بخش 09-01

PART NINE

the last human stranger

featuring: the next temptationa cardplayer the snows of stalingradan ageless brotheran accidentthe bitter taste of questionsa toolbox, a bleeder, a beara broken plane and a homecoming THE NEXT TEMPTATION

This time, there were cookies. But they were stale. They were Kipferl left over from Christmas, and theyd been sitting on the desk for at least two weeks. Like miniature horseshoes with a layer of icing sugar, the ones on the bottom were bolted to the plate. The rest were piled on top, forming a chewy mound. She could already smell them when her fingers tightened on the window ledge. The room tasted like sugar and dough, and thousands of pages. There was no note, but it didnt take Liesel long to realize that Ilsa Hermann had been at it again, and she certainly wasnt taking the chance that the cookies might not be for her. She made her way back to the window and passed a whisper through the gap. The whispers name was Rudy. Theyd gone on foot that day because the road was too slippery for bikes. The boy was beneath the window, standing watch. When she called out, his face appeared, and she presented him with the plate. He didnt need much convincing to take it. His eyes feasted on the cookies and he asked a few questions. Anything else? Any milk? What? Milk, he repeated, a little louder this time. If hed recognized the offended tone in Liesels voice, he certainly wasnt showing it. The book thiefs face appeared above him again. Are you stupid? Can I just steal the book? Of course. All Im saying is . . . Liesel moved toward the far shelf, behind the desk. She found some paper and a pen in the top drawer and wrote Thank you, leaving the note on top. To her right, a book protruded like a bone. Its paleness was almost scarred by the dark lettering of the title. Die Letzte Menschliche FremdeThe Last Human Stranger. It whispered softly as she removed it from the shelf. Some dust showered down. At the window, just as she was about to make her way out, the library door creaked apart. Her knee was up and her book-stealing hand was poised against the window frame. When she faced the noise, she found the mayors wife in a brand-new bathrobe and slippers. On the breast pocket of the robe sat an embroidered swastika. Propaganda even reached the bathroom. They watched each other. Liesel looked at Ilsa Hermanns breast and raised her arm. Heil Hitler. She was just about to leave when a realization struck her. The cookies. Theyd been there for weeks. That meant that if the mayor himself used the library, he must have seen them. He must have asked why they were there. Orand as soon as Liesel felt this thought, it filled her with a strange optimismperhaps it wasnt the mayors library at all; it was hers. Ilsa Hermanns. She didnt know why it was so important, but she enjoyed the fact that the roomful of books belonged to the woman. It was she who introduced her to the library in the first place and gave her the initial, even literal, window of opportunity. This way was better. It all seemed to fit. Just as she began to move again, she propped everything and asked, This is your room, isnt it? The mayors wife tightened. I used to read in here, with my son. But then . . . Liesels hand touched the air behind her. She saw a mother reading on the floor with a young boy pointing at the pictures and the words. Then she saw a war at the window. I know. An exclamation entered from outside. What did you say?! Liesel spoke in a harsh whisper, behind her. Keep quiet, Saukerl, and watch the street. To Ilsa Hermann, she handed the words slowly across. So all these books . . . Theyre mostly mine. Some are my husbands, some were my sons, as you know. There was embarrassment now on Liesels behalf. Her cheeks were set alight. I always thought this was the mayors room. Why? The woman seemed amused. Liesel noticed that there were also swastikas on the toes of her slippers. Hes the mayor. I thought hed read a lot. The mayors wife placed her hands in her side pockets. Lately, its you who gets the most use out of this room. Have you read this one? Liesel held up The Last Human Stranger. Ilsa looked more closely at the title. I have, yes. Any good? Not bad. There was an itch to leave then, but also a peculiar obligation to stay. She moved to speak, but the available words were too many and too fast. There were several attempts to snatch at them, but it was the mayors wife who took the initiative. She saw Rudys face in the window, or more to the point, his candlelit hair. I think youd better go, she said. Hes waiting for you. On the way home, they ate. Are you sure there wasnt anything else? Rudy asked. There must have been. We were lucky to get the cookies. Liesel examined the gift in Rudys arms. Now tell the truth. Did you eat any before I came back out? Rudy was indignant. Hey, youre the thief here, not me. Dont kid me, Saukerl, I could see some sugar at the side of your mouth. Paranoid, Rudy took the plate in just the one hand and wiped with the other. I didnt eat any, I promise. Half the cookies were gone before they hit the bridge, and they shared the rest with Tommy Mller on Himmel Street. When theyd finished eating, there was only one afterthought, and Rudy spoke it. What the hell do we do with the plate? THE CARDPLAYER

Around the time Liesel and Rudy were eating the cookies, the resting men of the LSE were playing cards in a town not far from Essen. Theyd just completed the long trip from Stuttgart and were gambling for cigarettes. Reinhold Zucker was not a happy man. Hes cheating, I swear it, he muttered. They were in a shed that served as their barracks and Hans Hubermann had just won his third consecutive hand. Zucker threw his cards down in disgust and combed his greasy hair with a threesome of dirty fingernails.

SOME FACTS ABOUT REINHOLD ZUCKER He was twenty-four. When he won a round of cards, he gloatedhe would hold the thin cylinders of tobacco to his nose and breathe them in. The smell of victory, he would say. Oh, and one more thing. He would die with his mouth open.

Unlike the young man to his left, Hans Hubermann didnt gloat when he won. He was even generous enough to give each colleague one of his cigarettes back and light it for him. All but Reinhold Zucker took up the invitation. He snatched at the offering and flung it back to the middle of the turned-over box. I dont need your charity, old man. He stood up and left. Whats wrong with him? the sergeant inquired, but no one cared enough to answer. Reinhold Zucker was just a twenty-four-year-old boy who could not play cards to save his life. Had he not lost his cigarettes to Hans Hubermann, he wouldnt have despised him. If he hadnt despised him, he might not have taken his place a few weeks later on a fairly innocuous road. One seat, two men, a short argument, and me. It kills me sometimes, how people die. THE SNOWS OF STALINGRAD

In the middle of January 1943, the corridor of Himmel Street was its dark, miserable self. Liesel shut the gate and made her way to Frau Holtzapfels door and knocked. She was surprised by the answerer. Her first thought was that the man must have been one of her sons, but he did not look like either of the brothers in the framed photos by the door. He seemed far too old, although it was difficult to tell. His face was dotted with whiskers and his eyes looked painful and loud. A bandaged hand fell out of his coat sleeve and cherries of blood were seeping through the wrapping. Perhaps you should come back later. Liesel tried to look past him. She was close to calling out to Frau Holtzapfel, but the man blocked her. Child, he said. Come back later. Ill get you. Where are you from? More than three hours later, a knock arrived at 33 Himmel Street and the man stood before her. The cherries of blood had grown into plums. Shes ready for you now. Outside, in the fuzzy gray light, Liesel couldnt help asking the man what had happened to his hand. He blew some air from his nostrils a single syllablebefore his reply. Stalingrad. Sorry? He had looked into the wind when he spoke. I couldnt hear you. He answered again, only louder, and now, he answered the question fully. Stalingrad happened to my hand. I was shot in the ribs and I had three of my fingers blown off. Does that answer your question? He placed his uninjured hand in his pocket and shivered with contempt for the German wind. You think its cold here? Liesel touched the wall at her side. She couldnt lie. Yes, of course. The man laughed. This isnt cold. He pulled out a cigarette and placed it in his mouth. One-handed, he tried to light a match. In the dismal weather, it would have been difficult with both hands, but with just the one, it was impossible. He dropped the matchbook and swore. Liesel picked it up. She took his cigarette and put it in her mouth. She, too, could not light it. You have to suck on it, the man explained. In this weather, it only lights when you suck. Verstehst? She gave it another go, trying to remember how Papa did it. This time, her mouth filled with smoke. It climbed her teeth and scratched her throat, but she restrained herself from coughing. Well done. When he took the cigarette and breathed it in, he reached out his uninjured hand, his left. Michael Holtzapfel. Liesel Meminger. Youre coming to read to my mother? Rosa arrived behind her at that point, and Liesel could feel the shock at her back. Michael? she asked. Is that you? Michael Holtzapfel nodded. Guten Tag, Frau Hubermann. Its been a long time. You look so . . . Old? Rosa was still in shock, but she composed herself. Would you like to come in? I see you met my foster daughter. . . . Her voice trailed off as she noticed the bloodied hand. My brothers dead, said Michael Holtzapfel, and he could not have delivered the punch any better with his one usable fist. For Rosa staggered. Certainly, war meant dying, but it always shifted the ground beneath a persons feet when it was someone who had once lived and breathed in close proximity. Rosa had watched both of the Holtzapfel boys grow up. The oldened young man somehow found a way to list what happened without losing his nerve. I was in one of the buildings we used for a hospital when they brought him in. It was a week before I was coming home. I spent three days of that week sitting with him before he died. . . . Im sorry. The words didnt seem to come from Rosas mouth. It was someone else standing behind Liesel Meminger that evening, but she did not dare to look. Please. Michael stopped her. Dont say anything else. Can I take the girl to read? I doubt my mother will hear it, but she said for her to come. Yes, take her. They were halfway down the path when Michael Holtzapfel remembered himself and returned. Rosa? There was a moment of waiting while Mama rewidened the door. I heard your son was there. In Russia. I ran into someone else from Molching and they told me. But Im sure you knew that already. Rosa tried to prevent his exit. She rushed out and held his sleeve. No. He left here one day and never came back. We tried to find him, but then so much happened, there was . . . Michael Holtzapfel was determined to escape. The last thing he wanted to hear was yet another sob story. Pulling himself away, he said, As far as I know, hes alive. He joined Liesel at the gate, but the girl did not walk next door. She watched Rosas face. It lifted and dropped in the same moment. Mama? Rosa raised her hand. Go. Liesel waited. I said go. When she caught up to him, the returned soldier tried to make conversation. He must have regretted his verbal mistake with Rosa, and he tried to bury it beneath some other words. Holding up the bandaged hand, he said, I still cant get it to stop bleeding. Liesel was actually glad to enter the Holtzapfels kitchen. The sooner she started reading, the better. Frau Holtzapfel sat with wet streams of wire on her face. Her son was dead. But that was only the half of it. She would never really know how it occurred, but I can tell you without question that one of us here knows. I always seem to know what happened when there was snow and guns and the various confusions of human language. When I imagine Frau Holtzapfels kitchen from the book thiefs words, I dont see the stove or the wooden spoons or the water pump, or anything of the sort. Not to begin with, anyway. What I see is the Russian winter and the snow falling from the ceiling, and the fate of Frau Holtzapfels second son. His name was Robert, and what happened to him was this.

A SMALL WAR STORY His legs were blown off at the shins and he died with his brother watching in a cold, stench-filled hospital.

It was Russia, January 5, 1943, and just another icy day. Out among the city and snow, there were dead Russians and Germans everywhere. Those who remained were firing into the blank pages in front of them. Three languages interwove. The Russian, the bullets, the German. As I made my way through the fallen souls, one of the men was saying, My stomach is itchy. He said it many times over. Despite his shock, he crawled up ahead, to a dark, disfigured figure who sat streaming on the ground. When the soldier with the wounded stomach arrived, he could see that it was Robert Holtzapfel. His hands were caked in blood and he was heaping snow onto the area just above his shins, where his legs had been chopped off by the last explosion. There were hot hands and a red scream. Steam rose from the ground. The sight and smell of rotting snow. Its me, the soldier said to him. Its Pieter. He dragged himself a few inches closer. Pieter? Robert asked, a vanishing voice. He must have felt me nearby. A second time. Pieter? For some reason, dying men always ask questions they know the answer to. Perhaps its so they can die being right. The voices suddenly all sounded the same. Robert Holtzapfel collapsed to his right, onto the cold and steamy ground. Im sure he expected to meet me there and then. He didnt. Unfortunately for the young German, I did not take him that afternoon. I stepped over him with the other poor souls in my arms and made my way back to the Russians. Back and forth, I traveled. Disassembled men. It was no ski trip, I can tell you. As Michael told his mother, it was three very long days later that I finally came for the soldier who left his feet behind in Stalingrad. I showed up very much invited at the temporary hospital and flinched at the smell. A man with a bandaged hand was telling the mute, shock-faced soldier that he would survive. Youll soon be going home, he assured him. Yes, home, I thought. For good. Ill wait for you, he continued. I was going back at the end of the week, but Ill wait. In the middle of his brothers next sentence, I gathered up the soul of Robert Holtzapfel. Usually I need to exert myself, to look through the ceiling when Im inside, but I was lucky in that particular building. A small section of the roof had been destroyed and I could see straight up. A meter away, Michael Holtzapfel was still talking. I tried to ignore him by watching the hole above me. The sky was white but deteriorating fast. As always, it was becoming an enormous drop sheet. Blood was bleeding through, and in patches, the clouds were dirty, like footprints in melting snow. Footprints? you ask. Well, I wonder whose those could be. In Frau Holtzapfels kitchen, Liesel read. The pages waded by unheard, and for me, when the Russian scenery fades in my eyes, the snow refuses to stop falling from the ceiling. The kettle is covered, as is the table. The humans, too, are wearing patches of snow on their heads and shoulders. The brother shivers. The woman weeps. And the girl goes on reading, for thats why shes there, and it feels good to be good for something in the aftermath of the snows of Stalingrad. THE AGELESS BROTHER

Liesel Meminger was a few weeks short of fourteen. Her papa was still away. Shed completed three more reading sessions with a devastated woman. On many nights, shed watched Rosa sit with the accordion and pray with her chin on top of the bellows. Now, she thought, its time. Usually it was stealing that cheered her up, but on this day, it was giving something back. She reached under her bed and removed the plate. As quickly as she could, she cleaned it in the kitchen and made her way out. It felt nice to be walking up through Molching. The air was sharp and flat, like the Watschen of a sadistic teacher or nun. Her shoes were the only sound on Munich Street. As she crossed the river, a rumor of sunshine stood behind the clouds. At 8 Grande Strasse, she walked up the steps, left the plate by the front door, and knocked, and by the time the door was opened, the girl was around the corner. Liesel did not look back, but she knew that if she did, shed have found her brother at the bottom of the steps again, his knee completely healed. She could even hear his voice. Thats better, Liesel. It was with great sadness that she realized that her brother would be six forever, but when she held that thought, she also made an effort to smile. She remained at the Amper River, at the bridge, where Papa used to stand and lean. She smiled and smiled, and when it all came out, she walked home and her brother never climbed into her sleep again. In many ways, she would miss him, but she could never miss his deadly eyes on the floor of the train or the sound of a cough that killed. The book thief lay in bed that night, and the boy only came before she closed her eyes. He was one member of a cast, for Liesel was always visited in that room. Her papa stood and called her half a woman. Max was writing The Word Shaker in the corner. Rudy was naked by the door. Occasionally her mother stood on a bedside train platform. And far away, in the room that stretched like a bridge to a nameless town, her brother, Werner, played in the cemetery snow. From down the hall, like a metronome for the visions, Rosa snored, and Liesel lay awake surrounded, but also remembering a quote from her most recent book.

THE LAST HUMAN STRANGER, PAGE 38 There were people everywhere on the city street, but the stranger could not have been more alone if it were empty.

When morning came, the visions were gone and she could hear the quiet recital of words in the living room. Rosa was sitting with the accordion, praying. Make them come back alive, she repeated. Please, Lord, please. All of them. Even the wrinkles around her eyes were joining hands. The accordion must have ached her, but she remained. Rosa would never tell Hans about these moments, but Liesel believed that it must have been those prayers that helped Papa survive the LSEs accident in Essen. If they didnt help, they certainly cant have hurt. THE ACCIDENT

It was a surprisingly clear afternoon and the men were climbing into the truck. Hans Hubermann had just sat down in his appointed seat. Reinhold Zucker was standing above him. Move it, he said. Bitte? Excuse me? Zucker was hunched beneath the vehicles ceiling. I said move it, Arschloch. The greasy jungle of his fringe fell in clumps onto his forehead. Im swapping seats with you. Hans was confused. The backseat was probably the most uncomfortable of the lot. It was the draftiest, the coldest. Why? Does it matter? Zucker was losing patience. Maybe I want to get off first to use the shit house. Hans was quickly aware that the rest of the unit was already watching this pitiful struggle between two supposed grown men. He didnt want to lose, but he didnt want to be petty, either. Also, theyd just finished a tiring shift and he didnt have the energy to go on with it. Bent-backed, he made his way forward to the vacant seat in the middle of the truck. Why did you give in to that Scheisskopf ? the man next to him asked. Hans lit a match and offered a share of the cigarette. The draft back there goes straight through my ears. The olive green truck was on its way toward the camp, maybe ten miles away. Brunnenweg was telling a joke about a French waitress when the left front wheel was punctured and the driver lost control. The vehicle rolled many times and the men swore as they tumbled with the air, the light, the trash, and the tobacco. Outside, the blue sky changed from ceiling to floor as they clambered for something to hold. When it stopped, they were all crowded onto the right-hand wall of the truck, their faces wedged against the filthy uniform next to them. Questions of health were passed around until one of the men, Eddie Alma, started shouting, Get this bastard off me! He said it three times, fast. He was staring into Reinhold Zuckers blinkless eyes.

THE DAMAGE, ESSEN Six men burned by cigarettes. Two broken hands. Several broken fingers. A broken leg for Hans Hubermann. A broken neck for Reinhold Zucker, snapped almost in line with his earlobes.

They dragged each other out until only the corpse was left in the truck. The driver, Helmut Brohmann, was sitting on the ground, scratching his head. The tire, he explained, it just blew. Some of the men sat with him and echoed that it wasnt his fault. Others walked around smoking, asking each other if they thought their injuries were bad enough to be relieved of duty. Another small group gathered at the back of the truck and viewed the body. Over by a tree, a thin strip of intense pain was still opening in Hans Hubermanns leg. It should have been me, he said. What? the sergeant called over from the truck. He was sitting in my seat. Helmut Brohmann regained his senses and climbed back into the drivers compartment. Sideways, he tried to start the engine, but there was no kicking it over. Another truck was sent for, as was an ambulance. The ambulance didnt come. You know what that means, dont you? said Boris Schipper. They did. When they resumed the trip back to camp, each man tried not to look down at Reinhold Zuckers openmouthed sneer. I told you we should have turned him facedown, someone mentioned. A few times, some of them simply forgot and rested their feet on the body. Once they arrived, they all tried to avoid the task of pulling him out. When the job was done, Hans Hubermann took a few abbreviated steps before the pain fractured in his leg and brought him down. An hour later, when the doctor examined him, he was told it was definitely broken. The sergeant was on hand and stood with half a grin. Well, Hubermann. Looks like youve got away with it, doesnt it? He was shaking his round face, smoking, and he provided a list of what would happen next. Youll rest up. Theyll ask me what we should do with you. Ill tell them you did a great job. He blew some more smoke. And I think Ill tell them youre not fit for the LSE anymore and you should be sent back to Munich to work in an office or do whatever cleaning up needs doing there. How does that sound? Unable to resist a laugh within the grimace of pain, Hans replied, It sounds good, Sergeant. Boris Schipper finished his cigarette. Damn right it sounds good. Youre lucky I like you, Hubermann. Youre lucky youre a good man, and generous with the cigarettes. In the next room, they were making up the plaster. THE BITTER TASTE OF QUESTIONS

Just over a week after Liesels birthday in mid-February, she and Rosa finally received a detailed letter from Hans Hubermann. She ran inside from the mailbox and showed it to Mama. Rosa made her read it aloud, and they could not contain their excitement when Liesel read about his broken leg. She was stunned to the extent that she mouthed the next sentence only to herself. What is it? Rosa pushed. Saumensch? Liesel looked up from the letter and was close to shouting. The sergeant had been true to his word. Hes coming home, Mama. Papas coming home! They embraced in the kitchen and the letter was crushed between their bodies. A broken leg was certainly something to celebrate. When Liesel took the news next door, Barbara Steiner was ecstatic. She rubbed the girls arms and called out to the rest of her family. In their kitchen, the household of Steiners seemed buoyed by the news that Hans Hubermann was returning home. Rudy smiled and laughed, and Liesel could see that he was at least trying. However, she could also sense the bitter taste of questions in his mouth. Why him? Why Hans Hubermann and not Alex Steiner? He had a point. ONE TOOLBOX, ONE BLEEDER, ONE BEAR

Since his fathers recruitment to the army the previous October, Rudys anger had been growing nicely. The news of Hans Hubermanns return was all he needed to take it a few steps further. He did not tell Liesel about it. There was no complaining that it wasnt fair. His decision was to act. He carried a metal case up Himmel Street at the typical thieving time of darkening afternoon.

RUDYS TOOLBOX It was patchy red and the length of an oversized shoe box. It contained the following: Rusty pocketknife 1 Small flashlight 1 Hammer 2 (one medium, one small) Hand towel 1 Screwdriver 3 (varying in size) Ski mask 1 Clean socks 1 Teddy bear 1

Liesel saw him from the kitchen windowhis purposeful steps and committed face, exactly like the day hed gone to find his father. He gripped the handle with as much force as he could, and his movements were stiff with rage. The book thief dropped the towel she was holding and replaced it with a single thought. Hes going stealing. She ran out to meet him. There was not even the semblance of a hello. Rudy simply continued walking and spoke through the cold air in front of him. Close to Tommy Mllers apartment block, he said, You know something, Liesel, I was thinking. Youre not a thief at all, and he didnt give her a chance to reply. That woman lets you in. She even leaves you cookies, for Christs sake. I dont call that stealing. Stealing is what the army does. Taking your father, and mine. He kicked a stone and it clanged against a gate. He walked faster. All those rich Nazis up there, on Grande Strasse, Gelb Strasse, Heide Strasse. Liesel could concentrate on nothing but keeping up. Theyd already passed Frau Dillers and were well onto Munich Street. Rudy How does it feel, anyway? How does what feel? When you take one of those books? At that moment, she chose to keep still. If he wanted an answer, hed have to come back, and he did. Well? But again, it was Rudy who answered, before Liesel could even open her mouth. It feels good, doesnt it? To steal something back. Liesel forced her attention to the toolbox, trying to slow him down. What have you got in there? He bent over and opened it up. Everything appeared to make sense but the teddy bear. As they kept walking, Rudy explained the toolbox at length, and what he would do with each item. For example, the hammers were for smashing windows and the towel was to wrap them up, to quell the sound. And the teddy bear? It belonged to Anna-Marie Steiner and was no bigger than one of Liesels books. The fur was shaggy and worn. The eyes and ears had been sewn back on repeatedly, but it was friendly looking nonetheless. That, answered Rudy, is the one masterstroke. Thats if a kid walks in while Im inside. Ill give it to them to calm them down. And what do you plan to steal? He shrugged. Money, food, jewelry. Whatever I can get my hands on. It sounded simple enough. It wasnt until fifteen minutes later, when Liesel watched the sudden silence on his face, that she realized Rudy Steiner wasnt stealing anything. The commitment had disappeared, and although he still watched the imagined glory of stealing, she could see that now he was not believing it. He was trying to believe it, and thats never a good sign. His criminal greatness was unfurling before his eyes, and as the footsteps slowed and they watched the houses, Liesels relief was pure and sad inside her. It was Gelb Strasse. On the whole, the houses sat dark and huge. Rudy took off his shoes and held them with his left hand. He held the toolkit with his right. Between the clouds, there was a moon. Perhaps a mile of light. What am I waiting for? he asked, but Liesel didnt reply. Again, Rudy opened his mouth, but without any words. He placed the toolbox on the ground and sat on it. His socks grew cold and wet. Lucky theres another pair in the toolbox, Liesel suggested, and she could see him trying not to laugh, despite himself. Rudy moved across and faced the other way, and there was room for Liesel now as well. The book thief and her best friend sat back to back on a patchy red toolbox in the middle of the street. Each facing a different way, they remained for quite a while. When they stood up and went home, Rudy changed his socks and left the previous ones on the road. A gift, he decided, for Gelb Strasse.

THE SPOKEN TRUTH OF RUDY STEINER I guess Im better at leaving things behind than stealing them.

A few weeks later, the toolbox ended up being good for at least something. Rudy cleared it of screwdrivers and hammers and chose instead to store in it many of the Steiners valuables for the next air raid. The only item that remained was the teddy bear. On March 9, Rudy exited the house with it when the sirens made their presence felt again in Molching. While the Steiners rushed down Himmel Street, Michael Holtzapfel was knocking furiously at Rosa Hubermanns door. When she and Liesel came out, he handed them his problem. My mother, he said, and the plums of blood were still on his bandage. She wont come out. Shes sitting at the kitchen table. As the weeks had worn on, Frau Holtzapfel had not yet begun to recover. When Liesel came to read, the woman spent most of the time staring at the window. Her words were quiet, close to motionless. All brutality and reprimand were wrested from her face. It was usually Michael who said goodbye to Liesel or gave her the coffee and thanked her. Now this. Rosa moved into action. She waddled swiftly through the gate and stood in the open doorway. Holtzapfel! There was nothing but sirens and Rosa. Holtzapfel, get out here, you miserable old swine! Tact had never been Rosa Hubermanns strong point. If you dont come out, were all going to die here on the street! She turned and viewed the helpless figures on the footpath. A siren had just finished wailing. What now? Michael shrugged, disoriented, perplexed. Liesel dropped her bag of books and faced him. She shouted at the commencement of the next siren. Can I go in? But she didnt wait for the answer. She ran the short distance of the path and shoved past Mama. Frau Holtzapfel was unmoved at the table. What do I say? Liesel thought. How do I get her to move? When the sirens took another breath, she heard Rosa calling out. Just leave her, Liesel, we have to go! If she wants to die, thats her business, but then the sirens resumed. They reached down and tossed the voice away. Now it was only noise and girl and wiry woman. Frau Holtzapfel, please! Much like her conversation with Ilsa Hermann on the day of the cookies, a multitude of words and sentences were at her fingertips. The difference was that today there were bombs. Today it was slightly more urgent.

THE OPTIONS

Frau Holtzapfel, we have to go. Frau Holtzapfel, well die if we stay here. You still have one son left. Everyones waiting for you. The bombs will blow your head off. If you dont come, Ill stop coming to read to you, and that means youve lost your only friend. She went with the last sentence, calling the words directly through the sirens. Her hands were planted on the table. The woman looked up and made her decision. She didnt move. Liesel left. She withdrew herself from the table and rushed from the house. Rosa held open the gate and they started running to number forty-five. Michael Holtzapfel remained stranded on Himmel Street. Come on! Rosa implored him, but the returned soldier hesitated. He was just about to make his way back inside when something turned him around. His mutilated hand was the only thing attached to the gate, and shamefully, he dragged it free and followed. They all looked back several times, but there was still no Frau Holtzapfel. The road seemed so wide, and when the final siren evaporated into the air, the last three people on Himmel Street made their way into the Fiedlers basement. What took you so long? Rudy asked. He was holding the toolbox. Liesel placed her bag of books on the ground and sat on them. We were trying to get Frau Holtzapfel. Rudy looked around. Where is she? At home. In the kitchen. In the far corner of the shelter, Michael was cramped and shivery. I should have stayed, he said, I should have stayed, I should have stayed. . . . His voice was close to noiseless, but his eyes were louder than ever. They beat furiously in their sockets as he squeezed his injured hand and the blood rose through the bandage. It was Rosa who stopped him. Please, Michael, its not your fault. But the young man with only a few remaining fingers on his right hand was inconsolable. He crouched in Rosas eyes. Tell me something, he said, because I dont understand. . . . He fell back and sat against the wall. Tell me, Rosa, how she can sit there ready to die while I still want to live. The blood thickened. Why do I want to live? I shouldnt want to, but I do. The young man wept uncontrollably with Rosas hand on his shoulder for many minutes. The rest of the people watched. He could not make himself stop even when the basement door opened and shut and Frau Holtzapfel entered the shelter. Her son looked up. Rosa stepped away. When they came together, Michael apologized. Mama, Im sorry, I should have stayed with you. Frau Holtzapfel didnt hear. She only sat with her son and lifted his bandaged hand. Youre bleeding again, she said, and with everyone else, they sat and waited. Liesel reached into her bag and rummaged through the books.

THE BOMBING OF MUNICH, MARCH 9 AND 10 The night was long with bombs and reading. Her mouth was dry, but the book thief worked through fifty-four pages.

The majority of children slept and didnt hear the sirens of renewed safety. Their parents woke them or carried them up the basement steps, into the world of darkness. Far away, fires were burning and I had picked up just over two hundred murdered souls. I was on my way to Molching for one more. Himmel Street was clear. The sirens had been held off for many hours, just in case there was another threat and to allow the smoke to make its way into the atmosphere. It was Bettina Steiner who noticed the small fire and the sliver of smoke farther down, close to the Amper River. It trailed into the sky and the girl held up her finger. Look. The girl might have seen it first, but it was Rudy who reacted. In his haste, he did not relinquish his grip on the toolbox as he sprinted to the bottom of Himmel Street, took a few side roads, and entered the trees. Liesel was next (having surrendered her books to a heavily protesting Rosa), and then a smattering of people from several shelters along the way. Rudy, wait! Rudy did not wait. Liesel could only see the toolbox in certain gaps in the trees as he made his way through to the dying glow and the misty plane. It sat smoking in the clearing by the river. The pilot had tried to land there. Within twenty meters, Rudy stopped. Just as I arrived myself, I noticed him standing there, recovering his breath. The limbs of trees were scattered in the dark. There were twigs and needles littered around the plane like fire fuel. To their left, three gashes were burned into the earth. The runaway ticktock of cooling metal sped up the minutes and seconds till they were standing there for what felt like hours. The growing crowd was assembling behind them, their breath and sentences sticking to Liesels back. Well, said Rudy, should we take a look? He stepped through the remainder of trees to where the body of the plane was fixed to the ground. Its nose was in the running water and the wings were left crookedly behind. Rudy circled slowly, from the tail and around to the right. Theres glass, he said. The windshield is everywhere. Then he saw the body. Rudy Steiner had never seen a face so pale. Dont come, Liesel. But Liesel came. She could see the barely conscious face of the enemy pilot as the tall trees watched and the river ran. The plane let out a few more coughs and the head inside tilted from left to right. He said something they obviously could not understand. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Rudy whispered. Hes alive. The toolbox bumped the side of the plane and brought with it the sound of more human voices and feet. The glow of fire was gone and the morning was still and black. Only the smoke was in its way, but it, too, would soon be exhausted. The wall of trees kept the color of a burning Munich at bay. By now, the boys eyes had adjusted not only to the darkness, but to the face of the pilot. The eyes were like coffee stains, and gashes were ruled across his cheeks and chin. A ruffled uniform sat, unruly, across his chest. Despite Rudys advice, Liesel came even closer, and I can promise you that we recognized each other at that exact moment. I know you, I thought. There was a train and a coughing boy. There was snow and a distraught girl. Youve grown, I thought, but I recognize you. She did not back away or try to fight me, but I know that something told the girl I was there. Could she smell my breath? Could she hear my cursed circular heartbeat, revolving like the crime it is in my deathly chest? I dont know, but she knew me and she looked me in my face and she did not look away. As the sky began to charcoal toward light, we both moved on. We both observed the boy as he reached into his toolbox again and searched through some picture frames to pull out a small, stuffed yellow toy. Carefully, he climbed to the dying man. He placed the smiling teddy bear cautiously onto the pilots shoulder. The tip of its ear touched his throat. The dying man breathed it in. He spoke. In English, he said, Thank you. His straight-line cuts opened as he spoke, and a small drop of blood rolled crookedly down his throat. What? Rudy asked him. Was hast du gesagt? What did you say? Unfortunately, I beat him to the answer. The time was there and I was reaching into the cockpit. I slowly extracted the pilots soul from his ruffled uniform and rescued him from the broken plane. The crowd played with the silence as I made my way through. I jostled free. Above me, the sky eclipsedjust a last moment of darkness and I swear I could see a black signature in the shape of a swastika. It loitered untidily above. Heil Hitler, I said, but I was well into the trees by then. Behind me, a teddy bear rested on the shoulder of a corpse. A lemon candle stood below the branches. The pilots soul was in my arms. Its probably fair to say that in all the years of Hitlers reign, no person was able to serve the Fhrer as loyally as me. A human doesnt have a heart like mine. The human heart is a line, whereas my own is a circle, and I have the endless ability to be in the right place at the right time. The consequence of this is that Im always finding humans at their best and worst. I see their ugly and their beauty, and I wonder how the same thing can be both. Still, they have one thing I envy. Humans, if nothing else, have the good sense to die. HOMECOMING

It was a time of bleeders and broken planes and teddy bears, but the first quarter of 1943 was to finish on a positive note for the book thief. At the beginning of April, Hans Hubermanns plaster was trimmed to the knee and he boarded a train for Munich. He would be given a week of rest and recreation at home before joining the ranks of army pen pushers in the city. He would help with the paperwork on the cleanup of Munichs factories, houses, churches, and hospitals. Time would tell if he would be sent out to do the repair work. That all depended on his leg and the state of the city. It was dark when he arrived home. It was a day later than expected, as the train was delayed due to an air-raid scare. He stood at the door of 33 Himmel Street and made a fist. Four years earlier, Liesel Meminger was coaxed through that doorway when she showed up for the first time. Max Vandenburg had stood there with a key biting into his hand. Now it was Hans Hubermanns turn. He knocked four times and the book thief answered. Papa, Papa. She must have said it a hundred times as she hugged him in the kitchen and wouldnt let go. Later, after they ate, they sat at the kitchen table long into the night and Hans told his wife and Liesel Meminger everything. He explained the LSE and the smoke-filled streets and the poor, lost, wandering souls. And Reinhold Zucker. Poor, stupid Reinhold Zucker. It took hours. At 1 a.m., Liesel went to bed and Papa came in to sit with her, like he used to. She woke up several times to check that he was there, and he did not fail her. The night was calm. Her bed was warm and soft with contentment. Yes, it was a great night to be Liesel Meminger, and the calm, the warm, and the soft would remain for approximately three more months. But her story lasts for six.