The Book Thief(43)

Of course, there was also the scratchy feeling of sin.



How could he do this?



How could he show up and ask people to risk their lives for him? How could he be so selfish?



Thirty-three.



They looked at each other.



The house was pale, almost sick-looking, with an iron gate and a brown spit-stained door.



From his pocket, he pulled out the key. It did not sparkle but lay dull and limp in his hand. For a moment, he squeezed it, half expecting it to come leaking toward his wrist. It didnt. The metal was hard and flat, with a healthy set of teeth, and he squeezed it till it pierced him.



Slowly, then, the struggler leaned forward, his cheek against the wood, and he removed the key from his fist.





PART FOUR





the standover man





featuring:

the accordionista promise keepera good girl

a jewish fist fighterthe wrath of rosaa lecture

a sleeperthe swapping of nightmares

and some pages from the basement





THE ACCORDIONIST





(The Secret Life of Hans Hubermann)





There was a young man standing in the kitchen. The key in his hand felt like it was rusting into his palm. He didnt speak anything like hello, or please help, or any other such expected sentence. He asked two questions.





QUESTION ONE

Hans Hubermann?





QUESTION TWO

Do you still play the accordion?





As he looked uncomfortably at the human shape before him, the young mans voice was scraped out and handed across the dark like it was all that remained of him.



Papa, alert and appalled, stepped closer.



To the kitchen, he whispered, Of course I do.



It all dated back many years, to World War I.



Theyre strange, those wars.



Full of blood and violencebut also full of stories that are equally difficult to fathom. Its true, people will mutter. I dont care if you dont believe me. It was that fox who saved my life, or, They died on either side of me and I was left standing there, the only one without a bullet between my eyes. Why me? Why me and not them?



Hans Hubermanns story was a little like that. When I found it within the book thiefs words, I realized that we passed each other once in a while during that period, though neither of us scheduled a meeting. Personally, I had a lot of work to do. As for Hans, I think he was doing his best to avoid me.



The first time we were in the vicinity of each other, Hans was twenty-two years old, fighting in France. The majority of young men in his platoon were eager to fight. Hans wasnt so sure. I had taken a few of them along the way, but you could say I never even came close to touching Hans Hubermann. He was either too lucky, or he deserved to live, or there was a good reason for him to live.



In the army, he didnt stick out at either end. He ran in the middle, climbed in the middle, and he could shoot straight enough so as not to affront his superiors. Nor did he excel enough to be one of the first chosen to run straight at me.





A SMALL BUT NOTEWORTHY NOTE

Ive seen so many young men

over the years who think theyre

running at other young men.





They are not.

Theyre running at me.





Hed been in the fight for almost six months when he ended up in France, where, at face value, a strange event saved his life. Another perspective would suggest that in the nonsense of war, it made perfect sense.



On the whole, his time in the Great War had astonished him from the moment he entered the army. It was like a serial. Day after day after day. After day:



The conversation of bullets.



Resting men.



The best dirty jokes in the world.



Cold sweatthat malignant little friendoutstaying its welcome in the armpits and trousers.



He enjoyed the card games the most, followed by the few games of chess, despite being thoroughly pathetic at it. And the music. Always the music.



It was a man a year older than himselfa German Jew named Erik Vandenburgwho taught him to play the accordion. The two of them gradually became friends due to the fact that neither of them was terribly interested in fighting. They preferred rolling cigarettes to rolling in snow and mud. They preferred shooting craps to shooting bullets. A firm friendship was built on gambling, smoking, and music, not to mention a shared desire for survival. The only trouble with this was that Erik Vandenburg would later be found in several pieces on a grassy hill. His eyes were open and his wedding ring was stolen. I shoveled up his soul with the rest of them and we drifted away. The horizon was the color of milk. Cold and fresh. Poured out among the bodies.



All that was really left of Erik Vandenburg was a few personal items and the fingerprinted accordion. Everything but the instrument was sent home. It was considered too big. Almost with self-reproach, it sat on his makeshift bed at the base camp and was given to his friend, Hans Hubermann, who happened to be the only man to survive.