The Book Thief(115)

Thats better, Liesel.



It was with great sadness that she realized that her brother would be six forever, but when she held that thought, she also made an effort to smile.



She remained at the Amper River, at the bridge, where Papa used to stand and lean.



She smiled and smiled, and when it all came out, she walked home and her brother never climbed into her sleep again. In many ways, she would miss him, but she could never miss his deadly eyes on the floor of the train or the sound of a cough that killed.



The book thief lay in bed that night, and the boy only came before she closed her eyes. He was one member of a cast, for Liesel was always visited in that room. Her papa stood and called her half a woman. Max was writing The Word Shaker in the corner. Rudy was naked by the door. Occasionally her mother stood on a bedside train platform. And far away, in the room that stretched like a bridge to a nameless town, her brother, Werner, played in the cemetery snow.



From down the hall, like a metronome for the visions, Rosa snored, and Liesel lay awake surrounded, but also remembering a quote from her most recent book.





THE LAST HUMAN STRANGER, PAGE 38

There were people everywhere on the city

street, but the stranger could not have

been more alone if it were empty.





When morning came, the visions were gone and she could hear the quiet recital of words in the living room. Rosa was sitting with the accordion, praying.



Make them come back alive, she repeated. Please, Lord, please. All of them. Even the wrinkles around her eyes were joining hands.



The accordion must have ached her, but she remained.



Rosa would never tell Hans about these moments, but Liesel believed that it must have been those prayers that helped Papa survive the LSEs accident in Essen. If they didnt help, they certainly cant have hurt.





THE ACCIDENT





It was a surprisingly clear afternoon and the men were climbing into the truck. Hans Hubermann had just sat down in his appointed seat. Reinhold Zucker was standing above him.



Move it, he said.



Bitte? Excuse me?



Zucker was hunched beneath the vehicles ceiling. I said move it, Arschloch. The greasy jungle of his fringe fell in clumps onto his forehead. Im swapping seats with you.



Hans was confused. The backseat was probably the most uncomfortable of the lot. It was the draftiest, the coldest. Why?



Does it matter? Zucker was losing patience. Maybe I want to get off first to use the shit house.



Hans was quickly aware that the rest of the unit was already watching this pitiful struggle between two supposed grown men. He didnt want to lose, but he didnt want to be petty, either. Also, theyd just finished a tiring shift and he didnt have the energy to go on with it. Bent-backed, he made his way forward to the vacant seat in the middle of the truck.



Why did you give in to that Scheisskopf ? the man next to him asked.



Hans lit a match and offered a share of the cigarette. The draft back there goes straight through my ears.



The olive green truck was on its way toward the camp, maybe ten miles away. Brunnenweg was telling a joke about a French waitress when the left front wheel was punctured and the driver lost control. The vehicle rolled many times and the men swore as they tumbled with the air, the light, the trash, and the tobacco. Outside, the blue sky changed from ceiling to floor as they clambered for something to hold.



When it stopped, they were all crowded onto the right-hand wall of the truck, their faces wedged against the filthy uniform next to them. Questions of health were passed around until one of the men, Eddie Alma, started shouting, Get this bastard off me! He said it three times, fast. He was staring into Reinhold Zuckers blinkless eyes.





THE DAMAGE, ESSEN

Six men burned by cigarettes.

Two broken hands.

Several broken fingers.

A broken leg for Hans Hubermann.

A broken neck for Reinhold

Zucker, snapped almost in line

with his earlobes.





They dragged each other out until only the corpse was left in the truck.



The driver, Helmut Brohmann, was sitting on the ground, scratching his head. The tire, he explained, it just blew. Some of the men sat with him and echoed that it wasnt his fault. Others walked around smoking, asking each other if they thought their injuries were bad enough to be relieved of duty. Another small group gathered at the back of the truck and viewed the body.



Over by a tree, a thin strip of intense pain was still opening in Hans Hubermanns leg. It should have been me, he said.



What? the sergeant called over from the truck.



He was sitting in my seat.



Helmut Brohmann regained his senses and climbed back into the drivers compartment. Sideways, he tried to start the engine, but there was no kicking it over. Another truck was sent for, as was an ambulance. The ambulance didnt come.



You know what that means, dont you? said Boris Schipper. They did.



When they resumed the trip back to camp, each man tried not to look down at Reinhold Zuckers openmouthed sneer. I told you we should have turned him facedown, someone mentioned. A few times, some of them simply forgot and rested their feet on the body. Once they arrived, they all tried to avoid the task of pulling him out. When the job was done, Hans Hubermann took a few abbreviated steps before the pain fractured in his leg and brought him down.