AM OUNTAIN R ANGE OF R UBBLE
inwhichournarratorintroduces: himself–thecolours –andthebookthief
D EATHAND C HOCOLATE
Firstthecolours. Thenthehumans. That'susuallyhowIseethings. Oratleast,howItry.
H EREISA S MALL F ACT
Youaregoingtodie.
Iaminalltruthfulnessattemptingtobecheerfulaboutthis wholetopic,thoughmostpeoplefindthemselveshinderedin believingme,nomattermyprotestations.Please,trustme.Imost definitely can becheerful.Icanbeamiable.Agreeable.Affable. Andthat'sonlytheAs.Justdon'taskmetobenice.Nicehas nothingtodowithme.
R EACTIONTOTHE A FOREMENTIONED F ACT
Doesthisworryyou?
Iurgeyou–don’tbeafraid. I’mnothingifnotfair.
Ofcourse,anintroduction.
Abeginning.
Wherearemymanners?
Icouldintroducemyselfproperly,butit’snotreally necessary.Youwillknowmewellenoughandsoonenough, dependingonadiverserangeofvariables.Itsufficestosaythat atsomepointintime,Iwillbestandingoveryou,asgeniallyas possible.Yoursoulwillbeinmyarms.Acolourwillbeperched onmyshoulder.Iwillcarryyougentlyaway.
Atthatmoment,youwillbelyingthere(Irarelyfindpeople standingup).Youwillbecakedinyourownbody.Theremight beadiscovery;ascreamwilldribbledowntheair.Theonly soundI’llhearafterthatwillbemyownbreathing,andthe soundofthesmell,ofmyfootsteps.
Thequestionis,whatcolourwilleverythingbeatthat momentwhenIcomeforyou?Whatwilltheskybesaying?
Personally,Ilikeachocolate-colouredsky.Dark,darkchocolate.Peoplesayitsuitsme.Ido,however,trytoenjoyevery colourIsee–thewholespectrum.Abillionorsoflavours, noneofthemquitethesame,andaskytoslowlysuckon.It takestheedgeoffthestress.Ithelpsmerelax.
A S MALL T HEORY
Peopleobservethecoloursofadayonlyat itsbeginningsandends,buttomeit’squite clearthatadaymergesthroughamultitude ofshadesandintonations,witheachpassing moment.Asingle hour canconsistof thousandsofdifferentcolours.Waxyyellows, cloud-spatblues.Murkydarknesses.Inmyline ofwork,Imakeitapointtonoticethem.
AsI’vesuggested,myonesavinggraceisdistraction.Itkeepsme sane.Ithelpsmecope,consideringthelengthoftimeI’vebeen performingthisjob.Thetroubleis,whocouldeverreplaceme? WhocouldstepinwhileItakeabreakinyourstock-standard resort-styleholidaydestination,whetheritbetropicalorof theski-tripvariety?Theanswer,ofcourse,isnobody,which haspromptedmetomakeaconscious,deliberatedecision–tomakedistractionmyholiday.Needlesstosay,Iholidayin increments.Incolours.
Still,it’spossiblethatyoumightbeasking,Whydoesheeven needaholiday?Whatdoesheneeddistraction from?
Whichbringsmetomynextpoint. It’stheleftoverhumans. Thesurvivors.
They’retheonesIcan’tstandtolookat,althoughonmany occasions,Istillfail.Ideliberatelyseekoutthecolourstokeep mymindoffthem,butnowandthen,Iwitnesstheoneswho areleftbehind,crumblingamongstthejigsawpuzzleofrealisation,despairandsurprise.Theyhavepuncturedhearts.They havebeatenlungs.
DeathandChocolate
THEBOOKTHIEF
WhichinturnbringsmetothesubjectIamtellingyou abouttonight,ortoday,orwhateverthehourandcolour.It’sthe storyofoneofthoseperpetualsurvivors–anexpertatbeing leftbehind.
It’sjustasmallstoryreally,about,amongstotherthings:
•agirl
•somewords
•anaccordionist
•somefanaticalGermans
•aJewishfist-fighter
•andquitealotofthievery. Isawthebookthiefthreetimes.
B ESIDETHE R AILWAY L INE
Firstupissomethingwhite.Oftheblindingkind. Someofyouaremostlikelythinkingthatwhiteisnotreally acolourandallofthattiredsortofnonsense.WellI’mhere totellyouthatitis.Whiteiswithoutquestionacolour,and personally,Idon’tthinkyouwanttoargue.
A R EASSURING A NNOUNCEMENT
Please,becalm,despitethatpreviousthreat. Iamallbluster–Iamnotviolent.Iamnotmalicious. Iamaresult. Yes,itwaswhite. Itfeltasthoughthewholeglobewasdressedinsnow.Likeithad pullediton,thewayyoupullonajumper.Nexttothetrainline, footprintsweresunkentotheirshins.Treesworeblanketsofice.
THEBOOKTHIEF
Asyoumightexpect,someonehaddied.
Theycouldn’tjustleavehimontheground.Fornowitwasn’t suchaproblem,butverysoon,thetrackaheadwouldbe clearedandthetrainwouldneedtomoveon.
Thereweretwoguards.
Therewasamotherandherdaughter. Onecorpse.
Themother,thegirlandthecorpseremainedstubbornand silent.
‘Well,whatelsedoyouwantmetodo?’
Theguardsweretallandshort.Thetallonealwaysspoke first,thoughhewasnotincharge.Helookedatthesmaller, rounder one.The one with the juicy red face.
‘Well,’wastheresponse,‘wecan’tjustleavethemlikethis, canwe?’
Thetallonewaslosingpatience.‘Whynot?’
Andthesmalleronedamnnearexploded.Helookedupat thetallone’schinandcried,‘Spinnstdu? Areyoustupid!?’The abhorrenceonhischeekswasgrowingthickerbythemoment. Hisskinwidened.‘Comeon,’hesaid,traipsingthroughthe snow.‘We’llcarryallthreeofthembackonifwehaveto.We’ll notifythenextstop.’
Asforme,Ihadalreadymadethemostelementaryofmistakes. Ican’texplaintoyoutheseverityofmyself-disappointment. Originally,I’ddoneeverythingright:
Istudiedtheblinding,white-snowskywhostoodatthe windowofthemovingtrain.Ipractically inhaled it,butstill, Iwavered.Ibuckled–Ibecameinterested.Inthegirl.Curiosity
gotthebetterofme,andIresignedmyselftostayaslongasmy scheduleallowed,andIwatched.
Twenty-threeminuteslater,whenthetrainwasstopped, Iclimbedoutwiththem.
Asmallsoulwasinmyarms.
I stooda little to the right.
Thedynamictrainguardduomadetheirwaybacktothe mother,thegirlandthesmallmalecorpse.Iclearlyremember thatmybreathwasloudthatday.I’msurprisedtheguardsdidn’t noticemeastheywalkedby.Theworldwassaggingnow,under theweightofallthatsnow.
Perhapstenmetrestomyleft,thepale,empty-stomached girlwasstanding,frost-stricken.
Hermouthjittered. Hercoldarmswerefolded.
Tearswerefrozentothebookthief’sface.
T HE E CLIPSE
Nextisasignatureblack,toshowthepolesofmyversatility,if youlike.Itwasthedarkestmomentbeforethedawn.
ThistimeIhadcomeforamanofperhapstwenty-fouryears ofage.Itwasabeautifulthinginsomeways.Theplanewasstill coughing.Smokewasleakingfrombothitslungs.
Whenitcrashed,threedeepgashesweremadeintheearth. Itswingswerenowsawn-offarms.Nomoreflapping.Notfor thismetalliclittlebird.
S OME O THER S MALL F ACTS
SometimesIarrivetooearly. Irush, andsomepeopleclinglonger tolifethanexpected.
Afterasmallcollectionofminutes,thesmokeexhausteditself. Therewasnothinglefttogive.
Aboyarrivedfirst,withclutteredbreathandwhatappeared tobeatoolkit.Withgreattrepidation,heapproachedthecockpitandwatchedthepilot,gaugingifhewasalive,atwhich point,hestillwas.Thebookthiefarrivedperhapsthirtyseconds later.
Yearshadpassed,butIrecognisedher. Shewaspanting.
Fromthetoolkit,theboytookout,ofallthings,ateddybear.
Hereached in throughthetornwindscreenandplacediton thepilot’schest.Thesmilingbearsathuddledamongstthe crowdedwreckageofthemanandtheblood.Afewminutes later,Itookmychance.Thetimewasright.
Iwalkedin,loosenedhissoulandcarrieditgentlyout.
Allthatwasleftwasthebody,thedwindlingsmellofsmoke, andthesmilingteddybear.
Asthecrowdarrivedinfull,things,ofcourse,hadchanged.The horizonwasbeginningtocharcoal.Whatwasleftoftheblacknessabovewasnothingnowbutascribble,anddisappearing fast.
Theman,incomparison,wasthecolourofbone.Skeletoncolouredskin.Aruffleduniform.Hiseyeswerecoldandbrown –likecoffeestains–andthelastscrawlfromaboveformed what,tome,appearedanodd,yetfamiliar,shape.Asignature.
Thecrowddidwhatcrowdsdo.
AsImademywaythrough,eachpersonstoodandplayed withthequietnessofit.Itwasasmallconcoctionofdisjointed handmovements,muffledsentences,andmute,self-conscious turns.
TheEclipse
WhenIglancedbackattheplane,thepilot’sopenmouth appearedtobesmiling.
Afinaldirtyjoke.
Anotherhumanpunchline.
Heremainedshroudedamongsthisuniformasthegreying lightarm-wrestledthesky.Aswithmanyoftheothers,when Ibeganmyjourneyaway,thereseemedaquickshadowagain,a finalmomentofeclipse–therecognitionofanothersoulgone.
Yousee,tome,forjustamoment,despiteallofthecolours thattouchandgrapplewithwhatIseeinthisworld,Iwilloften catchan eclipse whena human dies.
I’veseenmillionsofthem.
I’veseenmoreeclipsesthanIcaretoremember.
T HE F LAG
ThelasttimeIsawherwasred.Theskywaslikesoup,boiling andstirring.Insomeplacesitwasburned.Therewereblack crumbs,andpepper,streakedamongsttheredness.
Earlier,kidshadbeenplayinghopscotchthere,onthestreet thatlookedlikeoil-stainedpages.WhenIarrivedIcouldstill heartheechoes.Thefeettappingtheroad.Thechildren-voices laughing,andthesmileslikesalt,butdecayingfast.
Then,bombs.
Thistime,everythingwastoolate.
Thesirens.Thecuckooshrieksintheradio.Alltoolate.
Withinminutes,moundsofconcreteandearthwerestacked andpiled.Thestreetswererupturedveins.Bloodstreamedtill itwasdriedontheroad,andthebodieswerestuckthere,like driftwoodaftertheflood.
Theywereglueddown,everylastoneofthem.Apacket ofsouls.
Wasitfate?
Misfortune?
Isthatwhatgluedthemdownlikethat? Ofcoursenot.
Let’snotbestupid. Itprobablyhadmoretodowiththehurledbombs,thrown downbyhumanshidingintheclouds. Forhours,theskyremainedadevastating,home-cookedred. ThesmallGermantownhadbeenflungapartonemoretime. Snowflakesofashfellso lovelily youweretemptedtostretchout yourtonguetocatchthem,tastethem.Only,theywouldhave scorchedyourlips.Theywouldhavecookedyourmouth.
Clearly,Iseeit.
Iwasjust about to leave when I found her kneelingthere. Amountainrangeofrubblewaswritten,designed,erected aroundher.Shewasclutchingatabook.
Apartfromeverythingelse,thebookthiefwanteddesperately togobacktothebasement,towrite,ortoreadthroughher storyonelasttime.Inhindsight,Iseeitsoobviouslyonherface. Shewasdyingforit–thesafety,thehomeofit–butshecould notmove.Also,thebasementnolongerexisted.Itwaspartof themangledlandscape.
Please,again,Iaskyoutobelieveme.
I wanted to stop. To crouch down. Iwantedtosay. ‘I’msorry,child.’ Butthatisnotallowed.
Ididnotcrouchdown.Ididnotspeak.
Instead,Iwatchedherawhile.Whenshewasabletomove, Ifollowedher.
Shedroppedthebook. Shekneeled. Thebookthiefhowled.
Herbookwassteppedonseveraltimesastheclean-upbegan, andalthoughordersweregiventoclearonlythemessofconcrete,thegirl’smostpreciousitemwasthrownaboarda garbagetruck,atwhichpointIwascompelled.Iclimbed aboardandtookitinmyhand,notrealisingthatIwouldread herstoryseveralhundredtimesovertheyears,onmytravels. Iwouldwatchtheplaceswhereweintersected,andmarvel atwhatthegirlsawandhowshesurvived.Thatisthebest Icando–watchitfallintolinewitheverythingelseIspectatedduringthattime.
WhenIrecollecther,Iseealonglistofcolours,butit’sthethree inwhichIsawherinthefleshthatresonatethemost. Sometimes,Imanagetofloatfarabovethosethreemoments. Ihangsuspended,untilaseptictruthbleedstowardsclarity. That’swhenIseethemformulate.
T HE C OLOURS
Theyfallontopofeachother.Thescribbledsignatureblack, ontotheblindingglobalwhite,ontothethicksoupyred.
Yes,oftenIamremindedofher,andinoneofmyvastarray ofpockets,Ihavekeptherstorytoretell.Itisoneofthesmall legionIcarry,eachoneextraordinaryinitsownright.Eachone anattempt–animmenseleapofanattempt–toprovetome thatyou,andyourhumanexistence,areworthit. Hereitis.Oneofahandful.
TheBookThief. Ifyoufeellikeit,comewithme.Iwilltellyouastory. I’llshowyousomething.
PARTONE
HTheGravedigger’s
Handbook
featuring: himmelstreet–theartofsaumensching–aniron-fistedwoman–akissattempt –jesseowens–sandpaper–thesmellof friendship–aheavyweightchampion–and themotherofall watschen s
A RRIVALON H IMMEL S TREET
Thatlasttime.
Thatredsky...
Howdoesabookthiefendupkneelingandhowlingand flankedbyaman-madeheapofridiculous,greasy,cooked-up rubble?
Yearsearlier,thestartwassnow. Thetimehadcome.Forone.
A S PECTACULARLY T RAGIC M OMENT
Atrainwasmovingquickly. Itwaspackedwithhumans.
Asix-year-oldboydied inthethirdcarriage.
Thebookthiefandherbrotherweretravellingdowntowards Munich,wheretheywouldsoonbegivenovertofosterparents. Wenowknow,ofcourse,thattheboydidn’tmakeit.
THEBOOKTHIEF
H OW I T H APPENED
Therewasanintense spurtofcoughing. Almostan inspired spurt. Andsoonafter–nothing.
Whenthecoughingstopped,therewasnothingbutthenothingnessoflifemovingonwithashuffle,oranear-silenttwitch. Asuddennessfounditswayontohislipsthen,whichwerea corrodedbrowncolour,andpeeling,likeoldpaint.Indesperate needofredoing.
Theirmotherwasasleep. Ienteredthetrain.
Myfeetsteppedthroughtheclutteredaisleandmypalmwas overhismouthinaninstant.
No-onenoticed.
Thetraingallopedon. Exceptthegirl.
Withoneeyeopen,onestillinadream,thebookthief–also knownasLieselMeminger–couldseewithoutquestionthat heryoungerbrotherWernerwasnowsidewaysanddead.
Hisblueeyesstaredatthefloor. Seeingnothing.
Priortowakingup,thebookthiefhadbeendreamingaboutthe Führer,AdolfHitler.Inthedream,shewasattendingarallyat whichhespoke,lookingattheskull-colouredpartinhishair andtheperfectsquareofhismoustache.Shewaslistening
contentedlytothetorrentofwordsthatwasspillingfromhis mouth.Hissentencesglowedinthelight.Inaquietermoment, heactuallycroucheddownandsmiledather.Shereturnedthe gestureandsaid,‘GutenTag,HerrFührer.Wiegeht’sdirheut?’She hadn’tlearnedtospeaktoowell,oreventoread,asshehad rarelyfrequentedschool.Thereasonforthat,shewouldfind outinduecourse.
Just as the Führerwas about to reply,she wokeup.
ItwasJanuary1939.Shewasnineyearsold,soontobeten. Herbrotherwasdead.
Oneeyeopen.
Onestillinadream.
Itwouldbebetterforacompletedream,Ithink,butIreally havenocontroloverthat.
Thesecondeyejumpedawakeandshecaughtmeout,no doubtaboutit.ItwasexactlywhenIkneeleddownandextractedhissoul,holdingitlimplyinmyswollenarms.Hewarmed upsoonafter,butwhenIpickedhimuporiginally,theboy’s spiritwassoftandcold,likeice-cream.Hestartedmeltingin myarms.Thenwarmingupcompletely.Healing.
ForLieselMeminger,therewastheimprisonedstiffnessof movement,andthestaggeredonslaughtofthoughts. Esstimmt nicht.Thisisn’thappening.Thisisn’thappening. Andtheshaking.
Whydotheyalwaysshakethem?
Yes,Iknow,Iknow,Iassumeithassomethingtodowith instinct.Tostemtheflowoftruth.Herheartatthatpointwas slipperyandhot,andloud,soloudsoloud.
Stupidly,Istayed.Iwatched.
THEBOOKTHIEF
Next,hermother.
Shewokeherupwiththesamedistraughtshake. Ifyoucan’timagineit,thinkclumsysilence.Thinkbitsand piecesoffloatingdespair.Anddrowninginatrain.
SnowhadbeenfallingconsistentlyandtheservicetoMunich wasforcedtostopduetofaultytrackwork.Therewasawoman wailing.Agirlstoodnumblynexttoher.
Inpanic,themotheropenedthedoor. Sheclimbeddownintothesnow,holdingthesmallbody. Whatcouldthegirldobutfollow?
Asyou’vebeeninformed,twoguardsalsoexitedthetrain.They discussedandarguedoverwhattodo.Thesituationwas unsavourytosaytheleast.Itwaseventuallydecidedthatall threeofthemshouldbetakentothenexttownshipandleft theretosortthingsout.
Thistimethetrainlimpedthroughthesnowed-incountry. Ithobbledinandstopped.
Theysteppedontotheplatform,thebodyinhermother’s arms.
Theystood. Theboywasgettingheavy.
Lieselhadnoideawhereshewas.Allwaswhite,andasthey remainedatthestation,shecouldonlystareatthefaded letteringofthesigninfrontofher.ForLiesel,thetownwas nameless,anditwastherethatherbrotherWernerwasburied twodayslater.Witnessesincludedapriestandtwoshivering gravediggers.
A N O BSERVATION
Apairoftrainguards. Apairofgravediggers. Whenitcamedowntoit,one ofthemcalledtheshots.The otherdidwhathewastold. Thequestionis,whatifthe other isalotmorethanone?
Mistakes,mistakes,it’sallIseemcapableofattimes.
FortwodaysIwentaboutmybusiness.Itravelledtheglobe asalways,handingsoulstotheconveyorbeltofeternity.I watchedthemtrundlepassivelyon.SeveraltimesIwarned myselfthatIshouldkeepagooddistancefromtheburialof LieselMeminger’sbrother.Ididnotheedmyadvice.
Frommilesaway,asIapproached,Icouldalreadyseethe smallgroupofhumansstandingfrigidlyamongstthewasteland ofsnow.Thecemeterywelcomedmelikeafriend,andsoon, Iwaswiththem.Ibowedmyhead.
StandingtoLiesel’sleft,thegravediggerswererubbingtheir handstogetherandwhingeingaboutthesnowandthecurrent diggingconditions.‘Sohardgettingthroughalltheice,’and soforth.Oneofthemcouldn’thavebeenmorethanfourteen.
Anapprentice.Whenhewalkedaway,ablackbookfellinnocuouslyfromhiscoatpocketwithouthisknowledge.He’dtaken perhapstwodozensteps.
Afewminuteslater,Liesel’smotherstartedleavingwiththepriest. Shewasthankinghimforhisperformanceoftheceremony.
THEBOOKTHIEF
Thegirl,however,stayed.
Herkneesenteredtheground.Hermomenthadarrived. Stillindisbelief,shestartedtodig.Hecouldn’tbedead.He couldn’tbedead.Hecouldn’t–
Withinseconds,snowwascarvedintoherskin. Frozenbloodwascrackedacrossherhands.
Somewhereinallthesnow,shecouldseeherbrokenheart, intwopieces.Eachhalfwasglowing,andbeatingunderallthat white.Sheonlyrealisedhermotherhadcomebackforher whenshefelttheboninessofahandonhershoulder.Shewas beingdraggedaway.Awarmscreamfilledherthroat.
A S MALL I MAGE ,P ERHAPS
T WENTY M ETRES A WAY
Whenthedraggingwasdone,themother and the girlstood and breathed. Therewassomethingblack andrectangularlodgedinthesnow. Onlythegirlsawit. Shebentdownandpickeditup andhelditfirmlyinherfingers. Thebookhadsilverwritingonit. Theyheldhands.
Afinal,soakingfarewellwasletgoof,andtheyturnedand left,lookingbackseveraltimes.
Asforme,Iremainedafewmomentslonger. Iwaved. No-onewavedback.
Motheranddaughtervacatedthecemeteryandmadetheirway towardsthenexttraintoMunich.
Bothwereskinnyandpale.
Bothhadsoresontheirlips.
Lieselnoticeditinthedirty,fogged-upwindowofthetrain whentheyboardedjustbeforemidday.Inthewrittenwordsof thebookthiefherself,thejourneycontinuedlike everything had happened.
Whenthetrainpulledintothe Bahnhof inMunich,thepassengersslidoutasiffromatornpackage.Therewerepeopleof everystature,butamongstthem,thepoorwerethemosteasily recognised.Theimpoverishedalwaystrytokeepmoving,as ifrelocatingmighthelp.Theyignoretherealitythatanew versionofthesameoldproblemwillbewaitingattheendof thetrip–therelativeyoucringetokiss.
Ithinkhermotherknewthisquitewell.Shewasn’tdeliveringherchildrentothehigherechelonsofMunich,butafoster homehadapparentlybeenfound,andifnothingelse,thenew familycouldatleastfeedthegirlandtheboyalittlebetter,and educatethemproperly.
Theboy.
Lieselwassurehermothercarriedthememoryofhim, slungoverhershoulder.Shedroppedhim.Shesawhisfeetand legsandbodyslaptheplatform.
Howcouldshewalk?
Howcouldshemove?
That’sthesortofthingI’llneverknow,orcomprehend–whathumansarecapableof.
Shepickedhimupandcontinuedwalking,thegirlclinging toherside.
Authoritiesweremetandquestionsoflatenessandtheboy raisedtheirvulnerableheads.Lieselremainedinthecornerof thesmall,dustyofficeashermothersatwithclenchedthoughts onaveryhardchair.
Therewasthechaosofgoodbye.
Thegirl’sheadwasburiedintothewoolly,wornshallowsof hermother’scoat.Therehadbeensomemoredragging.
QuiteawaybeyondtheoutskirtsofMunichwasatowncalled Molching,saidbestbythelikesofyouandmeas Molking.That’s wheretheyweretakingher, to astreet by thename of Himmel.
A T RANSLATION
Himmel=Heaven
WhoevernamedHimmelStreetcertainlyhadahealthysenseof irony.Notthatitwasalivinghell.Itwasn’t.Butitsureashell wasn’theaveneither.
Regardless,Liesel’sfosterparentswerewaiting.
TheHubermanns.
They’dbeenexpectingagirlandaboyandwouldbepaida smallallowanceforhavingthem.Nobodywantedtobetheone totellRosaHubermannthattheboyhadn’tsurvivedthetrip.In fact,no-oneeverreallywantedtotellheranything.Asfarasdispositionsgo,herswasn’treallyenviable,althoughshe’dhada goodrecordwithfosterkidsinthepast.Apparently,she’d straightenedafewout.
ForLiesel,itwasarideinacar.
She’dneverbeeninonebefore.
Therewastheconstantriseandfallofherstomach,andthe
futilehopethatthey’dlosethewayorchangetheirminds. Amongstitall,herthoughtscouldn’thelpturningtowardsher mother,backattheBahnhof,waitingtoleaveagain.Shivering. Bundledupinthatuselesscoat.She’dbeeatinghernails, waitingforthetrain.Theplatformwouldbelonganduncomfortable–asliceofcoldcement.Wouldshekeepaneyeoutfor theapproximateburialsiteofhersononthereturntrip?Or wouldsleepbetooheavy?
Thecarmovedon,withLieseldreadingthelast,lethalturn.
Thedaywasgrey,thecolourofEurope.
Curtainsofrainweredrawnaroundthecar.
‘Nearlythere.’Thefostercarelady,FrauHeinrich,turned andsmiled.‘DeinneuesHeim.Yournewhome.’
Lieselmadeaclearcircleonthedribbledglassandlooked out.
A P HOTOOF H IMMEL S TREET
Thebuildingsappeartobe gluedtogether,mostlysmall housesandunitblocksthatlook nervous.Thereismurkysnow spreadout like carpet.There is concrete,emptyhatstand trees,andgreyair.
Amanwasalsointhecar.HeremainedwiththegirlwhileFrau Heinrichdisappearedinside.Heneverspoke.Lieselassumedhe
wastheretomakesureshedidn’trunaway,ortoforceher insideifshegavethemanytrouble.Later,however,whenthe troubledidstart,hesimplysatthereandwatched.Perhapshe wasonlythelastresort,thefinalsolution.
Afterafewminutes,averytallmancameout.Hans Hubermann,Liesel’sfosterfather.Ononesideofhimwasthe mediumheightFrauHeinrich.Ontheotherwasthesquat shapeofRosaHubermann,wholookedlikeasmallwardrobe withacoatthrownoverit.Therewasadistinctwaddletoher walk.Almostcute,ifithadn’tbeenforherface,whichwaslike creased-upcardboard,andannoyed,asifshewasmerelytoleratingallofit.Herhusbandwalkedstraight,withacigarette smoulderingbetweenhisfingers.Herolledhisown.
Thefactwasthis:
Lieselwouldnotgetoutofthecar.
‘WasistlosmitdiesemKind?’RosaHubermannenquired.Shesaid itagain.‘What’swrongwiththischild?’Shestuckherfaceinside thecar and said, ‘Na,komm.Komm.’
Theseatinfrontwasflungforward.Acorridorofcoldlight invitedherout.Shewouldnotmove.
Outside,throughthecircleshe’dmade,Lieselcouldseethe tallman’sfingers,stillholdingthecigarette.Ashstumbledfrom itsedgeandlungedandliftedseveraltimesbeforeithitthe ground.Fifteenminutespassedtilltheywereabletocoaxher fromthecar.Itwasthetallmanwhodidit.
Quietly. Therewasthegatenext,whichsheclungto. Agangoftearstrudgedfromhereyesassheheldonand
refusedtogoinside.Peoplestartedtogatheronthestreet,until RosaHubermannsworeatthem,afterwhichtheyreversed backwhencetheycame.
AT RANSLATIONOF R OSA H UBERMANN ’ S
A NNOUNCEMENT
‘Whatare you arseholes looking at?’
Eventually,LieselMemingerwalkedgingerlyinside.Hans Hubermannhadherbyonehand.Hersmallsuitcasehadherby theother.Buriedbeneaththefoldedlayerofclothesinthatsuitcasewasasmallblackbook, which, for all we know,a fourteenyear-oldgravediggerinanamelesstownhadprobablyspent thelastfewhourslookingfor.‘Ipromiseyou,’Iimaginehim sayingtohisboss,‘Ihavenoideawhathappenedtoit.I’ve lookedeverywhere. Everywhere!’I’msurehewouldneverhave suspectedthegirl,andyet,thereitwas–ablackbookwith silverwordswrittenagainsttheceilingofherclothes.
T HE G RAVEDIGGER ’ S H ANDBOOK
Atwelve-stepguideto gravediggingsuccess
PublishedbytheBayernCemeteryAssociation
Thebookthiefhadstruckforthefirsttime–thebeginningof anillustriouscareer.
G ROWING U PA S AUMENSCH
Yes,anillustriouscareer.
Ishouldhastentoadmit,however,thattherewasaconsiderablehiatusbetweenthefirststolenbookandthesecond. Anothernoteworthypointisthatthefirstwasstolenfrom snow,andthesecondfromfire.Nottoomitthatotherswere alsogiventoher.Allup,sheownedfourteenbooks,butshesaw herstoryasbeingmadeuppredominantlyoftenofthem.Of thoseten,sixwerestolen,oneshowedupatthekitchentable, twoweremadeforherbyahiddenJew,andonewasdelivered byasoft,yellow-dressedafternoon.
Whenshecametowriteherstory,shewouldwonder exactlywhenthebooksandthewordsstartednotjusttomean something,buteverything.Wasitwhenshefirstseteyesonthe roomwithshelvesandshelvesofthem?OrwhenMax VandenburgarrivedonHimmelStreetcarryinghandfulsof sufferingandHitler’s MeinKampf ?Wasitreadingintheshelters? ThelastparadetoDachau?Wasit TheWordShaker?Perhapsthere wouldneverbeapreciseanswerastowhenandwhereit
occurred.Inanycase,that’sgettingaheadofmyself.Beforewe makeittoanyofthat,wefirstneedtotourLieselMeminger’s beginningsonHimmelStreet,andtheartofsaumensching.
Uponherarrival,youcouldstillseethebitemarksofsnowon herhandsandthefrostybloodonherfingers.Everythingabout herwasundernourished.Wire-likeshins.Coathangerarms.She didnotproduceiteasily,butwhenitcame,shehadastarving smile.
HerhairwasacloseenoughbrandofGerman-blonde,but shehaddangerouseyes.Darkbrown.Youdidn’treallywant browneyesinGermanyaroundthattime.Perhapsshereceived themfromherfather,butshehadnowayofknowing,asshe couldn’trememberhim.Therewasreallyonlyonethingshe knewaboutherfather.Itwasalabelshedidnotunderstand.
A S TRANGE W ORD
Kommunist
She’dhearditseveraltimesinthepastfewyears.
Therewereboardinghousescrammedwithpeople,rooms filledwithquestions.Andthatword.Thatstrangewordwas alwaystheresomewhere,standinginthecorner,watchingfrom thedark.Itworesuits,uniforms.Nomatterwheretheywent, thereitwas,eachtimeherfatherwasmentioned.Whenshe askedhermotherwhatitmeant,shewastolditwasn’timportant,thatsheshouldn’tworryaboutsuchthings.Atoneboardinghouse,therewasahealthierwomanwhotriedtoteach thechildrentowrite,usingcharcoalonthewall.Lieselwas temptedtoaskhertheword’smeaning,butitnevereventuated. GrowingUpaSaumensch
Oneday,thatwomanwastakenawayforquestioning.Shedidn’t comeback.
WhenLieselarrivedinMolching,shehadatleastsomeinkling thatshewasbeingsaved,butthatwasnotacomfort.Ifher motherlovedher,whyleaveheronsomeoneelse’sdoorstep? Why?Why? Why?
Thefactthatsheknewtheanswer–ifonlyatthemostbasic level–seemedbesidethepoint.Hermotherwasconstantlysick andtherewasneveranymoneytofixher.Sheknewthat.But thatdidn’tmeanshehadtoacceptit.Nomatterhowmany timesshewastoldthatshewasloved,therewasnorecognition thattheproofwasintheabandonment.Nothingchangedthe factthatshewasalost,skinnychildinanotherforeignplace, withmoreforeignpeople.Alone.
TheHubermannslivedinoneofthesmallblockhouseson HimmelStreet.Afewrooms,akitchen,andanouthouseshared withneighbours.Theroofwasflatandtherewasashallowbasementforstorage.Itwasnotabasementof adequatedepth.In1939, thiswasn’taproblem.Later,in’42and’43,itwas.Whenairraids started,theyalwaysneededtorushdownthestreettoabetter shelter.
Inthebeginning,itwastheprofanitythatmadethegreatest impact.Itwasso vehement, and prolific.Everysecond wordwas either Saumensch or Saukerl or Arschloch .Forpeoplewho aren’tfamiliarwiththesewords,Ishouldexplain. Sau,ofcourse, referstopigs.InthecaseofSaumensch,itservestocastigate, berateorplainhumiliateafemale.Sau kerl (pronounced ‘saukairl’)isforamale. Arschloch canbetranslateddirectlyinto
arsehole.Thatword,however,doesnotdifferentiatebetween thesexes.Itsimplyis.
‘Saumenschdudreckigs! ’Liesel’sfostermothershoutedthat firstevening,whensherefusedtohaveabath.‘Youfilthypig! Whywon’tyougetundressed?’Shewasgoodatbeingfurious. Infact,youcouldsaythatRosaHubermannhadafacedecoratedwithconstantfury.Thatwashowthecreasesweremadein thecardboardtextureofhercomplexion.
Liesel,naturally,wasbathedinanxiety.Therewasnowayshe wasgettingintoanybath,orintobedforthatmatter.Shewas twistedintoonecornerofthecloset-likewashroom,clutching forthenonexistentarmsofthewallforsomelevelofsupport. Therewasnothingbutdrypaint,difficultbreathandthedeluge ofabusefromRosa.
‘Leaveheralone.’HansHubermannenteredthefray.His gentlevoicemadeitswayin,asifslippingthroughacrowd. ‘Leave her to me.’
Hemovedcloserandsatonthefloor,againstthewall.The tileswerecoldandunkind.
‘Youknowhowtorollacigarette?’heaskedher,andforthe nexthourorso,theysatintherisingpoolofdarkness,playing withthetobaccoandcigarettepapers,andHansHubermann smokingthem.
Whenthehourwasup,Lieselcouldrollacigarettemoderatelywell.Shestilldidn’thaveabath.
S OME F ACTS A BOUT H ANS H UBERMANN Helovedtosmoke. Themainthingheenjoyedaboutsmokingwastherolling. GrowingUpaSaumensch
Hewasapainterbytradeandplayedthepianoaccordion. Thiscameinhandy,especiallyinwinter, whenhecouldmakealittlemoneyplayinginthepubs ofMolching,liketheKnoller. Hehad already cheatedme inone worldwar,butwould laterbeputinto another (as a perversekind ofreward)wherehewouldsomehow managetoavoidmeagain.
Tomostpeople,HansHubermannwasbarelyvisible.Anunspecialperson.Certainly,hispaintingskillswereexcellent.His musicalabilitywasbetterthanaverage.Somehow,though,and I’msureyou’vemetpeoplelikethis,hehadtheabilitytoappear inthebackground,evenifhewasstandingatthefrontofa queue.Hewasalwaysjust there.Notnoticeable.Notimportant orparticularlyvaluable.
Thefrustrationofthatappearance,asyoucanimagine, wasitscompletemisleadence,let’ssay.Theremostdefinitely wasvalueinhim,anditdidnotgounnoticedbyLiesel Meminger.(Thehumanchild–somuchcannierattimesthan thestupefyinglyponderousadult.)Shesawitimmediately. Hismanner.
Thequietairaroundhim.
Whenheturnedthelightoninthesmallcallouswashroom thatnight,Lieselobservedthestrangenessofherfosterfather’s eyes.Theyweremadeofkindness,andsilver.Likesoftsilver, melting.Liesel,uponseeingthoseeyes,understoodthatHans Hubermannwasworthalot.
GrowingUpaSaumensch
S OME F ACTS A BOUT R OSA H UBERMANN
Shewasfivefootoneinchtallandworeher browny-greystrandsofelastichairinabun. TosupplementtheHubermannincome,shedid thewashingandironingforfive ofthewealthierhouseholdsinMolching. Hercookingwasatrocious. Shepossessedtheuniqueabilitytoaggravate almostanyonesheevermet. Butshe did loveLieselMeminger. Herwayofshowingitjusthappenedtobestrange. Itinvolved bashingher with woodenspoon andwords,atvariousintervals.
WhenLieselfinallyhadabath,aftertwoweeksoflivingon HimmelStreet,Rosagaveheranenormous,injury-inducing hug.Nearlychokingher,shesaid,‘Saumenschdudreckigs –it’s abouttime!’
Afterafewmonths,theywerenolongerMrandMrs Hubermann.Withatypicalfistfulofwords,Rosasaid,‘Now listen,Liesel–fromnowonyoucallmeMama.’Shethought amoment.‘Whatdidyoucallyourrealmother?’ Lieselansweredquietly.‘AuchMama –alsoMama.’
‘WellI’mMamaNumberTwothen.’Shelookedoverather husband.‘Andhimoverthere.’Sheseemedtocollectthewords inherhand,patthemtogetherandhurlthemacrossthetable. ‘That Saukerl,that filthy pig– you call him Papa, verstehst ? Understand?’
‘Yes,’Lieselpromptlyagreed.Quickanswerswereappreciatedinthishousehold.
‘Yes, Mama,’Mamacorrectedher.‘Saumensch.CallmeMama when you talk to me.’
Atthatmoment,HansHubermannhadjustcompleted rollingacigarette,havinglickedthepaperandjoineditall up.HelookedoveratLieselandwinked.Shewouldhaveno troublecallinghimPapa.
T HE W OMANWITHTHE I RON F IST
Thosefirstfewmonthsweredefinitelythehardest. Everynight,Lieselwouldnightmare. Herbrother’sface.
Staringatthefloorofthetrain.
Shewouldwakeupswimminginherbed,screaming,and drowninginthefloodofsheets.Ontheothersideoftheroom, thebedthatwasmeantforherbrotherfloatedboat-likeinthe darkness.Slowly,withthearrivalofconsciousness,itsank, seeminglyintothefloor.Thisvisiondidn’thelpmatters,andit wouldusuallybequiteawhilebeforethescreamingstopped.
Possiblytheonlygoodtocomeoutofthosenightmareswas thatitbroughtHansHubermann,hernewpapa,intotheroom, tosootheher,toloveher.
Hecameineverynightandsatwithher.Thefirstcouple oftimeshesimplystayed–astrangertokillthealoneness.A fewnightsafterthat,hewhispered,‘Shh,I’mhere,it’sallright.’ Afterthreeweeks,heheldher.Trustwasaccumulatedquickly, dueprimarilytothebrutestrengthoftheman’sgentleness,his
THEBOOKTHIEF
thereness.Thegirlknewfromtheoutsetthathe’dalwaysappear mid-scream,andhewouldnotleave.
A D EFINITION N OT F OUNDINTHE
D ICTIONARY
Not-leaving:Anactoftrustandlove,oftendecipheredbychildren.
HansHubermannwouldsitsleepy-eyedonthebedasLiesel criedintohissleevesandbreathedhimin.Everymorning,just aftertwoo’clock,shefellasleepagaintothesmellofhim:amixtureofdeadcigarettes,decadesofpaint,andhumanskin.When morningcameinearnest,hewasacoupleofmetresawayfrom her,crumpled,almosthalved,inthechair.Heneverusedthe otherbed.Lieselwouldclimboutandcautiouslykisshischeek andhewouldwakeupandsmile.
Somedays,Papatoldhertogetbackintobedandwaitaminute, andhewouldreturnwithhisaccordionandplayforher.Liesel wouldsitupandhum,hercoldtoesclenchedwithexcitement. No-onehadevergivenhermusicbefore.Shewouldgrinherself stupid,watchingthelinesdrawingthemselvesdownhisface, andthesoftmetalofhiseyes–untiltheswearingarrivedfrom thekitchen.
‘STOPTHATNOISE,
SAUKERL
Papa would playa little longer.
!’
Hewouldwinkatthegirland,clumsily,she’dwinkback.
Afewtimes,purelytoincenseMamaevenfurther,healso broughttheinstrumenttothekitchenandplayedthrough breakfast.
Papa’sbreadandjamwouldbehalf-eatenonhisplate,curled intotheshapeofbitemarks,andthemusicwouldlookLieselin theface.Iknowitsoundsstrange,butthat’showitfelttoher. Papa’srighthandstrolledthetooth-colouredkeys.Hislefthit thebuttons.(Sheespeciallylovedtoseehimhitthesilver, sparkledone–theCmajor.)Theaccordion’sscratchedyetshiny blackexteriorcamebackandforthashisarmssqueezedthe dustybellows,makingitsuckintheairandthrowitbackout. Inthekitchenonthosemornings,Papamadetheaccordion live.Iguessitmakessense,whenyoureallythinkaboutit. Howdoyoutellifsomething’salive?
Youcheckforbreathing.
Thesoundoftheaccordionwas,inactualfact,alsothe announcementofsafety.Daylight.Duringtheday,itwasimpossibletodreamofherbrother.Shewouldmisshimand frequentlycryinthetinywashroomasquietlyaspossible, butshewasstillgladtobeawake.Onherfirstnightwith theHubermanns,shehadhiddenherlastlinktohim– The Gravedigger’sHandbook –underhermattress,andoccasionally shewouldpullitoutandholdit.Staringatthelettersonthe coverandtouchingtheprintinside,shehadnoideawhatanyof itwassaying.Thepointis,itdidn’treallymatterwhatthatbook wasabout.Itwaswhatitmeantthatwasmoreimportant.
T HE B OOK ’ S M EANING
1.Thelasttimeshesawherbrother.
2.Thelasttimeshesawhermother. TheWomanwiththeIronFist
Sometimes,shewouldwhisperthewordMamaandseeher mother’sfaceahundredtimesinasingleafternoon.Butthose weresmallmiseriescomparedtotheterrorofherdreams.At thosetimes,intheenormousmileageofsleep,shehadnever feltsocompletelyalone.
AsI’msureyou’vealreadynoticed,therewerenoother childreninthehouse.TheHubermannshadtwooftheirown, buttheywereolderandhadmovedout.HansJuniorworkedin thecentreofMunichandTrudyheldajobasahousemaidand childminder.Soontheywouldbothbeinthewar.Onewouldbe makingbullets.Theotherwouldbeshootingthem.
School,asyoumightimagine,wasaterrificmisery.
Althoughitwasstate-run,therewasaheavyCatholicinfluence,andLieselwasLutheran.Notthemostauspiciousstart. Thentheydiscoveredshecouldn’treadorwrite.
Humiliatingly,shewascastdownwiththeyoungerkids, whowereonlyjustlearningthealphabet.Eventhoughshe wasthin-bonedandpale,shefeltgiganticamongstthemidget children,andsheoftenwishedshewaspaleenoughtodisappearaltogether.
Evenathometherewasn’tmuchroomforguidance.
‘Don’task him forhelp,’Mamapointedout.‘That Saukerl.’ Papawasstaringoutthewindow,aswasoftenhishabit.‘Heleft schoolinfourthclass.’
Withoutturninground,Papaansweredcalmly,butwith venom.‘Welldon’taskhereither.’Hedroppedsomeashoutside. ‘Sheleftschoolin third class.’
Therewerenobooksinthehouse(apartfromtheoneshe hadsecretedunderhermattress),andthebestLieselcoulddo wasspeakthealphabetunderherbreathbeforeshewastoldin
TheWomanwiththeIronFist
nouncertaintermstokeepquiet.Allthatmumbling.Itwasn’t untillater,whentherewasabed-wettingincidentmidnightmare,thatanextrareadingeducationbegan.Unofficially, itwascalledthemidnightclass,eventhoughitusuallycommencedataroundtwointhemorning.Moreofthatsoon.
Inmid-February,whensheturnedten,Lieselwasgivenaused dollthathadamissinglegandyellowhair.
‘Itwasthebestwecoulddo,’Papaapologised.
‘Whatareyoutalkingabout?She’sluckytohave that much,’ Mamacorrectedhim.
Hanscontinuedhisexaminationoftheremaininglegwhile Lieseltriedonhernewuniform.TenyearsoldmeantHitler Youth.HitlerYouthmeantasmallbrownuniform.Being female,Lieselwasenrolledintothejuniordivisionofwhatwas calledtheBDM.
E XPLANATIONOFTHE A BBREVIATION
ItstoodforBundDeutscherMädchen–UnitedGermanGirls.
Thefirstthingtheydidtherewasmakesureyour HeilHitler wasworkingproperly.Thenyouweretaughttomarchstraight, rollbandagesandsewupclothes.Youwerealsotakenhiking andonothersuchactivities.WednesdayandSaturdaywerethe designatedmeetingdays,fromthreeintheafternoonuntilfive.
EachWednesdayandSaturday,PapawouldwalkLieseltothe BDMheadquartersandpickheruptwohourslater.Theynever spokeaboutitmuch.Theyjustheldhandsandlistenedtotheir feet,andPapahadacigaretteortwo.
TheonlyanxietyPapabroughtherwasthefactthathewas frequentlyleaving.Manyeveningshewouldwalkintotheliving room(whichdoubledastheHubermanns’bedroom),pull theaccordionfromtheoldcupboardandsqueezepastinthe kitchentothefrontdoor.
AshewalkedupHimmelStreet,Mamawouldopenthe windowandcryout.‘Don’tbehometoolate!’ ‘Notsoloud,’heturnedandcalledback.
‘Saukerl! Lickmyarse!I’llspeakasloudasIwant!’
Theechoofherswearingfollowedhimupthestreet.He neverlookedback,oratleast,notuntilhewassurehiswifewas gone.Onthoseevenings,attheendofthestreet,accordioncase inhand,hewouldturnround,justbeforeFrauDiller’scorner shop,andseethefigurewhohadreplacedhiswife,inthewindow.Briefly,hislong,ghostlyhandwouldrise,beforeheturned againandwalkedslowlyon.ThenexttimeLieselsawhim wouldbeattwointhemorning,whenhedraggedhergently fromhernightmare.
Eveningsinthesmallkitchenwereraucous,withoutfail.Rosa Hubermannwasalwaystalking,andwhenshewastalking,she was schimpfen.Shewasconstantlyarguingandcomplaining. Therewasno-onetoreallyarguewith,butMamamanagedit expertlyeverychanceshehad.Shecouldarguewiththeentire worldinthatkitchen,andalmosteveryevening,shedid.Once theyhadeatenandPapawasgone,LieselandRosawould usuallyremainthere,andRosawoulddotheironing.
Afewtimesaweek,Lieselwouldcomehomefromschool andwalkthestreetsofMolchingwithhermama,pickingupand deliveringwashingandironingfromthewealthierpartsof town.KnauptStrasse,HeideStrasse.Afewothers.Mamawould
delivertheironingorpickupthewashingwithadutifulsmile, butassoonasthedoorwasshutandshewalkedaway,shewould cursetheserichpeople,withalltheirmoneyandlaziness.
‘Too g’schtinkerdt towashtheirownclothes,’shewouldsay, despiteherdependenceonthem.
‘Him,’sheaccusedHerrVogelfromHeideStreet.‘Madeall hismoneyfromhisfather.Hethrowsitawayonwomenand drink.Andwashingandironing,ofcourse.’
Itwaslikearollcallofscorn.
HerrVogel,MrandMrsPfaffelhürver,HelenaSchmidt,the Weingartners.Theywereallguiltyof something.
Apartfromhisdrunkennessandexpensivelechery,Ernst Vogel,accordingtoRosa,wasconstantlyscratchinghis louse-riddenhair,lickinghisfingersandthenhandingover themoney.‘IshouldwashitbeforeIcomehome,’washer summation.
ThePfaffelhürversscrutinisedtheresults.‘Notonecreasein theseshirts,please,’Rosaimitatedthem.‘Notonewrinkleinthissuit. Andthentheystandthereandinspectitall,rightinfrontofme. Rightundermynose!Whata G’sindel –whatrubbish.’
TheWeingartnerswereapparentlystupidpeoplewithaconstantlymoulting Saumensch ofacat.‘Doyouknowhowlongit takesmetogetridofallthatfur?It’severywhere!’
HelenaSchmidtwasarichwidow.‘Thatoldcripple–sitting therejustwastingaway.She’sneverhadtodoaday’sworkinall herlife.’
Rosa’sgreatestdisdain,however,wasreservedfor8Grande Strasse.Alargehouse,highonahill,intheupperpartof Molching.
‘Thisone,’she’dpointedouttoLieselthefirsttimetheywent there,‘isthemayor’shouse.Thatcrook.Hiswifesitsathomeall TheWomanwiththeIronFist
THEBOOKTHIEF
day,toomeantolightafire–it’salwaysfreezinginthere.She’s crazy.’Shepunctuatedthewords.‘Absolutely.Crazy.’Atthegate, shemotionedtothegirl.‘Yougo.’
Lieselwashorrified.Agiantbrowndoorwithabrass knockerstoodatopasmallflightofsteps.‘What?’ Mamashovedher.‘Don’tyouwhatme, Saumensch.Moveit.’
Lieselmovedit.Shewalkedthepath,climbedthesteps, hesitatedandknocked.
Abathrobeansweredthedoor.
Insideit,awomanwithstartledeyes,hairlikefluff,andthe postureofdefeatstoodinfrontofher.ShesawMamaatthegate andhandedthegirlabagofwashing.‘Thankyou,’Lieselsaid, buttherewasnoreply.Onlythedoor.Itclosed.
‘Yousee?’saidMamawhenshereturnedtothegate.‘Thisis whatIhavetoputupwith.Theserichbastards,theselazy swines...’
Holdingthewashingastheywalkedaway,Liesellooked back.Thebrassknockereyedherfromthedoor.
Whenshe’dfinishedberatingthepeoplesheworkedfor,Rosa Hubermannwouldusuallymoveontoherotherfavourite themeofabuse.Herhusband.Lookingatthebagofwashing andthehunchedhouses,shewouldtalk,andtalk,andtalk.‘If yourpapawasanygood,’sheinformedLiesel every timethey walkedthroughMolching,‘Iwouldn’thavetodothis.’She sniffedwithderision.‘Apainter!Whymarrythat Arschloch? That’swhattheytoldme–myfamily,thatis.’Theirfootsteps crunchedalongthepath.‘AndhereIam,walkingthestreetsand slavinginmykitchenbecausethat Saukerl neverhasanywork. Norealwork,anyway.Justthatpatheticaccordioninthosedirtholeseverynight.’
‘Yes,Mama.’
‘Isthatallyou’vegottosay?’Mama’seyeswerelikepaleblue cut-outs,pastedtoherface. They’dwalkon.
WithLieselcarryingthesack.
Athome,itwaswashedinaboilernexttothestove,hungup bythefireplaceinthelivingroom,andthenironedinthe kitchen.Thekitchenwaswheretheactionwas.
‘Didyouhearthat?’Mamaaskedhernearlyeverynight.The ironwasinherfist,heatedfromthestove.Lightwasdullall throughthehouse,andLiesel,sittingatthekitchentable, wouldbestaringatthegapsoffireinfrontofher.
‘What?’she’dreply.‘Whatisit?’
‘ThatwasthatHoltzapfel.’Mamawasalreadyoutofherseat. ‘That Saumensch justspatonourdooragain.’
ItwasatraditionforFrauHoltzapfel,oneoftheirneighbours,tospitontheHubermanns’dooreverytimeshewalked past.Thefrontdoorwasonlymetresfromthegate,andlet’sjust saythatFrauHoltzapfelhadthedistance–andtheaccuracy.
ThespittingwasduetothefactthatsheandRosa Hubermannwereengagedinsomekindofdecade-longverbal war.No-oneknewtheoriginofthishostility.They’dprobably forgottenitthemselves.
FrauHoltzapfelwasawirywoman,andquiteobviously spiteful.She’dnevermarriedbuthadtwosons,afewyears olderthantheHubermannoffspring.Bothwereinthearmy andbothwillmakecameoappearancesbythetimewe’re finishedhere,Iassureyou.
Inthespitefulstakes,IshouldalsosaythatFrauHoltzapfel wasthoroughwithherspitting,too.Sheneverneglectedto TheWomanwiththeIronFist
spuck onthedoorofnumberthirty-threeandsay‘Schweine!’ eachtimeshewalkedpast.OnethingI’venoticedaboutthe Germans:
Theyseemveryfondofpigs.
A S MALL Q UESTIONANDITS A NSWER
Andwhodoyouthinkwasmadetoclean thespitoffthedooreachnight?
Yes–yougotit.
Whenawomanwithanironfisttellsyoutogetoutthereand cleanspitoffthedoor,youdoit.Especiallywhentheiron’shot. Itwasalljustpartoftheroutine,really.
Eachnight,Lieselwouldstepoutside,wipethedoorand watchthesky.Usuallyitwaslikespillage–coldandheavy,slipperyandgrey–butonceinawhilesomestarshadthenerveto riseandglow,ifonlyforafewminutes.Onthosenights,she would stay alittlelonger and wait.
‘Hello,stars.’
Waiting.
Forthevoicefromthekitchen.
Ortillthestarsweredraggeddownagain,intothewatersof theGermansky.
T HE K ISS
(AChildhoodDecision-maker)
Aswithmostsmalltowns,Molchingwasfilledwithcharacters. AhandfulofthemlivedonHimmelStreet.FrauHoltzapfelwas onlyonecastmember.
Theothersincludedthelikesofthese:
•RudySteiner–theboynextdoorwhowasobsessedwith theblackAmericanathlete,JesseOwens.
•FrauDiller–thestaunchAryancornershopowner.
•TommyMuller–akidwhosechronicearinfectionshad resultedinseveraloperations,apinkriverofskinpainted acrosshisfaceandatendencytotwitch.
•AndamanknownprimarilyasPfiffikus,whosevulgarity madeRosaHubermannlooklikeawordsmithandasaint.
Onthewhole,itwasastreetfilledwithrelativelypoorpeople, despitetheapparentriseofGermany’seconomyunderHitler. Poorsidesoftownstillexisted.
Asmentionedalready,thehousenextdoortothe HubermannswasrentedbyafamilycalledSteiner.TheSteiners hadsixchildren.Oneofthem,theinfamousRudy,wouldsoon becomeLiesel’sbestfriend,andlater,herpartnerandsometime catalystincrime.Shemethimonthestreet.
AfewdaysafterLiesel’sfirstbath,Mamaallowedherouttoplay withtheotherkids.OnHimmelStreet,friendshipsweremade outside,regardlessoftheweather.Thechildrenrarelyvisited eachother’shomes,fortheyweresmallandtherewasusually verylittleinthem.Also,theyconductedtheirfavouritepastime,likeprofessionals,onthestreet.Football.Teamswerewell set.Garbagebinswereusedtomarkoutthegoals.
Beingthenewkidintown,Lieselwasimmediatelyshoved betweenonepairofthosebins.(TommyMullerwasfinallyset free,despitebeingthemostuselessfootballerHimmelStreet hadeverseen.)
Itallwentnicelyforawhile,untilthefatefulmomentwhen RudySteinerwasupendedinthesnowbyaTommyMullerfoul offrustration.
‘What?!’Tommyshouted.Hisfacetwitchedindesperation. ‘WhatdidIdo?!’
ApenaltywasawardedbyeveryoneonRudy’steam,andnow, itwasRudySteineragainstthenewkid,LieselMeminger. Heplacedtheballonagrubbymoundofsnow,confidentof theusualoutcome.Afterall,Rudyhadn’tmissedapenaltyin eighteenshots,evenwhentheoppositionmadeapointofbootingTommyMulleroutofgoal.Nomatterwhotheyreplaced himwith,Rudywouldscore.
Onthisoccasion,theytriedtoforceLieselout.Asyoumight imagine,sheprotested,andRudyagreed.
TheKiss
‘No,no,’hesmiled.‘Letherstay.’Hewasrubbinghishands together.
Snowhadstoppedfallingonthefilthystreetnow,andthe muddyfootprintsweregatheredbetweenthem.Rudyshuffled in,firedtheshot,andLieseldivedandsomehowdeflectedit withherelbow.Shestoodupgrinning,butthefirstthingshe sawwasasnowballsmashingintoherface.Halfofitwasmud. Itstunglikecrazy.
‘Howdoyoulikethat?’theboygrinned,andheranoff,in pursuitoftheball.
‘Saukerl,’Lieselwhispered.Thevocabularyofhernewhome wascatchingonfast.
S OME F ACTS A BOUT R UDY S TEINER
HewaseightmonthsolderthanLieseland hadbonylegs,sharpteeth,ganglyblue eyesandhairthecolourofalemon. OneofsixSteinerchildren, hewaspermanentlyhungry. OnHimmelStreet,hewas consideredalittlecrazy. Thiswasonaccountofaneventthat wasrarelyspokenabout,butwidely regardedas,‘TheJesseOwensIncident’, inwhichhepaintedhimselfcharcoal-black andranthehundredmetresatthe localsportingfieldonenight.
Insaneornot,RudywasalwaysdestinedtobeLiesel’sbest friend.Asnowballinthefaceissurelytheperfectbeginningto alastingfriendship.
AfewdaysafterLieselstartedschool,shewentalongwith theSteiners.Rudy’smother,Barbra,madehimpromisetowalk withthenewgirl,mainlybecauseshe’dheardaboutthesnowball.ToRudy’scredit,hewashappyenoughtocomply.Hewas notthejuniormisogynistictypeofboyatall.Helikedgirlsalot, andhelikedLiesel(hence,thesnowball).Infact,RudySteiner wasoneofthoseaudaciouslittlebastardswhoactually fancied himselfwiththeladies.Everychildhoodseemstohaveexactly suchalittlejuvenileinitsmidstandmists.He’stheboywho refusestofeartheoppositesex,purelybecauseeveryoneelse choosestoembracethatparticularfear,andhe’sthetypewhois unafraidtomakeadecision.Inthiscase,Rudyhadalreadymade uphismindaboutLieselMeminger.
Onthewaytoschool,hetriedtopointoutcertainlandmarksinthetown,oratleast,hemanagedtoslipitallin,somewherebetweentellinghisyoungersiblingstoshuttheirfaces andtheolderonestellinghimtoshuthis.Hisfirstpointof interestwasasmallwindowonthesecondfloorofanapartmentblock.
‘That’swhereTommyMullerlives.’HerealisedthatLiesel didn’trecallhim.‘Thetwitcher?Whenhewasfiveyearsold,he gotlostatthemarketsonthecoldestdayoftheyear.Three hourslater,whentheyfoundhim,hewasfrozensolidandhad anawfulearachefromthecold.Afterawhile,hisearswere allinfectedinsideandhehadthreeorfouroperationsandthe doctorswreckedhisnerves.Sonowhetwitches.’
Lieselchimedin.‘Andhe’sbadatfootball.’ ‘Theworst.’
TheKiss
NextwasthecornershopattheendofHimmelStreet. Frau Diller’s.
A N I MPORTANT N OTE A BOUT F RAU D ILLER
Shehadonegoldenrule.
FrauDillerwasasharp-edgedwomanwithfatglassesanda nefarious glare.She developed this evil look to discourage the veryideaofstealingfromhershop,whichsheoccupiedwith soldier-likeposture,arefrigeratedvoiceandevenbreaththat smelledlike HeilHitler.Theshopitselfwaswhiteandcold,and completelybloodless.Thesmallhousecompressedbesideit shiveredwithalittlemoreseveritythantheotherbuildingson HimmelStreet.FrauDilleradministeredthisfeeling,dishingit outastheonlyfreeitemfromherpremises.Shelivedforher shopandhershoplivedfortheThirdReich.Evenwhen rationingstartedlaterintheyear,shewasknowntosellcertain hard-to-getitemsunderthecounteranddonatethemoneyto theNaziParty.Onthewallbehindherusualsittingpositionwas aframedphotooftheFührer.Ifyouwalkedintohershopand didn’tsay HeilHitler,youwouldn’tbeserved.Astheywalkedby, RudydrewLiesel’sattentiontothebullet-proofeyesleering fromtheshopwindow.
‘Say Heil whenyougointhere,’hewarnedherstiffly.‘Unless youwanttowalkalittlefurther.’Evenwhentheywerewellpast theshop,Liesellookedbackandthemagnifiedeyeswerestill there,fastenedtothewindow.
Aroundthecorner,MunichStreet(themainroadinandout ofMolching)wasstrewnwithslosh.
Aswasoftenthecase,afewrowsoftroopsintrainingcame
THEBOOKTHIEF
marchingpast.Theiruniformswalkeduprightandtheirblack bootsfurtherpollutedthesnow.Theirfaceswerefixedaheadin concentration.
Oncethey’dwatchedthesoldiersdisappear,thegroupof SteinersandLieselwalkedpastsomeshopwindows,andthe imposingtownhall,whichinlateryearswouldbechoppedoff atthekneesandburied.Afewoftheshopswereabandonedand stilllabelledwithyellowstarsandanti-Jewishslurs.Further down,thechurchaimeditselfatthesky,itsrooftopastudyof collaboratedtiles.Thestreet,overall,wasalengthytubeofgrey –acorridorofdampness,peoplestoopedinthecold,andthe splashedsoundofwateryfootsteps.
Atonestage,Rudyrushedahead,draggingLieselwithhim. Heknockedonthewindowofatailor’sshop.
Hadshebeenabletoreadthesign,shewouldhavenoticed thatitbelongedtoRudy’sfather.Theshopwasnotyetopen,but inside,amanwaspreparingarticlesofclothingbehindthe counter.Helookedupandwaved.
‘Mypapa,’Rudyinformedher,andtheyweresoonamongsta crowdofvarious-sizedSteiners,eachwavingorblowingkisses attheirfather,orsimplystandingandnoddinghello(inthecase oftheoldestones),thenmovingon,towardsthefinallandmark beforeschool.
T HE L AST S TOP
Theroadofyellowstars.
Itwasaplacenobodywantedtostayandlookat,butalmost everyonedid.Shapedlikealong,brokenarm,theroadcontainedseveralhouseswithlaceratedwindowsandbruisedwalls.
TheKiss
TheStarofDavidwaspaintedontheirdoors.Thosehouses werealmostlikelepers.Attheveryleast,theywereinfected soresontheinjuredGermanterrain.
‘SchillerStrasse,’Rudysaid.‘Theroadofyellowstars.’ Furtherdown,somepeopleweremovingaround.The drizzlemadethemlooklikeghosts.Nothumans,butshapes, movingaboutbeneaththelead-colouredclouds.
‘Comeon,youtwo,’Kurt(theoldestoftheSteiner children)calledback,andRudyandLieselwalkedquickly towardshim.
Atschool,RudymadeaspecialpointofseekingLieselout duringthebreaks.Hedidn’tcarethatothersmadenoisesabout thenewgirl’sstupidity.Hewasthereforheratthebeginning, andhewouldbetherelateron,whenLiesel’sfrustrationboiled over.Buthewouldn’tdoitforfree.
A boy wholovesyou.
InlateApril,whenthey’dreturnedfromschoolfortheday, RudyandLieselwaitedonHimmelStreetfortheusualgameof football.Theywereslightlyearly,andnootherkidshadturned upyet.Theonepersontheysawwasthegutter-mouthed Pfiffikus.
‘Lookthere,’Rudypointed.
T
