Papa stretched with his fists closed and his eyes grinding shut, and it was a morning that didnโt dare to be rainy. They each stood and walked to the kitchen, and through the fog and frost of the window, they were able to see the pink bars of light on the snowy banks of Himmel Streetโs rooftops.
โLook at the colors,โ Papa said. Itโs hard not to like a man who not only notices the colors, but speaks them.
Liesel still held the book. She gripped it tighter as the snow turned orange. On one of the rooftops, she could see a small boy, sitting, looking at the sky. โHis name was Werner,โ she mentioned. The words trotted out, involuntarily.
Papa said, โYes.โ
At school during that time, there had been no more reading tests, but as Liesel slowly gathered confidence, she did pick up a stray textbook before class one morning to see if she could read it without trouble. She could read every word, but she remained stranded at a much slower pace than that of her classmates. Itโs much easier, she realized, to be on the verge of something than to actually be it. This would still take time.
One afternoon, she was tempted to steal a book from the class bookshelf, but frankly, the prospect of another corridor Watschen at the hands of Sister Maria was a powerful enough deterrent. On top of that, there was actually no real desire in her to take the books from school. It was most likely the intensity of her November failure that caused this lack of interest, but Liesel wasnโt sure. She only knew that it was there.
In class, she did not speak.
She didnโt so much as look the wrong way.
As winter set in, she was no longer a victim of Sister Mariaโs frustrations, preferring to watch as others were marched out to the corridor and given their just rewards. The sound of another student struggling in the hallway was not particularly enjoyable, but the fact that it was someone else was, if not a true comfort, a relief.
When school broke up briefly for Weihnachten, Liesel even afforded Sister Maria a โmerry Christmasโ before going on her way. Knowing that the Hubermanns were essentially broke, still paying off debts and paying rent quicker than the money could come in, she was not expecting a gift of any sort. Perhaps only some better food. To her surprise, on Christmas Eve, after sitting in church at midnight with Mama, Papa, Hans Junior, and Trudy, she came home to find something wrapped in newspaper under the Christmas tree.
โFrom Saint Niklaus,โ Papa said, but the girl was not fooled. She hugged both her foster parents, with snow still laid across her shoulders.
Unfurling the paper, she unwrapped two small books. The first one, Faust the Dog, was written by a man named Mattheus Ottleberg. All told, she would read that book thirteen times. On Christmas Eve, she read the first twenty pages at the kitchen table while Papa and Hans Junior argued about a thing she did not understand. Something called politics.
Later, they read some more in bed, adhering to the tradition of circling the words she didnโt know and writing them down. Faust the Dog also had picturesโlovely curves and ears and caricatures of a German Shepherd with an obscene drooling problem and the ability to talk.
The second book was called The Lighthouse and was written by a woman, Ingrid Rippinstein. That particular book was a little longer, so Liesel was able to get through it only nine times, her pace increasing ever so slightly by the end of such prolific readings.
It was a few days after Christmas that she asked a question regarding the books. They were eating in the kitchen. Looking at the spoonfuls of pea soup entering Mamaโs mouth, she decided to shift her focus to Papa. โThereโs something I need to ask.โ
At first, there was nothing.
โAnd?โ
It was Mama, her mouth still half full.
โI just wanted to know how you found the money to buy my books.โ
A short grin was smiled into Papaโs spoon. โYou really want to know?โ
โOf course.โ
From his pocket, Papa took what was left of his tobacco ration and began rolling a cigarette, at which Liesel became impatient.
โAre you going to tell me or not?โ
Papa laughed. โBut I am telling you, child.โ He completed the production of one cigarette, flipped it on the table, and began on another. โJust like this.โ
That was when Mama finished her soup with a clank, suppressed a cardboard burp, and answered for him. โThat Saukerl,โ she said. โYou know what he did? He rolled up all of his filthy cigarettes, went to the market when it was in town, and traded them with some gypsy.โ
โEight cigarettes per book.โ Papa shoved one to his mouth, in triumph. He lit up and took in the smoke. โPraise the Lord for cigarettes, huh, Mama?โ
Mama only handed him one of her trademark looks of disgust, followed by the most common ration of her vocabulary. โSaukerl.โ
Liesel swapped a customary wink with her papa and finished eating her soup. As always, one of her books was next to her. She could not deny that the answer to her question had been more than satisfactory. There were not many people who could say that their education had been paid for with cigarettes.
Mama, on the other hand, said that if Hans Hubermann was any good at all, he would trade some tobacco for the new dress she was in desperate need of or some better shoes. โBut no โฆโ She emptied the words out into the sink. โWhen it comes to me, youโd rather smoke a whole ration, wouldnโt you? Plus some of next doorโs.โ
A few nights later, however, Hans Hubermann came home with a box of eggs. โSorry, Mama.โ He placed them on the table. โThey were all out of shoes.โ
Mama didnโt complain.
She even sang to herself while she cooked those eggs to the brink of burndom. It appeared that there was great joy in cigarettes, and it was a happy time in the Hubermann household.
It ended a few weeks later.
THE TOWN WALKER
The rot started with the washing and it rapidly increased.
When Liesel accompanied Rosa Hubermann on her deliveries across Molching, one of her customers, Ernst Vogel, informed them that he could no longer afford to have his washing and ironing done. โThe times,โ he excused himself, โwhat can I say? Theyโre getting harder. The warโs making things tight.โ He looked at the girl. โIโm sure you get an allowance for keeping the little one, donโt you?โ
To Lieselโs dismay, Mama was speechless.
An empty bag was at her side.
Come on, Liesel.
It was not said. It was pulled along, rough-handed.
Vogel called out from his front step. He was perhaps five foot nine and his greasy scraps of hair swung lifelessly across his forehead. โIโm sorry, Frau Hubermann!โ
Liesel waved at him.
He waved back.
Mama castigated.
โDonโt wave to that Arschloch,โ she said. โNow hurry up.โ
That night, when Liesel had a bath, Mama scrubbed her especially hard, muttering the whole time about that Vogel Saukerl and imitating him at two-minute intervals. โโYou must get an allowance for the girl โฆ.โโ She berated Lieselโs naked chest as she scrubbed away. โYouโre not worth that much, Saumensch. Youโre not making me rich, you know.โ
Liesel sat there and took it.
Not more than a week after that particular incident, Rosa hauled her into the kitchen. โRight, Liesel.โ She sat her down at the table. โSince you spend half your time on the street playing soccer, you can make yourself useful out there. For a change.โ
Liesel watched only her own hands. โWhat is it, Mama?โ
โFrom now on youโre going to pick up and deliver the washing for me. Those rich people are less likely to fire us if youโre the one standing in front of them. If they ask you where I am, tell them Iโm sick. And look sad when you tell them. Youโre skinny and pale enough to get their pity.โ
โHerr Vogel didnโt pity me.โ
โWell โฆโ Her agitation was obvious. โThe others might. So donโt argue.โ
โYes, Mama.๏ฟฝ
๏ฟฝ
For a moment, it appeared that her foster mother would comfort her or pat her on the shoulder.
Good girl, Liesel. Good girl. Pat, pat, pat.
She did no such thing.
Instead, Rosa Hubermann stood up, selected a wooden spoon, and held it under Lieselโs nose. It was a necessity as far as she was concerned. โWhen youโre out on that street, you take the bag to each place and you bring it straight home, with the money, even though itโs next to nothing. No going to Papa if heโs actually working for once. No mucking around with that little Saukerl, Rudy Steiner. Straight. Home.โ
โYes, Mama.โ
โAnd when you hold that bag, you hold it properly. You donโt swing it, drop it, crease it, or throw it over your shoulder.โ
โYes, Mama.โ
โYes, Mama.โ Rosa Hubermann was a great imitator, and a fervent one. โYouโd better not, Saumensch. Iโll find out if you do; you know that, donโt you?โ
โYes, Mama.โ
Saying those two words was often the best way to survive, as was doing what she was told, and from there, Liesel walked the streets of Molching, from the poor end to the rich, picking up and delivering the washing. At first, it was a solitary job, which she never complained about. After all, the very first time she took the sack through town, she turned the corner onto Munich Street, looked both ways, and gave it one enormous swingโa whole revolutionโand then checked the contents inside. Thankfully, there were no creases. No wrinkles. Just a smile, and a promise never to swing it again.
Overall, Liesel enjoyed it. There was no share of the pay, but she was out of the house, and walking the streets without Mama was heaven in itself. No finger-pointing or cursing. No people staring at them as she was sworn at for holding the bag wrong. Nothing but serenity.
She came to like the people, too:
* The Pfaffelhรผrvers, inspecting the clothes and saying, โJa, ja, sehr gut, sehr gut.โ Liesel imagined that they did everything twice.
* Gentle Helena Schmidt, handing the money over with an arthritic curl of the hand.
* The Weingartners, whose bent-whiskered cat always answered the door with them. Little Goebbels, thatโs what they called him, after Hitlerโs right-hand man.
* And Frau Hermann, the mayorโs wife, standing fluffy-haired and shivery in her enormous, cold-aired doorway. Always silent. Always alone. No words, not once.
Sometimes Rudy came along.
โHow much money do you have there?โ he asked one afternoon. It was nearly dark and they were walking onto Himmel Street, past the shop. โYouโve heard about Frau Diller, havenโt you? They say sheโs got candy hidden somewhere, and for the right price โฆโ
โDonโt even think about it.โ Liesel, as always, was gripping the money hard. โItโs not so bad for youโyou donโt have to face my mama.โ
Rudy shrugged. โIt was worth a try.โ
In the middle of January, schoolwork turned its attention to letter writing. After learning the basics, each student was to write two letters, one to a friend and one to somebody in another class.
Lieselโs letter from Rudy went like this:
Dear Saumensch,
Are you still as useless at soccer as you were the last time we played? I hope so. That means I can run past you again just like Jesse Owens at the Olympics โฆ.
When Sister Maria found it, she asked him a question, very amiably.
SISTER MARIAโS OFFER
โDo you feel like visiting the corridor, Mr. Steiner?โ
Needless to say, Rudy answered in the negative, and the paper was torn up and he started again. The second attempt was written to someone named Liesel and inquired as to what her hobbies might be.
At home, while completing a letter for homework, Liesel decided that writing to Rudy or some other Saukerl was actually ridiculous. It meant nothing. As she wrote in the basement, she spoke over to Papa, who was repainting the wall again.
Both he and the paint fumes turned around. โWas wuistz?โ Now this was the roughest form of German a person could speak, but it was spoken with an air of absolute pleasantness. โYeah, what?โ
โWould I be able to write a letter to Mama?โ
A pause.
โWhat do you want to write a letter to her for? You have to put up with her every day.โ Papa was schmunzelingโa sly smile. โIsnโt that bad enough?โ
โNot that mama.โ She swallowed.
โOh.โ Papa returned to the wall and continued painting. โWell, I guess so. You could send it to whatโs-her-nameโthe one who brought you here and visited those few timesโfrom the foster people.โ
โFrau Heinrich.โ
โThatโs right. Send it to her. Maybe she can send it on to your mother.โ Even at the time, he sounded unconvincing, as if he wasnโt telling Liesel something. Word of her mother had also been tight-lipped on Frau Heinrichโs brief visits.
Instead of asking him what was wrong, Liesel began writing immediately, choosing to ignore the sense of foreboding that was quick to accumulate inside her. It took three hours and six drafts to perfect the letter, telling her mother all about Molching, her papa and his accordion, the strange but true ways of Rudy Steiner, and the exploits of Rosa Hubermann. She also explained how proud she was that she could now read and write a little. The next day, she posted it at Frau Dillerโs with a stamp from the kitchen drawer. And she began to wait.
The night she wrote the letter, she overheard a conversation between Hans and Rosa.
โWhatโs she doing writing to her mother?โ Mama was saying. Her voice was surprisingly calm and caring. As you can imagine, this worried the girl a great deal. Sheโd have preferred to hear them arguing. Whispering adults hardly inspired confidence.
โShe asked me,โ Papa answered, โand I couldnโt say no. How could I?โ
โJesus, Mary, and Joseph.โ Again with the whisper. โShe should just forget her. Who knows where she is? Who knows what theyโve done to her?โ
In bed, Liesel hugged herself tight. She balled herself up. She thought of her mother and repeated Rosa Hubermannโs questions.
Where was she?
What had they done to her?
And once and for all, who, in actual fact, were they?
DEAD LETTERS
Flash forward to the basement, September 1943.
A fourteen-year-old girl is writing in a small dark-covered book. She is bony but strong and has seen many things. Papa sits with the accordion at his feet.
He says, โYou know, Liesel? I nearly wrote you a reply and signed your motherโs name.โ He scratches his leg, where the plaster used to be. โBut I couldnโt. I couldnโt bring myself.โ
Several times, through the remainder of January and the entirety of February 1940, when Liesel searched the mailbox for a reply to her letter, it clearly broke her foster fatherโs heart. โIโm sorry,โ he would tell her. โNot today, huh?โ In hindsight, she saw that the whole exercise had been pointless. Had her mother been in a position to do so, she would have already made contact with the foster care people, or directly with the girl, or the Hubermanns. But there had been nothing.
To lend insult to injury, in mid-February, Liesel was given a letter from another ironing customer, the Pfaffelhรผrvers, from Heide Strasse. The pair of them stood with great tallness in the doorway, giving her a melancholic regard. โFor your mama,โ the man said, handing her the envelope. โTell her weโre sorry. Tell her weโre sorry.โ
That was not a good night in the Hubermann residence.
Even when Liesel retreated to the basement to write her fifth letter to her mother (all but the first one yet to be sent), she could hear Rosa swearing and carrying on about those Pfaffelhรผrver Arschlรถcher and that lousy Ernst Vogel.
โFeuer sollโnโs brunzen fรผr einen Monat!โ she heard her call out. Translation: โThey should all piss fire for a month!โ
Liesel wrote.
When her birthday came around, there was no gift. There was no gift
because there was no money, and at the time, Papa was out of tobacco.
โI told you.โ Mama pointed a finger at him. โI told you not to give her both books at Christmas. But no. Did you listen? Of course not!โ
โI know!โ He turned quietly to the girl. โIโm sorry, Liesel. We just canโt afford it.โ
Liesel didnโt mind. She didnโt whine or moan or stamp her feet. She simply swallowed the disappointment and decided on one calculated riskโa present from herself. She would gather all of the accrued letters to her mother, stuff them into one envelope, and use just a tiny portion of the washing and ironing money to mail it. Then, of course, she would take the Watschen, most likely in the kitchen, and she would not make a sound.
Three days later, the plan came to fruition.
โSome of itโs missing.โ Mama counted the money a fourth time, with Liesel over at the stove. It was warm there and it cooked the fast flow of her blood. โWhat happened, Liesel?โ
She lied. โThey must have given me less than usual.โ
โDid you count it?โ
She broke. โI spent it, Mama.โ
Rosa came closer. This was not a good sign. She was very close to the wooden spoons. โYou what?โ
Before she could answer, the wooden spoon came down on Liesel Memingerโs body like the gait of God. Red marks like footprints, and they burned. From the floor, when it was over, the girl actually looked up and explained.
There was pulse and yellow light, all together. Her eyes blinked. โI mailed my letters.โ
What came to her then was the dustiness of the floor, the feeling that her clothes were more next to her than on her, and the sudden realization that this would all be for nothingโthat her mother would never write back and she would never see her again. The reality of this gave her a second Watschen. It stung her, and it did not stop for many minutes.
Above her, Rosa appeared to be smudged, but she soon clarified as her cardboard face loomed closer. Dejected, she stood there in all her plumpness, holding the wooden spoon at her side like a club. She reached down and leaked a little. โIโm sorry, Liesel.โ
