The Book Thief(42)
The whole group ran for the fence line and made their way over. Rudy, who was farthest away, caught up quickly, but not quickly enough to avoid being last. As he pulled his leg up, he became entangled.
Hey!
The sound of the stranded.
The group stopped.
Instinctively, Liesel ran back.
Hurry up! Arthur called out. His voice was far away, as if hed swallowed it before it exited his mouth.
White sky.
The others ran.
Liesel arrived and started pulling at the fabric of his pants. Rudys eyes were opened wide with fear. Quick, he said, hes coming.
Far off, they could still hear the sound of deserting feet when an extra hand grabbed the wire and reefed it away from Rudy Steiners pants. A piece was left on the metallic knot, but the boy was able to escape.
Now move it, Arthur advised them, not long before the farmer arrived, swearing and struggling for breath. The ax held on now, with force, to his leg. He called out the futile words of the robbed:
Ill have you arrested! Ill find you! Ill find out who you are!
That was when Arthur Berg replied.
The name is Owens! He loped away, catching up to Liesel and Rudy. Jesse Owens!
When they made it to safe ground, fighting to suck the air into their lungs, they sat down and Arthur Berg came over. Rudy wouldnt look at him. Its happened to all of us, Arthur said, sensing the disappointment. Was he lying? They couldnt be sure and they would never find out.
A few weeks later, Arthur Berg moved to Cologne.
They saw him once more, on one of Liesels washing delivery rounds. In an alleyway off Munich Street, he handed Liesel a brown paper bag containing a dozen chestnuts. He smirked. A contact in the roasting industry. After informing them of his departure, he managed to proffer a last pimply smile and to cuff each of them on the forehead. Dont go eating all those things at once, either, and they never saw Arthur Berg again.
As for me, I can tell you that I most definitely saw him.
A SMALL TRIBUTE TO ARTHUR BERG,
A STILL-LIVING MAN
The Cologne sky was yellow and rotting,
flaking at the edges.
He sat propped against a wall with a child
in his arms. His sister.
When she stopped breathing, he stayed with her,
and I could sense he would hold her for hours.
There were two stolen apples in his pocket.
This time, they played it smarter. They ate one chestnut each and sold the rest of them door to door.
If you have a few pfennig to spare, Liesel said at each house, I have chestnuts. They ended up with sixteen coins.
Now, Rudy grinned, revenge.
That same afternoon, they returned to Frau Dillers, heil Hitlered, and waited.
Mixed candy again? She schmunzeled, to which they nodded. The money splashed the counter and Frau Dillers smile fell slightly ajar.
Yes, Frau Diller, they said in unison. Mixed candy, please.
The framed Fhrer looked proud of them.
Triumph before the storm.
THE STRUGGLER, CONCLUDED
The juggling comes to an end now, but the struggling does not. I have Liesel Meminger in one hand, Max Vandenburg in the other. Soon, I will clap them together. Just give me a few pages.
The struggler:
If they killed him tonight, at least he would die alive.
The train ride was far away now, the snorer most likely tucked up in the carriage shed made her bed, traveling on. Now there were only footsteps between Max and survival. Footsteps and thoughts, and doubts.
He followed the map in his mind, from Pasing to Molching. It was late when he saw the town. His legs ached terribly, but he was nearly therethe most dangerous place to be. Close enough to touch it.
Just as it was described, he found Munich Street and made his way along the footpath.
Everything stiffened.
Glowing pockets of streetlights.
Dark, passive buildings.
The town hall stood like a giant ham-fisted youth, too big for his age. The church disappeared in darkness the farther his eyes traveled upward.
It all watched him.
He shivered.
He warned himself. Keep your eyes open.
(German children were on the lookout for stray coins. German Jews kept watch for possible capture.)
In keeping with the usage of number thirteen for luck, he counted his footsteps in groups of that number. Just thirteen footsteps, he would tell himself. Come on, just thirteen more. As an estimate, he completed ninety sets, till at last, he stood on the corner of Himmel Street.
In one hand, he held his suitcase.
The other was still holding Mein Kampf.
Both were heavy, and both were handled with a gentle secretion of sweat.
Now he turned on to the side street, making his way to number thirty-three, resisting the urge to smile, resisting the urge to sob or even imagine the safety that might be awaiting him. He reminded himself that this was no time for hope. Certainly, he could almost touch it. He could feel it, somewhere just out of reach. Instead of acknowledging it, he went about the business of deciding again what to do if he was caught at the last moment or if by some chance the wrong person awaited him inside.