The Book Thief(128)

A ROLL CALL OF STREETS

Munich, Ellenberg, Johannson, Himmel.

The main street + three more,

in the poorer part of town.





In the space of a few minutes, all of them were gone.



A church was chopped down.



Earth was destroyed where Max Vandenburg had stayed on his feet.



At 31 Himmel Street, Frau Holtzapfel appeared to be waiting for me in the kitchen. A broken cup was in front of her and in a last moment of awakeness, her face seemed to ask just what in the hell had taken me so long.



By contrast, Frau Diller was fast asleep. Her bulletproof glasses were shattered next to the bed. Her shop was obliterated, the counter landing across the road, and her framed photo of Hitler was taken from the wall and thrown to the floor. The man was positively mugged and beaten to a glass-shattering pulp. I stepped on him on my way out.



The Fiedlers were well organized, all in bed, all covered. Pfiffikus was hidden up to his nose.



At the Steiners, I ran my fingers through Barbaras lovely combed hair, I took the serious look from Kurts serious sleeping face, and one by one, I kissed the smaller ones good night.



Then Rudy.



Oh, crucified Christ, Rudy . . .



He lay in bed with one of his sisters. She must have kicked him or muscled her way into the majority of the bed space because he was on the very edge with his arm around her. The boy slept. His candlelit hair ignited the bed, and I picked both him and Bettina up with their souls still in the blanket. If nothing else, they died fast and they were warm. The boy from the plane, I thought. The one with the teddy bear. Where was Rudys comfort? Where was someone to alleviate this robbery of his life? Who was there to soothe him as lifes rug was snatched from under his sleeping feet?



No one.



There was only me.



And Im not too great at that sort of comforting thing, especially when my hands are cold and the bed is warm. I carried him softly through the broken street, with one salty eye and a heavy, deathly heart. With him, I tried a little harder. I watched the contents of his soul for a moment and saw a black-painted boy calling the name Jesse Owens as he ran through an imaginary tape. I saw him hip-deep in some icy water, chasing a book, and I saw a boy lying in bed, imagining how a kiss would taste from his glorious next-door neighbor. He does something to me, that boy. Every time. Its his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.



Lastly, the Hubermanns.



Hans.



Papa.



He was tall in the bed and I could see the silver through his eyelids. His soul sat up. It met me. Those kinds of souls always dothe best ones. The ones who rise up and say, I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go, of course, but I will come. Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out. More of them have already found their way to other places. This one was sent out by the breath of an accordion, the odd taste of champagne in summer, and the art of promise-keeping. He lay in my arms and rested. There was an itchy lung for a last cigarette and an immense, magnetic pull toward the basement, for the girl who was his daughter and was writing a book down there that he hoped to read one day.



Liesel.



His soul whispered it as I carried him. But there was no Liesel in that house. Not for me, anyway.



For me, there was only a Rosa, and yes, I truly think I picked her up midsnore, for her mouth was open and her papery pink lips were still in the act of moving. If shed seen me, Im sure she would have called me a Saukerl, though I would not have taken it badly. After reading The Book Thief, I discovered that she called everyone that. Saukerl. Saumensch. Especially the people she loved. Her elastic hair was out. It rubbed against the pillow and her wardrobe body had risen with the beating of her heart. Make no mistake, the woman had a heart. She had a bigger one than people would think. There was a lot in it, stored up, high in miles of hidden shelving. Remember that she was the woman with the instrument strapped to her body in the long, moon-slit night. She was a Jew feeder without a question in the world on a mans first night in Molching. And she was an arm reacher, deep into a mattress, to deliver a sketchbook to a teenage girl.





THE LAST LUCK

I moved from street to street and

came back for a single man named

Schultz at the bottom of Himmel.





He couldnt hold out inside the collapsed house, and I was carrying his soul up Himmel Street when I noticed the LSE shouting and laughing.



There was a small valley in the mountain range of rubble.



The hot sky was red and turning. Pepper streaks were starting to swirl and I became curious. Yes, yes, I know what I told you at the beginning. Usually my curiosity leads to the dreaded witnessing of some kind of human outcry, but on this occasion, I have to say that although it broke my heart, I was, and still am, glad I was there.



When they pulled her out, its true that she started to wail and scream for Hans Hubermann. The men of the LSE attempted to keep her in their powdery arms, but the book thief managed to break away. Desperate humans often seem able to do this.



She did not know where she was running, for Himmel Street no longer existed. Everything was new and apocalyptic. Why was the sky red? How could it be snowing? And why did the snowflakes burn her arms?