The Book Thief(28)

She had to get out.



In front of her, a head with parted blond hair and pigtails sat absolutely still on its shoulders. Staring into it, Liesel revisited those dark rooms of her past and her mother answering questions made up of one word.



She saw it all so clearly.



Her starving mother, her missing father. Kommunisten.



Her dead brother.



And now we say goodbye to this trash, this poison.



Just before Liesel Meminger pivoted with nausea to exit the crowd, the shiny, brown-shirted creature walked from the podium. He received a torch from an accomplice and lit the mound, which dwarfed him in all its culpability. Heil Hitler!



The audience: Heil Hitler!



A collection of men walked from a platform and surrounded the heap, igniting it, much to the approval of everyone. Voices climbed over shoulders and the smell of pure German sweat struggled at first, then poured out. It rounded corner after corner, till they were all swimming in it. The words, the sweat. And smiling. Lets not forget the smiling.



Many jocular comments followed, as did another onslaught of heil Hitlering. You know, it actually makes me wonder if anyone ever lost an eye or injured a hand or wrist with all of that. Youd only need to be facing the wrong way at the wrong time or stand marginally too close to another person. Perhaps people did get injured. Personally, I can only tell you that no one died from it, or at least, not physically. There was, of course, the matter of forty million people I picked up by the time the whole thing was finished, but thats getting all metaphoric. Allow me to return us to the fire.



The orange flames waved at the crowd as paper and print dissolved inside them. Burning words were torn from their sentences.



On the other side, beyond the blurry heat, it was possible to see the brownshirts and swastikas joining hands. You didnt see people. Only uniforms and signs.



Birds above did laps.



They circled, somehow attracted to the glowuntil they came too close to the heat. Or was it the humans? Certainly, the heat was nothing.



In her attempt to escape, a voice found her.



Liesel!



It made its way through and she recognized it. It was not Rudy, but she knew that voice.



She twisted free and found the face attached to it. Oh, no. Ludwig Schmeikl. He did not, as she expected, sneer or joke or make any conversation at all. All he was able to do was pull her toward him and motion to his ankle. It had been crushed among the excitement and was bleeding dark and ominous through his sock. His face wore a helpless expression beneath his tangled blond hair. An animal. Not a deer in lights. Nothing so typical or specific. He was just an animal, hurt among the melee of its own kind, soon to be trampled by it.



Somehow, she helped him up and dragged him toward the back. Fresh air.



They staggered to the steps at the side of the church. There was some room there and they rested, both relieved.



Breath collapsed from Schmeikls mouth. It slipped down, over his throat. He managed to speak.



Sitting down, he held his ankle and found Liesel Memingers face. Thanks, he said, to her mouth rather than her eyes. More slabs of breath. And . . . They both watched images of school-yard antics, followed by a school-yard beating. Im sorryfor, you know.



Liesel heard it again.



Kommunisten.



She chose, however, to focus on Ludwig Schmeikl. Me too.



They both concentrated on breathing then, for there was nothing more to do or say. Their business had come to an end.



The blood enlarged on Ludwig Schmeikls ankle.



A single word leaned against the girl.



To their left, flames and burning books were cheered like heroes.





THE GATES OF THIEVERY





She remained on the steps, waiting for Papa, watching the stray ash and the corpse of collected books. Everything was sad. Orange and red embers looked like rejected candy, and most of the crowd had vanished. Shed seen Frau Diller leave (very satisfied) and Pfiffikus (white hair, a Nazi uniform, the same dilapidated shoes, and a triumphant whistle). Now there was nothing but cleaning up, and soon, no one would even imagine it had happened.



But you could smell it.



What are you doing?



Hans Hubermann arrived at the church steps.



Hi, Papa.



You were supposed to be in front of the town hall.



Sorry, Papa.



He sat down next to her, halving his tallness on the concrete and taking a piece of Liesels hair. His fingers adjusted it gently behind her ear. Liesel, whats wrong?



For a while, she said nothing. She was making calculations, despite already knowing. An eleven-year-old girl is many things, but she is not stupid.





A SMALL ADDITION

The word communist + a large bonfire + a collection of dead

letters + the suffering of her mother + the death of her

brother = the Fhrer





The Fhrer.



He was the they that Hans and Rosa Hubermann were talking about that evening when she first wrote to her mother. She knew it, but she had to ask.