The Book Thief(44)

HE SURVIVED LIKE THIS

He didnt go into battle that day.





For that, he had Erik Vandenburg to thank. Or more to the point, Erik Vandenburg and the sergeants toothbrush.



That particular morning, not too long before they were leaving, Sergeant Stephan Schneider paced into the sleeping quarters and called everyone to attention. He was popular with the men for his sense of humor and practical jokes, but more so for the fact that he never followed anyone into the fire. He always went first.



On certain days, he was inclined to enter the room of resting men and say something like, Who comes from Pasing? or, Whos good with mathematics? or, in the fateful case of Hans Hubermann, Whos got neat handwriting?



No one ever volunteered, not after the first time he did it. On that day, an eager young soldier named Philipp Schlink stood proudly up and said, Yes, sir, I come from Pasing. He was promptly handed a toothbrush and told to clean the shit house.



When the sergeant asked who had the best penmanship, you can surely understand why no one was keen to step forward. They thought they might be first to receive a full hygiene inspection or scrub an eccentric lieutenants shit-trampled boots before they left.



Now come on, Schneider toyed with them. Slapped down with oil, his hair gleamed, though a small piece was always upright and vigilant at the apex of his head. At least one of you useless bastards must be able to write properly.



In the distance, there was gunfire.



It triggered a reaction.



Look, said Schneider, this isnt like the others. It will take all morning, maybe longer. He couldnt resist a smile. Schlink was polishing that shit house while the rest of you were playing cards, but this time, youre going out there.



Life or pride.



He was clearly hoping that one of his men would have the intelligence to take life.



Erik Vandenburg and Hans Hubermann glanced at each other. If someone stepped forward now, the platoon would make his life a living hell for the rest of their time together. No one likes a coward. On the other hand, if someone was to be nominated . . .



Still no one stepped forward, but a voice stooped out and ambled toward the sergeant. It sat at his feet, waiting for a good kicking. It said, Hubermann, sir. The voice belonged to Erik Vandenburg. He obviously thought that today wasnt the appropriate time for his friend to die.



The sergeant paced up and down the passage of soldiers.



Who said that?



He was a superb pacer, Stephan Schneidera small man who spoke, moved, and acted in a hurry. As he strode up and down the two lines, Hans looked on, waiting for the news. Perhaps one of the nurses was sick and they needed someone to strip and replace bandages on the infected limbs of injured soldiers. Perhaps a thousand envelopes were to be licked and sealed and sent home with death notices in them.



At that moment, the voice was put forward again, moving a few others to make themselves heard. Hubermann, they echoed. Erik even said, Immaculate handwriting, sir, immaculate.



Its settled, then. There was a circular, small-mouthed grin. Hubermann. Youre it.



The gangly young soldier made his way forward and asked what his duty might be.



The sergeant sighed. The captain needs a few dozen letters written for him. Hes got terrible rheumatism in his fingers. Or arthritis. Youll be writing them for him.



This was no time to argue, especially when Schlink was sent to clean the toilets and the other one, Pflegger, nearly killed himself licking envelopes. His tongue was infection blue.



Yes, sir. Hans nodded, and that was the end of it. His writing ability was dubious to say the least, but he considered himself lucky. He wrote the letters as best he could while the rest of the men went into battle.



None of them came back.



That was the first time Hans Hubermann escaped me. The Great War.



A second escape was still to come, in 1943, in Essen.



Two wars for two escapes.



Once young, once middle-aged.



Not many men are lucky enough to cheat me twice.



He carried the accordion with him during the entirety of the war.



When he tracked down the family of Erik Vandenburg in Stuttgart upon his return, Vandenburgs wife informed him that he could keep it. Her apartment was littered with them, and it upset her too much to look at that one in particular. The others were reminder enough, as was her once-shared profession of teaching it.



He taught me to play, Hans informed her, as though it might help.



Perhaps it did, for the devastated woman asked if he could play it for her, and she silently wept as he pressed the buttons and keys of a clumsy Blue Danube Waltz. It was her husbands favorite.



You know, Hans explained to her, he saved my life. The light in the room was small, and the air restrained. Heif theres anything you ever need. He slid a piece of paper with his name and address on it across the table. Im a painter by trade. Ill paint your apartment for free, whenever you like. He knew it was useless compensation, but he offered anyway.



The woman took the paper, and not long after, a small child wandered in and sat on her lap.