The Book Thief(45)

This is Max, the woman said, but the boy was too young and shy to say anything. He was skinny, with soft hair, and his thick, murky eyes watched as the stranger played one more song in the heavy room. From face to face, he looked on as the man played and the woman wept. The different notes handled her eyes. Such sadness.



Hans left.



You never told me, he said to a dead Erik Vandenburg and the Stuttgart skyline. You never told me you had a son.



After a momentary, head-shaken stoppage, Hans returned to Munich, expecting never to hear from those people again. What he didnt know was that his help would most definitely be needed, but not for painting, and not for another twenty years or so.



There were a few weeks before he started painting. In the good-weather months, he worked vigorously, and even in winter, he often said to Rosa that business might not be pouring, but it would at least drizzle now and again.



For more than a decade, it all worked.



Hans Junior and Trudy were born. They grew up making visits to their papa at work, slapping paint on walls and cleaning brushes.



When Hitler rose to power in 1933, though, the painting business fell slightly awry. Hans didnt join the NSDAP like the majority of people did. He put a lot of thought into his decision.





THE THOUGHT PROCESS OF

HANS HUBERMANN

He was not well-educated or political, but if

nothing else, he was a man who appreciated

fairness. A Jew had once saved his life and

he couldnt forget that. He couldnt join a

party that antagonized people in such a way.

Also, much like Alex Steiner, some of his

most loyal customers were Jewish. Like many

of the Jews believed, he didnt think the

hatred could last, and it was a conscious

decision not to follow Hitler. On many

levels, it was a disastrous one.





Once the persecution began, his work slowly dried up. It wasnt too bad to begin with, but soon enough, he was losing customers. Handfuls of quotes seemed to vanish into the rising Nazi air.



He approached an old faithful named Herbert Bollingera man with a hemispheric waistline who spoke Hochdeutsch (he was from Hamburg)when he saw him on Munich Street. At first, the man looked down, past his girth, to the ground, but when his eyes returned to the painter, the question clearly made him uncomfortable. There was no reason for Hans to ask, but he did.



Whats going on, Herbert? Im losing customers quicker than I can count.



Bollinger didnt flinch anymore. Standing upright, he delivered the fact as a question of his own. Well, Hans. Are you a member?



Of what?



But Hans Hubermann knew exactly what the man was talking about.



Come on, Hansi, Bollinger persisted. Dont make me spell it out.



The tall painter waved him away and walked on.



As the years passed by, the Jews were being terrorized at random throughout the country, and in the spring of 1937, almost to his shame, Hans Hubermann finally submitted. He made some inquiries and applied to join the Party.



After lodging his form at the Nazi headquarters on Munich Street, he witnessed four men throw several bricks into a clothing store named Kleinmanns. It was one of the few Jewish shops that were still in operation in Molching. Inside, a small man was stuttering about, crushing the broken glass beneath his feet as he cleaned up. A star the color of mustard was smeared to the door. In sloppy lettering, the words JEWISH FILTH were spilling over at their edges. The movement inside tapered from hurried to morose, then stopped altogether.



Hans moved closer and stuck his head inside. Do you need some help?



Mr. Kleinmann looked up. A dust broom was fixed powerlessly to his hand. No, Hans. Please. Go away. Hans had painted Joel Kleinmanns house the previous year. He remembered his three children. He could see their faces but couldnt recall their names.



I will come tomorrow, he said, and repaint your door.



Which he did.



It was the second of two mistakes.



The first occurred immediately after the incident.



He returned to where hed come from and drove his fist onto the door and then the window of the NSDAP. The glass shuddered but no one replied. Everyone had packed up and gone home. A last member was walking in the opposite direction. When he heard the rattle of the glass, he noticed the painter.



He came back and asked what was wrong.



I can no longer join, Hans stated.



The man was shocked. Why not?



Hans looked at the knuckles of his right hand and swallowed. He could already taste the error, like a metal tablet in his mouth. Forget it. He turned and walked home.



Words followed him.



You just think about it, Herr Hubermann. Let us know what you decide.



He did not acknowledge them.



The following morning, as promised, he rose earlier than usual, but not early enough. The door at Kleinmanns Clothing was still moist with dew. Hans dried it. He managed to match the color as close as humanly possible and gave it a good solid coat.