“How was it down
there?” someone asked.
Papa’s lungs
were full of sky.
A few hours
later, when he’d washed and eaten and thrown up, he attempted to write a
detailed letter home. His hands were uncontrollable, forcing him to make it
short. If he could bring himself, the remainder would be told verbally, when
and if he made it home.
To my dear Rosa
and Liesel,
he
began.
It took many
minutes to write those six words down.
THE BREAD EATERS
It had been a
long and eventful year in Molching, and it was finally drawing to a close.
Liesel spent the
last few months of 1942 consumed by thoughts of what she called three desperate
men. She wondered where they were and what they were doing.
One afternoon,
she lifted the accordion from its case and polished it with a rag. Only once,
just before she put it away, did she take the step that Mama could not. She
placed her finger on one of the keys and softly pumped the bellows. Rosa had
been right. It only made the room feel emptier.
Whenever she met
Rudy, she asked if there had been any word from his father. Sometimes he
described to her in detail one of Alex Steiner’s letters. By comparison, the
one letter her own papa had sent was somewhat of a disappointment.
Max, of course,
was entirely up to her imagination.
It was with
great optimism that she envisioned him walking alone on a deserted road. Once
in a while she imagined him falling into a doorway of safety somewhere, his
identity card enough to fool the right person.
The three men
would turn up everywhere.
She saw her papa
in the window at school. Max often sat with her by the fire. Alex Steiner
arrived when she was with Rudy, staring back at them after they’d slammed the
bikes down on Munich Street and looked into the shop.
“Look at those
suits,” Rudy would say to her, his head and hands against the glass. “All going
to waste.”
Strangely, one
of Liesel’s favorite distractions was Frau Holtzapfel. The reading sessions
included Wednesday now as well, and they’d finished the water-abridged version
of
The Whistler
and were on to
The Dream Carrier.
The old woman
sometimes made tea or gave Liesel some soup that was infinitely better than
Mama’s. Less watery.
Between October
and December, there had been one more parade of Jews, with one to follow. As on
the previous occasion, Liesel had rushed to Munich Street, this time to see if
Max Vandenburg was among them. She was torn between the obvious urge to see
him—to know that he was still alive—and an absence that could mean any number
of things, one of which being freedom.
In mid-December,
a small collection of Jews and other miscreants was brought down Munich Street
again, to Dachau. Parade number three.
Rudy walked
purposefully down Himmel Street and returned from number thirty-five with a
small bag and two bikes.
“You game,
Saumensch
?”
THE
CONTENTS OF RUDY’S BAG
Six stale pieces of bread,
broken into quarters.
They pedaled
ahead of the parade, toward Dachau, and stopped at an empty piece of road. Rudy
passed Liesel the bag. “Take a handful.”
“I’m not sure
this is a good idea.”
He slapped some
bread onto her palm. “Your papa did.”
How could she
argue? It was worth a whipping.
“If we’re fast,
we won’t get caught.” He started distributing the bread. “So move it,
Saumensch.
”
Liesel couldn’t
help herself. There was the trace of a grin on her face as she and Rudy
Steiner, her best friend, handed out the pieces of bread on the road. When they
were finished, they took their bikes and hid among the Christmas trees.
The road was
cold and straight. It wasn’t long till the soldiers came with the Jews.
In the tree
shadows, Liesel watched the boy. How things had changed, from fruit stealer to
bread giver. His blond hair, although darkening, was like a candle. She heard
his stomach growl—and he was giving people bread.
Was this
Germany?
Was this Nazi
Germany?
The first
soldier did not see the bread—he was not hungry—but the first Jew saw it.
His ragged hand
reached down and picked a piece up and shoved it deliriously to his mouth.
Is that Max?
Liesel thought.
She could not
see properly and moved to get a better view.
“Hey!” Rudy was
livid. “Don’t move. If they find us here and match us to the bread, we’re
history.”
Liesel
continued.
More Jews were
bending down and taking bread from the road, and from the edge of the trees,
the book thief examined each and every one of them. Max Vandenburg was not
there.
Relief was
short-lived.
It stirred
itself around her just as one of the soldiers noticed a prisoner drop a hand to
the ground. Everyone was ordered to stop. The road was closely examined. The
prisoners chewed as fast and silently as they could. Collectively, they gulped.
The soldier
picked up a few pieces and studied each side of the road. The prisoners also
looked.
“In there!”
One of the
soldiers was striding over, to the girl by the closest trees. Next he saw the
boy. Both began to run.
They chose
different directions, under the rafters of branches and the tall ceiling of the
trees.
“Don’t stop
running, Liesel!”
“What about the
bikes?”
“Scheiss drauf!
Shit on them, who cares!”
They ran, and
after a hundred meters, the hunched breath of the soldier drew closer. It
sidled up next to her and she waited for the accompanying hand.
She was lucky.
All she received
was a boot up the ass and a fistful of words. “Keep running, little girl, you
don’t belong here!” She ran and she did not stop for at least another mile.
Branches sliced her arms, pinecones rolled at her feet, and the taste of
Christmas needles chimed inside her lungs.
A good
forty-five minutes had passed by the time she made it back, and Rudy was
sitting by the rusty bikes. He’d collected what was left of the bread and was
chewing on a stale, stiff portion.
“I told you not
to get too close,” he said.
She showed him
her backside. “Have I got a footprint?”
THE HIDDEN SKETCHBOOK
A few days
before Christmas, there was another raid, although nothing dropped on the town
of Molching. According to the radio news, most of the bombs fell in open
country.
What was most
important was the reaction in the Fiedlers’ shelter. Once the last few patrons
had arrived, everyone settled down solemnly and waited. They looked at her,
expectantly.
Papa’s voice
arrived, loud in her ears.
“And if there
are more raids, keep reading in the shelter.”
Liesel waited.
She needed to be sure that they wanted it.
Rudy spoke for
everyone. “Read,
Saumensch.
”
She opened the
book, and again, the words found their way upon all those present in the
shelter.
At home, once
the sirens had given permission for everyone to return aboveground, Liesel sat
in the kitchen with her mama. A preoccupation was at the forefront of Rosa
Hubermann’s expression, and it was not long until she picked up a knife and
left the room. “Come with me.”
She walked to
the living room and took the sheet from the edge of her mattress. In the side,
there was a sewn-up slit. If you didn’t know beforehand that it was there,
there was almost no chance of finding it. Rosa cut it carefully open and
inserted her hand, reaching in the length of her entire arm. When it came back
out, she was holding Max Vandenburg’s sketchbook.
“He said to give
this to you when you were ready,” she said. “I was thinking your birthday. Then
I brought it back to Christmas.” Rosa Hubermann stood and there was a strange
look on her face. It was not made up of pride. Perhaps it was the thickness,
the heaviness of recollection. She said, “I think you’ve always been ready,
Liesel. From the moment you arrived here, clinging to that gate, you were meant
to have this.”
Rosa gave her
the book.
The cover looked
like this:
THE
WORD SHAKER
A Small Collection
of Thoughts
for Liesel Meminger
Liesel held it
with soft hands. She stared. “Thanks, Mama.”
She embraced
her.
There was also a
great longing to tell Rosa Hubermann that she loved her. It’s a shame she didn’t
say it.
She wanted to
read the book in the basement, for old times’ sake, but Mama convinced her
otherwise. “There’s a reason Max got sick down there,” she said, “and I can
tell you one thing, girl, I’m not letting you get sick.”
She read in the
kitchen.
Red and yellow
gaps in the stove.
The Word Shaker.
She made her way
through the countless sketches and stories, and the pictures with captions.
Things like Rudy on a dais with three gold medals slung around his neck.
Hair
the color of lemons
was written beneath it. The snowman made an appearance,
as did a list of the thirteen presents, not to mention the records of countless
nights in the basement or by the fire.
Of course, there
were many thoughts, sketches, and dreams relating to Stuttgart and Germany and
the
Führer.
Recollections of Max’s family were also there. In the end,
he could not resist including them. He had to.
Then came page
117.
That was where
The
Word Shaker
itself made its appearance.
It was a fable
or a fairy tale. Liesel was not sure which. Even days later, when she looked up
both terms in the
Duden Dictionary,
she couldn’t distinguish between the
two.
On the previous
page, there was a small note.
PAGE
116
Liesel—I almost scribbled this story out. I thought you
might be too old for such a tale, but maybe no one is. I
thought of you and your books and words, and this strange
story came into my head. I hope you can find some good in it.
She turned the
page.
THERE WAS once a
strange, small man. He decided three important details about his life:
1.
He would part his hair from the opposite side to everyone else.
2.
He would make himself a small, strange mustache.
3.
He would one day rule the world.
The young man
wandered around for quite some time, thinking, planning, and figuring out
exactly how to make the world his. Then one day, out of nowhere, it struck
him—the perfect plan. He’d seen a mother walking with her child. At one point,
she admonished the small boy, until finally, he began to cry. Within a few
minutes, she spoke very softly to him, after which he was soothed and even
smiled.
The young man
rushed to the woman and embraced her. “Words!” He grinned.
“What?”
But there was no
reply. He was already gone.
Yes, the Führer
decided that he would rule the world with words. “I will never fire a gun,” he
devised. “I will not have to.” Still, he was not rash. Let’s allow him at least
that much. He was not a stupid man at all. His first plan of attack was to
plant the words in as many areas of his homeland as possible.
He planted them
day and night, and cultivated them.
He watched them
grow, until eventually, great forests of words had risen throughout Germany....
It was a nation of farmed thoughts.
WHILE THE words
were growing, our young Führer also planted seeds to create symbols, and these,
too, were well on their way to full bloom. Now the time had come. The Führer
was ready.
He invited his
people toward his own glorious heart, beckoning them with his finest, ugliest
words, handpicked from his forests. And the people came.
They were all
placed on a conveyor belt and run through a rampant machine that gave them a
lifetime in ten minutes. Words were fed into them. Time disappeared and they
now Knew everything they needed to Know. They were hypnotized.