بخش 04-01

PART FOUR

the standover man

featuring: the accordionista promise keepera good girl a jewish fist fighterthe wrath of rosaa lecture a sleeperthe swapping of nightmares and some pages from the basement THE ACCORDIONIST

(The Secret Life of Hans Hubermann)

There was a young man standing in the kitchen. The key in his hand felt like it was rusting into his palm. He didnt speak anything like hello, or please help, or any other such expected sentence. He asked two questions.

QUESTION ONE Hans Hubermann?

QUESTION TWO Do you still play the accordion?

As he looked uncomfortably at the human shape before him, the young mans voice was scraped out and handed across the dark like it was all that remained of him. Papa, alert and appalled, stepped closer. To the kitchen, he whispered, Of course I do. It all dated back many years, to World War I. Theyre strange, those wars. Full of blood and violencebut also full of stories that are equally difficult to fathom. Its true, people will mutter. I dont care if you dont believe me. It was that fox who saved my life, or, They died on either side of me and I was left standing there, the only one without a bullet between my eyes. Why me? Why me and not them? Hans Hubermanns story was a little like that. When I found it within the book thiefs words, I realized that we passed each other once in a while during that period, though neither of us scheduled a meeting. Personally, I had a lot of work to do. As for Hans, I think he was doing his best to avoid me. The first time we were in the vicinity of each other, Hans was twenty-two years old, fighting in France. The majority of young men in his platoon were eager to fight. Hans wasnt so sure. I had taken a few of them along the way, but you could say I never even came close to touching Hans Hubermann. He was either too lucky, or he deserved to live, or there was a good reason for him to live. In the army, he didnt stick out at either end. He ran in the middle, climbed in the middle, and he could shoot straight enough so as not to affront his superiors. Nor did he excel enough to be one of the first chosen to run straight at me.

A SMALL BUT NOTEWORTHY NOTE Ive seen so many young men over the years who think theyre running at other young men.

They are not. Theyre running at me.

Hed been in the fight for almost six months when he ended up in France, where, at face value, a strange event saved his life. Another perspective would suggest that in the nonsense of war, it made perfect sense. On the whole, his time in the Great War had astonished him from the moment he entered the army. It was like a serial. Day after day after day. After day: The conversation of bullets. Resting men. The best dirty jokes in the world. Cold sweatthat malignant little friendoutstaying its welcome in the armpits and trousers. He enjoyed the card games the most, followed by the few games of chess, despite being thoroughly pathetic at it. And the music. Always the music. It was a man a year older than himselfa German Jew named Erik Vandenburgwho taught him to play the accordion. The two of them gradually became friends due to the fact that neither of them was terribly interested in fighting. They preferred rolling cigarettes to rolling in snow and mud. They preferred shooting craps to shooting bullets. A firm friendship was built on gambling, smoking, and music, not to mention a shared desire for survival. The only trouble with this was that Erik Vandenburg would later be found in several pieces on a grassy hill. His eyes were open and his wedding ring was stolen. I shoveled up his soul with the rest of them and we drifted away. The horizon was the color of milk. Cold and fresh. Poured out among the bodies. All that was really left of Erik Vandenburg was a few personal items and the fingerprinted accordion. Everything but the instrument was sent home. It was considered too big. Almost with self-reproach, it sat on his makeshift bed at the base camp and was given to his friend, Hans Hubermann, who happened to be the only man to survive.

HE SURVIVED LIKE THIS He didnt go into battle that day.

For that, he had Erik Vandenburg to thank. Or more to the point, Erik Vandenburg and the sergeants toothbrush. That particular morning, not too long before they were leaving, Sergeant Stephan Schneider paced into the sleeping quarters and called everyone to attention. He was popular with the men for his sense of humor and practical jokes, but more so for the fact that he never followed anyone into the fire. He always went first. On certain days, he was inclined to enter the room of resting men and say something like, Who comes from Pasing? or, Whos good with mathematics? or, in the fateful case of Hans Hubermann, Whos got neat handwriting? No one ever volunteered, not after the first time he did it. On that day, an eager young soldier named Philipp Schlink stood proudly up and said, Yes, sir, I come from Pasing. He was promptly handed a toothbrush and told to clean the shit house. When the sergeant asked who had the best penmanship, you can surely understand why no one was keen to step forward. They thought they might be first to receive a full hygiene inspection or scrub an eccentric lieutenants shit-trampled boots before they left. Now come on, Schneider toyed with them. Slapped down with oil, his hair gleamed, though a small piece was always upright and vigilant at the apex of his head. At least one of you useless bastards must be able to write properly. In the distance, there was gunfire. It triggered a reaction. Look, said Schneider, this isnt like the others. It will take all morning, maybe longer. He couldnt resist a smile. Schlink was polishing that shit house while the rest of you were playing cards, but this time, youre going out there. Life or pride. He was clearly hoping that one of his men would have the intelligence to take life. Erik Vandenburg and Hans Hubermann glanced at each other. If someone stepped forward now, the platoon would make his life a living hell for the rest of their time together. No one likes a coward. On the other hand, if someone was to be nominated . . . Still no one stepped forward, but a voice stooped out and ambled toward the sergeant. It sat at his feet, waiting for a good kicking. It said, Hubermann, sir. The voice belonged to Erik Vandenburg. He obviously thought that today wasnt the appropriate time for his friend to die. The sergeant paced up and down the passage of soldiers. Who said that? He was a superb pacer, Stephan Schneidera small man who spoke, moved, and acted in a hurry. As he strode up and down the two lines, Hans looked on, waiting for the news. Perhaps one of the nurses was sick and they needed someone to strip and replace bandages on the infected limbs of injured soldiers. Perhaps a thousand envelopes were to be licked and sealed and sent home with death notices in them. At that moment, the voice was put forward again, moving a few others to make themselves heard. Hubermann, they echoed. Erik even said, Immaculate handwriting, sir, immaculate. Its settled, then. There was a circular, small-mouthed grin. Hubermann. Youre it. The gangly young soldier made his way forward and asked what his duty might be. The sergeant sighed. The captain needs a few dozen letters written for him. Hes got terrible rheumatism in his fingers. Or arthritis. Youll be writing them for him. This was no time to argue, especially when Schlink was sent to clean the toilets and the other one, Pflegger, nearly killed himself licking envelopes. His tongue was infection blue. Yes, sir. Hans nodded, and that was the end of it. His writing ability was dubious to say the least, but he considered himself lucky. He wrote the letters as best he could while the rest of the men went into battle. None of them came back. That was the first time Hans Hubermann escaped me. The Great War. A second escape was still to come, in 1943, in Essen. Two wars for two escapes. Once young, once middle-aged. Not many men are lucky enough to cheat me twice. He carried the accordion with him during the entirety of the war. When he tracked down the family of Erik Vandenburg in Stuttgart upon his return, Vandenburgs wife informed him that he could keep it. Her apartment was littered with them, and it upset her too much to look at that one in particular. The others were reminder enough, as was her once-shared profession of teaching it. He taught me to play, Hans informed her, as though it might help. Perhaps it did, for the devastated woman asked if he could play it for her, and she silently wept as he pressed the buttons and keys of a clumsy Blue Danube Waltz. It was her husbands favorite. You know, Hans explained to her, he saved my life. The light in the room was small, and the air restrained. Heif theres anything you ever need. He slid a piece of paper with his name and address on it across the table. Im a painter by trade. Ill paint your apartment for free, whenever you like. He knew it was useless compensation, but he offered anyway. The woman took the paper, and not long after, a small child wandered in and sat on her lap. This is Max, the woman said, but the boy was too young and shy to say anything. He was skinny, with soft hair, and his thick, murky eyes watched as the stranger played one more song in the heavy room. From face to face, he looked on as the man played and the woman wept. The different notes handled her eyes. Such sadness. Hans left. You never told me, he said to a dead Erik Vandenburg and the Stuttgart skyline. You never told me you had a son. After a momentary, head-shaken stoppage, Hans returned to Munich, expecting never to hear from those people again. What he didnt know was that his help would most definitely be needed, but not for painting, and not for another twenty years or so. There were a few weeks before he started painting. In the good-weather months, he worked vigorously, and even in winter, he often said to Rosa that business might not be pouring, but it would at least drizzle now and again. For more than a decade, it all worked. Hans Junior and Trudy were born. They grew up making visits to their papa at work, slapping paint on walls and cleaning brushes. When Hitler rose to power in 1933, though, the painting business fell slightly awry. Hans didnt join the NSDAP like the majority of people did. He put a lot of thought into his decision.

THE THOUGHT PROCESS OF HANS HUBERMANN He was not well-educated or political, but if nothing else, he was a man who appreciated fairness. A Jew had once saved his life and he couldnt forget that. He couldnt join a party that antagonized people in such a way. Also, much like Alex Steiner, some of his most loyal customers were Jewish. Like many of the Jews believed, he didnt think the hatred could last, and it was a conscious decision not to follow Hitler. On many levels, it was a disastrous one.

Once the persecution began, his work slowly dried up. It wasnt too bad to begin with, but soon enough, he was losing customers. Handfuls of quotes seemed to vanish into the rising Nazi air. He approached an old faithful named Herbert Bollingera man with a hemispheric waistline who spoke Hochdeutsch (he was from Hamburg)when he saw him on Munich Street. At first, the man looked down, past his girth, to the ground, but when his eyes returned to the painter, the question clearly made him uncomfortable. There was no reason for Hans to ask, but he did. Whats going on, Herbert? Im losing customers quicker than I can count. Bollinger didnt flinch anymore. Standing upright, he delivered the fact as a question of his own. Well, Hans. Are you a member? Of what? But Hans Hubermann knew exactly what the man was talking about. Come on, Hansi, Bollinger persisted. Dont make me spell it out. The tall painter waved him away and walked on. As the years passed by, the Jews were being terrorized at random throughout the country, and in the spring of 1937, almost to his shame, Hans Hubermann finally submitted. He made some inquiries and applied to join the Party. After lodging his form at the Nazi headquarters on Munich Street, he witnessed four men throw several bricks into a clothing store named Kleinmanns. It was one of the few Jewish shops that were still in operation in Molching. Inside, a small man was stuttering about, crushing the broken glass beneath his feet as he cleaned up. A star the color of mustard was smeared to the door. In sloppy lettering, the words JEWISH FILTH were spilling over at their edges. The movement inside tapered from hurried to morose, then stopped altogether. Hans moved closer and stuck his head inside. Do you need some help? Mr. Kleinmann looked up. A dust broom was fixed powerlessly to his hand. No, Hans. Please. Go away. Hans had painted Joel Kleinmanns house the previous year. He remembered his three children. He could see their faces but couldnt recall their names. I will come tomorrow, he said, and repaint your door. Which he did. It was the second of two mistakes. The first occurred immediately after the incident. He returned to where hed come from and drove his fist onto the door and then the window of the NSDAP. The glass shuddered but no one replied. Everyone had packed up and gone home. A last member was walking in the opposite direction. When he heard the rattle of the glass, he noticed the painter. He came back and asked what was wrong. I can no longer join, Hans stated. The man was shocked. Why not? Hans looked at the knuckles of his right hand and swallowed. He could already taste the error, like a metal tablet in his mouth. Forget it. He turned and walked home. Words followed him. You just think about it, Herr Hubermann. Let us know what you decide. He did not acknowledge them. The following morning, as promised, he rose earlier than usual, but not early enough. The door at Kleinmanns Clothing was still moist with dew. Hans dried it. He managed to match the color as close as humanly possible and gave it a good solid coat. Innocuously, a man walked past. Heil Hitler, he said. Heil Hitler, Hans replied.

THREE SMALL BUT IMPORTANT FACTS

1. The man who walked past was Rolf Fischer, one of Molchings greatest Nazis.

A new slur was painted on the door within sixteen hours. Hans Hubermann was not granted membership in the Nazi Party.

Not yet, anyway.

For the next year, Hans was lucky that he didnt revoke his membership application officially. While many people were instantly approved, he was added to a waiting list, regarded with suspicion. Toward the end of 1938, when the Jews were cleared out completely after Kristallnacht, the Gestapo visited. They searched the house, and when nothing or no one suspicious was found, Hans Hubermann was one of the fortunate: He was allowed to stay. What probably saved him was that people knew he was at least waiting for his application to be approved. For this, he was tolerated, if not endorsed as the competent painter he was. Then there was his other savior. It was the accordion that most likely spared him from total ostracism. Painters there were, from all over Munich, but under the brief tutorage of Erik Vandenburg and nearly two decades of his own steady practice, there was no one in Molching who could play exactly like him. It was a style not of perfection, but warmth. Even mistakes had a good feeling about them. He heil Hitlered when it was asked of him and he flew the flag on the right days. There was no apparent problem. Then, on June 16, 1939 (the date was like cement now), just over six months after Liesels arrival on Himmel Street, an event occurred that altered the life of Hans Hubermann irreversibly. It was a day in which he had some work. He left the house at 7 a.m. sharp. He towed his paint cart behind him, oblivious to the fact that he was being followed. When he arrived at the work site, a young stranger walked up to him. He was blond and tall, and serious. The pair watched each other. Would you be Hans Hubermann? Hans gave him a single nod. He was reaching for a paintbrush. Yes, I would. Do you play the accordion, by any chance? This time, Hans stopped, leaving the brush where it was. Again, he nodded. The stranger rubbed his jaw, looked around him, and then spoke with great quietness, yet great clarity. Are you a man who likes to keep a promise? Hans took out two paint cans and invited him to sit down. Before he accepted the invitation, the young man extended his hand and introduced himself. My names Kugler. Walter. I come from Stuttgart. They sat and talked quietly for fifteen minutes or so, arranging a meeting for later on, in the night. A GOOD GIRL

In November 1940, when Max Vandenburg arrived in the kitchen of 33 Himmel Street, he was twenty-four years old. His clothes seemed to weigh him down, and his tiredness was such that an itch could break him in two. He stood shaking and shaken in the doorway. Do you still play the accordion? Of course, the question was really, Will you still help me? Liesels papa walked to the front door and opened it. Cautiously, he looked outside, each way, and returned. The verdict was nothing. Max Vandenburg, the Jew, closed his eyes and drooped a little further into safety. The very idea of it was ludicrous, but he accepted it nonetheless. Hans checked that the curtains were properly closed. Not a crack could be showing. As he did so, Max could no longer bear it. He crouched down and clasped his hands. The darkness stroked him. His fingers smelled of suitcase, metal, Mein Kampf, and survival. It was only when he lifted his head that the dim light from the hallway reached his eyes. He noticed the pajamaed girl, standing there, in full view. Papa? Max stood up, like a struck match. The darkness swelled now, around him. Everythings fine, Liesel, Papa said. Go back to bed. She lingered a moment before her feet dragged from behind. When she stopped and stole one last look at the foreigner in the kitchen, she could decipher the outline of a book on the table. Dont be afraid, she heard Papa whisper. Shes a good girl. For the next hour, the good girl lay wide awake in bed, listening to the quiet fumbling of sentences in the kitchen. One wild card was yet to be played. A SHORT HISTORY OF THE JEWISH FIST FIGHTER

Max Vandenburg was born in 1916. He grew up in Stuttgart. When he was younger, he grew to love nothing more than a good fistfight. He had his first bout when he was eleven years old and skinny as a whittled broom handle. Wenzel Gruber. Thats who he fought. He had a smart mouth, that Gruber kid, and wire-curly hair. The local playground demanded that they fight, and neither boy was about to argue. They fought like champions. For a minute. Just when it was getting interesting, both boys were hauled away by their collars. A watchful parent. A trickle of blood was dripping from Maxs mouth. He tasted it, and it tasted good. Not many people who came from his neighborhood were fighters, and if they were, they didnt do it with their fists. In those days, they said the Jews preferred to simply stand and take things. Take the abuse quietly and then work their way back to the top. Obviously, every Jew is not the same. He was nearly two years old when his father died, shot to pieces on a grassy hill. When he was nine, his mother was completely broke. She sold the music studio that doubled as their apartment and they moved to his uncles house. There he grew up with six cousins who battered, annoyed, and loved him. Fighting with the oldest one, Isaac, was the training ground for his fist fighting. He was trounced almost every night. At thirteen, tragedy struck again when his uncle died. As percentages would suggest, his uncle was not a hothead like Max. He was the type of person who worked quietly away for very little reward. He kept to himself and sacrificed everything for his familyand he died of something growing in his stomach. Something akin to a poison bowling ball. As is often the case, the family surrounded the bed and watched him capitulate. Somehow, between the sadness and loss, Max Vandenburg, who was now a teenager with hard hands, blackened eyes, and a sore tooth, was also a little disappointed. Even disgruntled. As he watched his uncle sink slowly into the bed, he decided that he would never allow himself to die like that. The mans face was so accepting. So yellow and tranquil, despite the violent architecture of his skullthe endless jawline, stretching for miles; the pop-up cheekbones; and the pothole eyes. So calm it made the boy want to ask something. Wheres the fight? he wondered. Wheres the will to hold on? Of course, at thirteen, he was a little excessive in his harshness. He had not looked something like me in the face. Not yet. With the rest of them, he stood around the bed and watched the man diea safe merge, from life to death. The light in the window was gray and orange, the color of summers skin, and his uncle appeared relieved when his breathing disappeared completely. When death captures me, the boy vowed, he will feel my fist on his face. Personally, I quite like that. Such stupid gallantry. Yes. I like that a lot. From that moment on, he started to fight with greater regularity. A group of die-hard friends and enemies would gather down at a small reserve on Steber Street, and they would fight in the dying light. Archetypal Germans, the odd Jew, the boys from the east. It didnt matter. There was nothing like a good fight to expel the teenage energy. Even the enemies were an inch away from friendship. He enjoyed the tight circles and the unknown. The bittersweetness of uncertainty: To win or to lose. It was a feeling in the stomach that would be stirred around until he thought he could no longer tolerate it. The only remedy was to move forward and throw punches. Max was not the type of boy to die thinking about it. His favorite fight, now that he looked back, was Fight Number Five against a tall, tough, rangy kid named Walter Kugler. They were fifteen. Walter had won all four of their previous encounters, but this time, Max could feel something different. There was new blood in himthe blood of victoryand it had the capability to both frighten and excite. As always, there was a tight circle crowded around them. There was grubby ground. There were smiles practically wrapped around the onlooking faces. Money was clutched in filthy fingers, and the calls and cries were filled with such vitality that there was nothing else but this. God, there was such joy and fear there, such brilliant commotion. The two fighters were clenched with the intensity of the moment, their faces loaded up with expression, exaggerated with the stress of it. The wide-eyed concentration. After a minute or so of testing each other out, they began moving closer and taking more risks. It was a street fight after all, not an hour-long title fight. They didnt have all day. Come on, Max! one of his friends was calling out. There was no breath between any of the words. Come on, Maxi Taxi, youve got him now, youve got him, Jew boy, youve got him, youve got him! A small kid with soft tufts of hair, a beaten nose, and swampy eyes, Max was a good head shorter than his opposition. His fighting style was utterly graceless, all bent over, nudging forward, throwing fast punches at the face of Kugler. The other boy, clearly stronger and more skillful, remained upright, throwing jabs that constantly landed on Maxs cheeks and chin. Max kept coming. Even with the heavy absorption of punches and punishment, he continued moving forward. Blood discolored his lips. It would soon be dried across his teeth. There was a great roar when he was knocked down. Money was almost exchanged. Max stood up. He was beaten down one more time before he changed tactics, luring Walter Kugler a little closer than hed wanted to come. Once he was there, Max was able to apply a short, sharp jab to his face. It stuck. Exactly on the nose. Kugler, suddenly blinded, shuffled back, and Max seized his chance. He followed him over to the right and jabbed him once more and opened him up with a punch that reached into his ribs. The right hand that ended him landed on his chin. Walter Kugler was on the ground, his blond hair peppered with dirt. His legs were parted in a V. Tears like crystal floated down his skin, despite the fact that he was not crying. The tears had been bashed out of him. The circle counted. They always counted, just in case. Voices and numbers. The custom after a fight was that the loser would raise the hand of the victor. When Kugler finally stood up, he walked sullenly to Max Vandenburg and lifted his arm into the air. Thanks, Max told him. Kugler proffered a warning. Next time I kill you. Altogether, over the next few years, Max Vandenburg and Walter Kugler fought thirteen times. Walter was always seeking revenge for that first victory Max took from him, and Max was looking to emulate his moment of glory. In the end, the record stood at 103 for Walter. They fought each other until 1933, when they were seventeen. Grudging respect turned to genuine friendship, and the urge to fight left them. Both held jobs until Max was sacked with the rest of the Jews at the Jedermann Engineering Factory in 35. That wasnt long after the Nuremberg Laws came in, forbidding Jews to have German citizenship and for Germans and Jews to intermarry. Jesus, Walter said one evening, when they met on the small corner where they used to fight. That was a time, wasnt it? There was none of this around. He gave the star on Maxs sleeve a backhanded slap. We could never fight like that now. Max disagreed. Yes we could. You cant marry a Jew, but theres no law against fighting one. Walter smiled. Theres probably a law rewarding itas long as you win. For the next few years, they saw each other sporadically at best. Max, with the rest of the Jews, was steadily rejected and repeatedly trodden upon, while Walter disappeared inside his job. A printing firm. If youre the type whos interested, yes, there were a few girls in those years. One named Tania, the other Hildi. Neither of them lasted. There was no time, most likely due to the uncertainty and mounting pressure. Max needed to scavenge for work. What could he offer those girls? By 1938, it was difficult to imagine that life could get any harder. Then came November 9. Kristallnacht. The night of broken glass. It was the very incident that destroyed so many of his fellow Jews, but it proved to be Max Vandenburgs moment of escape. He was twenty-two. Many Jewish establishments were being surgically smashed and looted when there was a clatter of knuckles on the apartment door. With his aunt, his mother, his cousins, and their children, Max was crammed into the living room. Aufmachen! The family watched each other. There was a great temptation to scatter into the other rooms, but apprehension is the strangest thing. They couldnt move. Again. Open up! Isaac stood and walked to the door. The wood was alive, still humming from the beating it had just been given. He looked back at the faces naked with fear, turned the lock, and opened the door. As expected, it was a Nazi. In uniform. Never. That was Maxs first response. He clung to his mothers hand and that of Sarah, the nearest of his cousins. I wont leave. If we all cant go, I dont go, either. He was lying. When he was pushed out by the rest of his family, the relief struggled inside him like an obscenity. It was something he didnt want to feel, but nonetheless, he felt it with such gusto it made him want to throw up. How could he? How could he? But he did. Bring nothing, Walter told him. Just what youre wearing. Ill give you the rest. Max. It was his mother. From a drawer, she took an old piece of paper and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. If ever . . . She held him one last time, by the elbows. This could be your last hope. He looked into her aging face and kissed her, very hard, on the lips. Come on. Walter pulled at him as the rest of the family said their goodbyes and gave him money and a few valuables. Its chaos out there, and chaos is what we need. They left, without looking back. It tortured him. If only hed turned for one last look at his family as he left the apartment. Perhaps then the guilt would not have been so heavy. No final goodbye. No final grip of the eyes. Nothing but goneness. For the next two years, he remained in hiding, in an empty storeroom. It was in a building where Walter had worked in previous years. There was very little food. There was plenty of suspicion. The remaining Jews with money in the neighborhood were emigrating. The Jews without money were also trying, but without much success. Maxs family fell into the latter category. Walter checked on them occasionally, as inconspicuously as he could. One afternoon, when he visited, someone else opened the door. When Max heard the news, his body felt like it was being screwed up into a ball, like a page littered with mistakes. Like garbage. Yet each day, he managed to unravel and straighten himself, disgusted and thankful. Wrecked, but somehow not torn into pieces. Halfway through 1939, just over six months into the period of hiding, they decided that a new course of action needed to be taken. They examined the piece of paper Max was handed upon his desertion. Thats righthis desertion, not only his escape. That was how he viewed it, amid the grotesquerie of his relief. We already know what was written on that piece of paper:

ONE NAME, ONE ADDRESS Hans Hubermann Himmel Street 33, Molching

Its getting worse, Walter told Max. Anytime now, they could find us out. There was much hunching in the dark. We dont know what might happen. I might get caught. You might need to find that place. . . . Im too scared to ask anyone for help here. They might put me in. There was only one solution. Ill go down there and find this man. If hes turned into a Naziwhich is very likelyIll just turn around. At least we know then, richtig ? Max gave him every last pfennig to make the trip, and a few days later, when Walter returned, they embraced before he held his breath. And? Walter nodded. Hes good. He still plays that accordion your mother told you aboutyour fathers. Hes not a member of the party. He gave me money. At this stage, Hans Hubermann was only a list. Hes fairly poor, hes married, and theres a kid. This sparked Maxs attention even further. How old? Ten. You cant have everything. Yes. Kids have big mouths. Were lucky as it is. They sat in silence awhile. It was Max who disturbed it. He must already hate me, huh? I dont think so. He gave me the money, didnt he? He said a promise is a promise. A week later, a letter came. Hans notified Walter Kugler that he would try to send things to help whenever he could. There was a one-page map of Molching and Greater Munich, as well as a direct route from Pasing (the more reliable train station) to his front door. In his letter, the last words were obvious. Be careful. Midway through May 1940, Mein Kampf arrived, with a key taped to the inside cover. The mans a genius, Max decided, but there was still a shudder when he thought about traveling to Munich. Clearly, he wished, along with the other parties involved, that the journey would not have to be made at all. You dont always get what you wish for. Especially in Nazi Germany. Again, time passed. The war expanded. Max remained hidden from the world in another empty room. Until the inevitable. Walter was notified that he was being sent to Poland, to continue the assertion of Germanys authority over both the Poles and Jews alike. One was not much better than the other. The time had come. Max made his way to Munich and Molching, and now he sat in a strangers kitchen, asking for the help he craved and suffering the condemnation he felt he deserved. Hans Hubermann shook his hand and introduced himself. He made him some coffee in the dark. The girl had been gone quite a while, but now some more footsteps had approached arrival. The wildcard. In the darkness, all three of them were completely isolated. They all stared. Only the woman spoke. THE WRATH OF ROSA

Liesel had drifted back to sleep when the unmistakable voice of Rosa Hubermann entered the kitchen. It shocked her awake. Was ist los? Curiosity got the better of her then, as she imagined a tirade thrown down from the wrath of Rosa. There was definite movement and the shuffle of a chair. After ten minutes of excruciating discipline, Liesel made her way to the corridor, and what she saw truly amazed her, because Rosa Hubermann was at Max Vandenburgs shoulder, watching him gulp down her infamous pea soup. Candlelight was standing at the table. It did not waver. Mama was grave. Her plump figure glowed with worry. Somehow, though, there was also a look of triumph on her face, and it was not the triumph of having saved another human being from persecution. It was something more along the lines of, See? At least hes not complaining. She looked from the soup to the Jew to the soup. When she spoke again, she asked only if he wanted more. Max declined, preferring instead to rush to the sink and vomit. His back convulsed and his arms were well spread. His fingers gripped the metal. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Rosa muttered. Another one. Turning around, Max apologized. His words were slippery and small, quelled by the acid. Im sorry. I think I ate too much. My stomach, you know, its been so long since . . . I dont think it can handle such Move, Rosa ordered him. She started cleaning up. When she was finished, she found the young man at the kitchen table, utterly morose. Hans was sitting opposite, his hands cupped above the sheet of wood. Liesel, from the hallway, could see the drawn face of the stranger, and behind it, the worried expression scribbled like a mess onto Mama. She looked at both her foster parents. Who were these people?