Markus_Zusak_The_Book_Thief_2007

THE COLLECTOR

Neither Hans Hubermann nor Alex Steiner was sent to fight. Alex was sent to Austria, to an army hospital outside Vienna. Given his expertise in tailoring, he was given a job that at least resembled his profession. Cartloads of uniforms and socks and shirts would come in every week and he would mend what needed mending, even if they could only be used as underclothes for the suffering soldiers in Russia.

Hans was sent first, quite ironically, to Stuttgart, and later, to Essen. He was given one of the most undesirable positions on the home front. The LSE.

A NECESSARY EXPLANATION

LSE

Luftwa fe Sondereinheit

Air Raid Special Unit

The job of the LSE was to remain aboveground during air raids and put out fires, prop up the walls of buildings, and rescue anyone who had been trapped during the raid. As Hans soon discovered, there was also an alternative definition for the acronym. The men in the unit would explain to him on his first day that it really stood for Leichensammler EinheitDead Body Collectors.

When he arrived, Hans could only guess what those men had done to deserve such a task, and in turn, they wondered the same of him. Their leader, Sergeant Boris Schipper, asked him straight out. When Hans explained the bread, the Jews, and the whip, the round-faced sergeant gave out a short spurt of laughter. Youre lucky to be alive. His eyes were also round and he was constantly wiping them. They were either tired or itchy or full of smoke and dust. Just remember that the enemy here is not in front of you.

Hans was about to ask the obvious question when a voice arrived from behind. Attached to it was the slender face of a young man with a smile like a sneer. Reinhold Zucker. With us, he said, the enemy isnt over the hill or in any specific direction. Its all around. He returned his focus to the letter he was writing. Youll see.

In the messy space of a few months, Reinhold Zucker would be dead. He would be killed by Hans Hubermanns seat.

As the war flew into Germany with more intensity, Hans would learn that every one of his shifts started in the same fashion. The men would gather at the truck to be briefed on what had been hit during their break, what was most likely to be hit next, and who was working with whom.

Even when no raids were in operation, there would still be a great deal of work to be done. They would

drive through broken towns, cleaning up. In the truck, there were twelve slouched men, all rising and falling with the various inconsistencies in the road.

From the beginning, it was clear that they all owned a seat.

Reinhold Zuckers was in the middle of the left row.

Hans Hubermanns was at the very back, where the daylight stretched itself out. He learned quickly to be on the lookout for any rubbish that might be thrown from anywhere in the trucks interior. Hans reserved a special respect for cigarette butts, still burning as they whistled by.

A COMPLETE LETTER HOME

To my dear Rosa and Liesel,

Everything is fine here.

I hope you are both well.

With love, Papa

In late November, he had his first smoky taste of an actual raid. The truck was mobbed by rubble and there was much running and shouting. Fires were burning and the ruined cases of buildings were piled up in mounds. Framework leaned. The smoke bombs stood like matchsticks in the ground, filling the citys lungs.

Hans Hubermann was in a group of four. They formed a line. Sergeant Boris Schipper was at the front, his arms disappearing into the smoke. Behind him was Kessler, then Brunnenweg, then Hubermann. As the sergeant hosed the fire, the other two men hosed the sergeant, and just to make sure, Hubermann hosed all three of them.

Behind him, a building groaned and tripped.

It fell face-first, stopping a few meters from his heels. The concrete smelled brand-new, and the wall of powder rushed at them.

Gottverdammt, Hubermann! The voice struggled out of the flames. It was followed immediately by three men. Their throats were filled with particles of ash. Even when they made it around the corner, away from the center of the wreckage, the haze of the collapsed building attempted to follow. It was white and warm, and it crept behind them.

Slumped in temporary safety, there was much coughing and swearing. The sergeant repeated his earlier sentiments. Goddamn it, Hubermann. He scraped at his lips to loosen them. What the hell was that?

It just collapsed, right behind us.

That much I know already. The question is, how big was it? It must have been ten stories high.

No, sir, just two, I think.

Jesus. A coughing fit. Mary and Joseph. Now he yanked at the paste of sweat and powder in his eye sockets. Not much you could do about that.

One of the other men wiped his face and said, Just once I want to be there when they hit a pub, for Christs sake. Im dying for a beer.

Each man leaned back.

They could all taste it, putting out the fires in their throats and softening the smoke. It was a nice dream, and an impossible one. They were all aware that any beer that flowed in these streets would not be beer at all, but a kind of milk shake or porridge.

All four men were plastered with the gray-and-white conglomeration of dust. When they stood up fully, to resume work, only small cracks of their uniform could be seen.

The sergeant walked to Brunnenweg. He brushed heavily at his chest. Several smacks. Thats better. You had some dust on there, my friend. As Brunnenweg laughed, the sergeant turned to his newest recruit. You first this time, Hubermann.

They put the fires out for several hours, and they found anything they could to convince a building to remain standing. In some cases, where the sides were damaged, the remaining edges poked out like elbows. This was Hans Hubermanns strong point. He almost came to enjoy finding a smoldering rafter or disheveled slab of concrete to prop those elbows up, to give them something to rest on.

His hands were packed tightly with splinters, and his teeth were caked with residue from the fallout. Both lips were set with moist dust that had hardened, and there wasnt a pocket, a thread, or a hidden crease in his uniform that wasnt covered in a film left by the loaded air.

The worst part of the job was the people.

Once in a while there was a person roaming doggedly through the fog, mostly single-worded. They always shouted a name.

Sometimes it was Wolfgang.

Have you seen my Wolfgang?

Their handprints would remain on his jacket.

Stephanie!

Hansi!

Gustel! Gustel Stoboi!

As the density subsided, the roll call of names limped through the ruptured streets, sometimes ending with an ash-filled embrace or a knelt-down howl of grief. They accumulated, hour by hour, like sweet and sour dreams, waiting to happen.

The dangers merged into one. Powder and smoke and the gusty flames. The damaged people. Like the rest of the men in the unit, Hans would need to perfect the art of forgetting.

How are you, Hubermann? the sergeant asked at one point. Fire was at his shoulder.

Hans nodded, uneasily, at the pair of them.

Midway through the shift, there was an old man who staggered defenselessly through the streets. As Hans finished stabilizing a building, he turned to find him at his back, waiting calmly for his turn. A blood-stain was signed across his face. It trailed off down his throat and neck. He was wearing a white shirt with a dark red collar and he held his leg as if it was next to him. Could you prop me up now, young man?

Hans picked him up and carried him out of the haze.

A SMALL, SAD NOTE I visited that small city street with the man still in Hans Hubermanns arms.

The sky was white-horse gray.

It wasnt until he placed him down on a patch of concrete-coated grass that Hans noticed.

What is it? one of the other men asked.

Hans could only point.

Oh. A hand pulled him away. Get used to it, Hubermann.

For the rest of the shift, he threw himself into duty. He tried to ignore the distant echoes of calling people.

After perhaps two hours, he rushed from a building with the sergeant and two other men. He didnt watch the ground and tripped. Only when he returned to his haunches and saw the others looking in distress at the obstacle did he realize.

The corpse was facedown.

It lay in a blanket of powder and dust, and it was holding its ears.

It was a boy.

Perhaps eleven or twelve years old.

Not far away, as they progressed along the street, they found a woman calling the name Rudolf. She was drawn to the four men and met them in the mist. Her body was frail and bent with worry.

Have you seen my boy?

How old is he? the sergeant asked.

Twelve.

Oh, Christ. Oh, crucified Christ.

They all thought it, but the sergeant could not bring himself to tell her or point the way.

As the woman tried to push past, Boris Schipper held her back. Weve just come from that street, he assured her. You wont find him down there.

The bent woman still clung to hope. She called over her shoulder as she half walked, half ran. Rudy!

Hans Hubermann thought of another Rudy then. The Himmel Street variety. Please, he asked into a sky he couldnt see, let Rudy be safe. His thoughts naturally progressed to Liesel and Rosa and the Steiners, and Max.

When they made it to the rest of the men, he dropped down and lay on his back.

How was it down there? someone asked.

Papas lungs were full of sky.

A few hours later, when hed 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 Steiners 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 theyd 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 Liesels favorite distractions was Frau Holtzapfel. The reading sessions included Wednesday now as well, and theyd 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 Mamas. 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 himto know that he was still aliveand 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 RUDYS 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.

Im 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 were fast, we wont get caught. He started distributing the bread. So move it, Saumensch.

Liesel couldnt 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 wasnt 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 growland he was giving people bread.

Was this Germany?

Was this Nazi Germany?

The first soldier did not see the breadhe was not hungrybut 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. Dont move. If they find us here and match us to the bread, were 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.

Dont 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 dont 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. Hed 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.

Papas 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 Hubermanns 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 didnt 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 Vandenburgs 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 youve 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