindergarten class, but this time was better. She was the only one there, and she was not gigantic. It was nice to watch Papas hand as he wrote the words and slowly constructed the primitive sketches. Ah, come on, Liesel, he said when she struggled later on. Something that starts with S. Its easy. Im very disappointed in you. She couldnt think. Come on! His whisper played with her. Think of Mama. That was when the word struck her face like a slap. A reflex grin. SAUMENSCH! she shouted, and Papa roared with laughter, then quieted. Shhh, we have to be quiet. But he roared all the same and wrote the word, completing it with one of his sketches. A TYPICAL HANS HUBERMANN ARTWORK THE SMELL OF FRIENDSHIP

It continued. Over the next few weeks and into summer, the midnight class began at the end of each nightmare. There were two more bed-wetting occurrences, but Hans Hubermann merely repeated his previous cleanup heroics and got down to the task of reading, sketching, and reciting. In the mornings early hours, quiet voices were loud. On a Thursday, just after 3 p.m., Mama told Liesel to get ready to come with her and deliver some ironing. Papa had other ideas. He walked into the kitchen and said, Sorry, Mama, shes not going with you today. Mama didnt even bother looking up from the washing bag. Who asked you, Arschloch? Come on, Liesel. Shes reading, he said. Papa handed Liesel a steadfast smile and a wink. With me. Im teaching her. Were going to the Amper upstream, where I used to practice the accordion. Now he had her attention. Mama placed the washing on the table and eagerly worked herself up to the appropriate level of cynicism. What did you say? I think you heard me, Rosa. Mama laughed. What the hell could you teach her? A cardboard grin. Uppercut words. Like you could read so much, you Saukerl. The kitchen waited. Papa counterpunched. Well take your ironing for you. You filthy She stopped. The words propped in her mouth as she considered it. Be back before dark. We cant read in the dark, Mama, Liesel said. What was that, Saumensch? Nothing, Mama. Papa grinned and pointed at the girl. Book, sandpaper, pencil, he ordered her, and accordion! once she was already gone. Soon, they were on Himmel Street, carrying the words, the music, the washing. As they walked toward Frau Dillers, they turned around a few times to see if Mama was still at the gate, checking on them. She was. At one point, she called out, Liesel, hold that ironing straight! Dont crease it! Yes, Mama! A few steps later: Liesel, are you dressed warm enough?! What did you say? Saumensch dreckiges, you never hear anything! Are you dressed warm enough? It might get cold later! Around the corner, Papa bent down to do up a shoelace. Liesel, he said, could you roll me a cigarette? Nothing would give her greater pleasure. Once the ironing was delivered, they made their way back to the Amper River, which flanked the town. It worked its way past, pointing in the direction of Dachau, the concentration camp. There was a wooden-planked bridge. They sat maybe thirty meters down from it, in the grass, writing the words and reading them aloud, and when darkness was near, Hans pulled out the accordion. Liesel looked at him and listened, though she did not immediately notice the perplexed expression on her papas face that evening as he played.

PAPAS FACE It traveled and wondered, but it disclosed no answers. Not yet.

There had been a change in him. A slight shift. She saw it but didnt realize until later, when all the stories came together. She didnt see him watching as he played, having no idea that Hans Hubermanns accordion was a story. In the times ahead, that story would arrive at 33 Himmel Street in the early hours of morning, wearing ruffled shoulders and a shivering jacket. It would carry a suitcase, a book, and two questions. A story. Story after story. Story within story. For now, there was only the one as far as Liesel was concerned, and she was enjoying it. She settled into the long arms of grass, lying back. She closed her eyes and her ears held the notes. There were, of course, some problems as well. A few times, Papa nearly yelled at her. Come on, Liesel, hed say. You know this word; you know it! Just when progress seemed to be flowing well, somehow things would become lodged. When the weather was good, theyd go to the Amper in the afternoon. In bad weather, it was the basement. This was mainly on account of Mama. At first, they tried in the kitchen, but there was no way. Rosa, Hans said to her at one point. Quietly, his words cut through one of her sentences. Could you do me a favor? She looked up from the stove. What? Im asking you, Im begging you, could you please shut your mouth for just five minutes? You can imagine the reaction. They ended up in the basement. There was no lighting there, so they took a kerosene lamp, and slowly, between school and home, from the river to the basement, from the good days to the bad, Liesel was learning to read and write. Soon, Papa told her, youll be able to read that awful graves book with your eyes closed. And I can get out of that midget class. She spoke those words with a grim kind of ownership. In one of their basement sessions, Papa dispensed with the sandpaper (it was running out fast) and pulled out a brush. There were few luxuries in the Hubermann household, but there was an oversupply of paint, and it became more than useful for Liesels learning. Papa would say a word and the girl would have to spell it aloud and then paint it on the wall, as long as she got it right. After a month, the wall was recoated. A fresh cement page. Some nights, after working in the basement, Liesel would sit crouched in the bath and hear the same utterances from the kitchen. You stink, Mama would say to Hans. Like cigarettes and kerosene. Sitting in the water, she imagined the smell of it, mapped out on her papas clothes. More than anything, it was the smell of friendship, and she could find it on herself, too. Liesel loved that smell. She would sniff her arm and smile as the water cooled around her. THE HEAVY WEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE SCHOOL-YARD

The summer of 39 was in a hurry, or perhaps Liesel was. She spent her time playing soccer with Rudy and the other kids on Himmel Street (a year-round pastime), taking ironing around town with Mama, and learning words. It felt like it was over a few days after it began. In the latter part of the year, two things happened.

SEPTEMBERNOVEMBER 1939

World War Two begins. Liesel Meminger becomes the heavyweight champion of the school yard. The beginning of September. It was a cool day in Molching when the war began and my workload increased. The world talked it over. Newspaper headlines reveled in it. The Fhrers voice roared from German radios. We will not give up. We will not rest. We will be victorious. Our time has come. The German invasion of Poland had begun and people were gathered everywhere, listening to the news of it. Munich Street, like every other main street in Germany, was alive with war. The smell, the voice. Rationing had begun a few days earlierthe writing on the walland now it was official. England and France had made their declaration on Germany. To steal a phrase from Hans Hubermann: The fun begins. The day of the announcement, Papa was lucky enough to have some work. On his way home, he picked up a discarded newspaper, and rather than stopping to shove it between paint cans in his cart, he folded it up and slipped it beneath his shirt. By the time he made it home and removed it, his sweat had drawn the ink onto his skin. The paper landed on the table, but the news was stapled to his chest. A tattoo. Holding the shirt open, he looked down in the unsure kitchen light. What does it say? Liesel asked him. She was looking back and forth, from the black outlines on his skin to the paper. Hitler takes Poland, he answered, and Hans Hubermann slumped into a chair. Deutschland ber Alles, he whispered, and his voice was not remotely patriotic. The face was there againhis accordion face. That was one war started. Liesel would soon be in another. Nearly a month after school resumed, she was moved up to her rightful year level. You might think this was due to her improved reading, but it wasnt. Despite the advancement, she still read with great difficulty. Sentences were strewn everywhere. Words fooled her. The reason she was elevated had more to do with the fact that she became disruptive in the younger class. She answered questions directed to other children and called out. A few times, she was given what was known as a Watschen (pronounced varchen) in the corridor.

A DEFINITION Watschen = a good hiding

She was taken up, put in a chair at the side, and told to keep her mouth shut by the teacher, who also happened to be a nun. At the other end of the classroom, Rudy looked across and waved. Liesel waved back and tried not to smile. At home, she was well into reading The Grave Diggers Handbook with Papa. They would circle the words she couldnt understand and take them down to the basement the next day. She thought it was enough. It was not enough. Somewhere at the start of November, there were some progress tests at school. One of them was for reading. Every child was made to stand at the front of the room and read from a passage the teacher gave them. It was a frosty morning but bright with sun. Children scrunched their eyes. A halo surrounded the grim reaper nun, Sister Maria. (By the wayI like this human idea of the grim reaper. I like the scythe. It amuses me.) In the sun-heavy classroom, names were rattled off at random. Waldenheim, Lehmann, Steiner. They all stood up and did a reading, all at different levels of capability. Rudy was surprisingly good. Throughout the test, Liesel sat with a mixture of hot anticipation and excruciating fear. She wanted desperately to measure herself, to find out once and for all how her learning was advancing. Was she up to it? Could she even come close to Rudy and the rest of them? Each time Sister Maria looked at her list, a string of nerves tightened in Liesels ribs. It started in her stomach but had worked its way up. Soon, it would be around her neck, thick as rope. When Tommy Mller finished his mediocre attempt, she looked around the room. Everyone had read. She was the only one left. Very good. Sister Maria nodded, perusing the list. Thats everyone. What? No! A voice practically appeared on the other side of the room. Attached to it was a lemon-haired boy whose bony knees knocked in his pants under the desk. He stretched his hand up and said, Sister Maria, I think you forgot Liesel. Sister Maria. Was not impressed. She plonked her folder on the table in front of her and inspected Rudy with sighing disapproval. It was almost melancholic. Why, she lamented, did she have to put up with Rudy Steiner? He simply couldnt keep his mouth shut. Why, God, why? No, she said, with finality. Her small belly leaned forward with the rest of her. Im afraid Liesel cannot do it, Rudy. The teacher looked across, for confirmation. She will read for me later. The girl cleared her throat and spoke with quiet defiance. I can do it now, Sister. The majority of other kids watched in silence. A few of them performed the beautiful childhood art of snickering. The sister had had enough. No, you cannot! . . . What are you doing? For Liesel was out of her chair and walking slowly, stiffly toward the front of the room. She picked up the book and opened it to a random page. All right, then, said Sister Maria. You want to do it? Do it. Yes, Sister. After a quick glance at Rudy, Liesel lowered her eyes and examined the page. When she looked up again, the room was pulled apart, then squashed back together. All the kids were mashed, right before her eyes, and in a moment of brilliance, she imagined herself reading the entire page in faultless, fluency-filled triumph.

A KEY WORD Imagined

Come on, Liesel! Rudy broke the silence. The book thief looked down again, at the words. Come on. Rudy mouthed it this time. Come on, Liesel. Her blood loudened. The sentences blurred. The white page was suddenly written in another tongue, and it didnt help that tears were now forming in her eyes. She couldnt even see the words anymore. And the sun. That awful sun. It burst through the windowthe glass was everywhereand shone directly onto the useless girl. It shouted in her face. You can steal a book, but you cant read one! It came to her. A solution. Breathing, breathing, she started to read, but not from the book in front of her. It was something from The Grave Diggers Handbook. Chapter three: In the Event of Snow. Shed memorized it from her papas voice. In the event of snow, she spoke, you must make sure you use a good shovel. You must dig deep; you cannot be lazy. You cannot cut corners. Again, she sucked in a large clump of air. Of course, it is easier to wait for the warmest part of the day, when It ended. The book was snatched from her grasp and she was told. Lieselthe corridor. As she was given a small Watschen, she could hear them all laughing in the classroom, between Sister Marias striking hand. She saw them. All those mashed children. Grinning and laughing. Bathed in sunshine. Everyone laughing but Rudy. In the break, she was taunted. A boy named Ludwig Schmeikl came up to her with a book. Hey, Liesel, he said to her, Im having trouble with this word. Could you read it for me? He laugheda ten-year-old, smugness laughter. You Dummkopfyou idiot. Clouds were filing in now, big and clumsy, and more kids were calling out to her, watching her seethe. Dont listen to them, Rudy advised. Easy for you to say. Youre not the stupid one. Nearing the end of the break, the tally of comments stood at nineteen. By the twentieth, she snapped. It was Schmeikl, back for more. Come on, Liesel. He stuck the book under her nose. Help me out, will you? Liesel helped him out, all right. She stood up and took the book from him, and as he smiled over his shoulder at some other kids, she threw it away and kicked him as hard as she could in the vicinity of the groin. Well, as you might imagine, Ludwig Schmeikl certainly buckled, and on the way down, he was punched in the ear. When he landed, he was set upon. When he was set upon, he was slapped and clawed and obliterated by a girl who was utterly consumed with rage. His skin was so warm and soft. Her knuckles and fingernails were so frighteningly tough, despite their smallness. You Saukerl. Her voice, too, was able to scratch him. You Arschloch. Can you spell Arschloch for me? Oh, how the clouds stumbled in and assembled stupidly in the sky. Great obese clouds. Dark and plump. Bumping into each other. Apologizing. Moving on and finding room. Children were there, quick as, well, quick as kids gravitating toward a fight. A stew of arms and legs, of shouts and cheers grew thicker around them. They were watching Liesel Meminger give Ludwig Schmeikl the hiding of a lifetime. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, a girl commentated with a shriek, shes going to kill him! Liesel did not kill him. But she came close. In fact, probably the only thing that stopped her was the twitchingly pathetic, grinning face of Tommy Mller. Still crowded with adrenaline, Liesel caught sight of him smiling with such absurdity that she dragged him down and started beating him up as well. What are you doing?! he wailed, and only then, after the third or fourth slap and a trickle of bright blood from his nose, did she stop. On her knees, she sucked in the air and listened to the groans beneath her. She watched the whirlpool of faces, left and right, and she announced, Im not stupid. No one argued. It was only when everyone moved back inside and Sister Maria saw the state of Ludwig Schmeikl that the fight resumed. First, it was Rudy and a few others who bore the brunt of suspicion. They were always at each other. Hands, each boy was ordered, but every pair was clean. I dont believe this, the sister muttered. It cant be, because sure enough, when Liesel stepped forward to show her hands, Ludwig Schmeikl was all over them, rusting by the moment. The corridor, she stated for the second time that day. For the second time that hour, actually. This time, it was not a small Watschen. It was not an average one. This time, it was the mother of all corridor Watschens, one sting of the stick after another, so that Liesel would barely be able to sit down for a week. And there was no laughter from the room. More the silent fear of listening in. At the end of the school day, Liesel walked home with Rudy and the other Steiner children. Nearing Himmel Street, in a hurry of thoughts, a culmination of misery swept over herthe failed recital of The Grave Diggers Handbook, the demolition of her family, her nightmares, the humiliation of the dayand she crouched in the gutter and wept. It all led here. Rudy stood there, next to her. It began to rain, nice and hard. Kurt Steiner called out, but neither of them moved. One sat painfully now, among the falling chunks of rain, and the other stood next to her, waiting. Why did he have to die? she asked, but still, Rudy did nothing; he said nothing. When finally she finished and stood herself up, he put his arm around her, best-buddy style, and they walked on. There was no request for a kiss. Nothing like that. You can love Rudy for that, if you like. Just dont kick me in the eggs. Thats what he was thinking, but he didnt tell Liesel that. It was nearly four years later that he offered that information. For now, Rudy and Liesel made their way onto Himmel Street in the rain. He was the crazy one who had painted himself black and defeated the world. She was the book thief without the words. Trust me, though, the words were on their way, and when they arrived, Liesel would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like the rain.