The Book Thief(15)

THE OTHER SIDE OF SANDPAPER





People have defining moments, I suppose, especially when theyre children. For some its a Jesse Owens incident. For others its a moment of bed-wetting hysteria:



It was late May 1939, and the night had been like most others. Mama shook her iron fist. Papa was out. Liesel cleaned the front door and watched the Himmel Street sky.



Earlier, there had been a parade.



The brown-shirted extremist members of the NSDAP (otherwise known as the Nazi Party) had marched down Munich Street, their banners worn proudly, their faces held high, as if on sticks. Their voices were full of song, culminating in a roaring rendition of Deutschland ber Alles. Germany over Everything.



As always, they were clapped.



They were spurred on as they walked to who knows where.



People on the street stood and watched, some with straight-armed salutes, others with hands that burned from applause. Some kept faces that were contorted by pride and rally like Frau Diller, and then there were the scatterings of odd men out, like Alex Steiner, who stood like a human-shaped block of wood, clapping slow and dutiful. And beautiful. Submission.



On the footpath, Liesel stood with her papa and Rudy. Hans Hubermann wore a face with the shades pulled down.





SOME CRUNCHED NUMBERS

In 1933, 90 percent of Germans showed unflinching

support for Adolf Hitler.

That leaves 10 percent who didnt.

Hans Hubermann belonged to the 10 percent.

There was a reason for that.





In the night, Liesel dreamed like she always did. At first, she saw the brownshirts marching, but soon enough, they led her to a train, and the usual discovery awaited. Her brother was staring again.



When she woke up screaming, Liesel knew immediately that on this occasion, something had changed. A smell leaked out from under the sheets, warm and sickly. At first, she tried convincing herself that nothing had happened, but as Papa came closer and held her, she cried and admitted the fact in his ear.



Papa, she whispered, Papa, and that was all. He could probably smell it.



He lifted her gently from the bed and carried her into the washroom. The moment came a few minutes later.



We take the sheets off, Papa said, and when he reached under and pulled at the fabric, something loosened and landed with a thud. A black book with silver writing on it came hurtling out and landed on the floor, between the tall mans feet.



He looked down at it.



He looked at the girl, who timidly shrugged.



Then he read the title, with concentration, aloud: The Grave Diggers Handbook.



So thats what its called, Liesel thought.



A patch of silence stood among them now. The man, the girl, the book. He picked it up and spoke soft as cotton.





A 2 A.M. CONVERSATION

Is this yours?

Yes, Papa.

Do you want to read it?

Again, Yes, Papa.

A tired smile.

Metallic eyes, melting.

Well, wed better read it, then.





Four years later, when she came to write in the basement, two thoughts struck Liesel about the trauma of wetting the bed. First, she felt extremely lucky that it was Papa who discovered the book. (Fortunately, when the sheets had been washed previously, Rosa had made Liesel strip the bed and make it up. And be quick about it, Saumensch! Does it look like weve got all day?) Second, she was clearly proud of Hans Hubermanns part in her education. You wouldnt think it, she wrote, but it was not so much the school who helped me to read. It was Papa. People think hes not so smart, and its true that he doesnt read too fast, but I would soon learn that words and writing actually saved his life once. Or at least, words and a man who taught him the accordion . . .



First things first, Hans Hubermann said that night. He washed the sheets and hung them up. Now, he said upon his return. Lets get this midnight class started.



The yellow light was alive with dust.



Liesel sat on cold clean sheets, ashamed, elated. The thought of bed-wetting prodded her, but she was going to read. She was going to read the book.



The excitement stood up in her.



Visions of a ten-year-old reading genius were set alight.



If only it was that easy.



To tell you the truth, Papa explained upfront, I am not such a good reader myself.



But it didnt matter that he read slowly. If anything, it might have helped that his own reading pace was slower than average. Perhaps it would cause less frustration in coping with the girls lack of ability.



Still, initially, Hans appeared a little uncomfortable holding the book and looking through it.



When he came over and sat next to her on the bed, he leaned back, his legs angling over the side. He examined the book again and dropped it on the blanket. Now why would a nice girl like you want to read such a thing?



Again, Liesel shrugged. Had the apprentice been reading the complete works of Goethe or any other such luminary, that was what would have sat in front of them. She attempted to explain. I when . . . It was sitting in the snow, and The soft-spoken words fell off the side of the bed, emptying to the floor like powder.