The Book Thief(55)

They left it at that.



For the first few weeks in front of the fire, Max remained wordless. Now that he was having a proper bath once a week, Liesel noticed that his hair was no longer a nest of twigs, but rather a collection of feathers, flopping about on his head. Still shy of the stranger, she whispered it to her papa.



His hair is like feathers.



What? The fire had distorted the words.



I said, she whispered again, leaning closer, his hair is like feathers. . . .



Hans Hubermann looked across and nodded his agreement. Im sure he was wishing to have eyes like the girl. They didnt realize that Max had heard everything.



Occasionally he brought the copy of Mein Kampf and read it next to the flames, seething at the content. The third time he brought it, Liesel finally found the courage to ask her question.



Is itgood?



He looked up from the pages, forming his fingers into a fist and then flattening them back out. Sweeping away the anger, he smiled at her. He lifted the feathery fringe and dumped it toward his eyes. Its the best book ever. Looking at Papa, then back at the girl. It saved my life.



The girl moved a little and crossed her legs. Quietly, she asked it.



How?



So began a kind of storytelling phase in the living room each night. It was spoken just loud enough to hear. The pieces of a Jewish fist-fighting puzzle were assembled before them all.



Sometimes there was humor in Max Vandenburgs voice, though its physicality was like frictionlike a stone being gently rubbed across a large rock. It was deep in places and scratched apart in others, sometimes breaking off altogether. It was deepest in regret, and broken off at the end of a joke or a statement of selfdeprecation.



Crucified Christ was the most common reaction to Max Vandenburgs stories, usually followed by a question.





QUESTIONS LIKE

How long did you stay in that room?

Where is Walter Kugler now?

Do you know what happened to your family?

Where was the snorer traveling to?

A 103 losing record!

Why would you keep fighting him?





When Liesel looked back on the events of her life, those nights in the living room were some of the clearest memories she had. She could see the burning light on Maxs eggshell face and even taste the human flavor of his words. The course of his survival was related, piece by piece, as if he were cutting each part out of him and presenting it on a plate.



Im so selfish.



When he said that, he used his forearm to shield his face. Leaving people behind. Coming here. Putting all of you in danger . . . He dropped everything out of him and started pleading with them. Sorrow and desolation were clouted across his face. Im sorry. Do you believe me? Im so sorry, Im so sorry, Im!



His arm touched the fire and he snapped it back.



They all watched him, silent, until Papa stood and walked closer. He sat next to him.



Did you burn your elbow?



One evening, Hans, Max, and Liesel were sitting in front of the fire. Mama was in the kitchen. Max was reading Mein Kampf again.



You know something? Hans said. He leaned toward the fire. Liesels actually a good little reader herself. Max lowered the book. And she has more in common with you than you might think. Papa checked that Rosa wasnt coming. She likes a good fistfight, too.



Papa!



Liesel, at the high end of eleven, and still rake-skinny as she sat against the wall, was devastated. Ive never been in a fight!



Shhh, Papa laughed. He waved at her to keep her voice down and tilted again, this time to the girl. Well, what about the hiding you gave Ludwig Schmeikl, huh?



I never She was caught. Further denial was useless. How did you find out about that?



I saw his papa at the Knoller.



Liesel held her face in her hands. Once uncovered again, she asked the pivotal question. Did you tell Mama?



Are you kidding? He winked at Max and whispered to the girl, Youre still alive, arent you?



That night was also the first time Papa played his accordion at home for months. It lasted half an hour or so until he asked a question of Max.



Did you learn?



The face in the corner watched the flames. I did. There was a considerable pause. Until I was nine. At that age, my mother sold the music studio and stopped teaching. She kept only the one instrument but gave up on me not long after I resisted the learning. I was foolish.



No, Papa said. You were a boy.



During the nights, both Liesel Meminger and Max Vandenburg would go about their other similarity. In their separate rooms, they would dream their nightmares and wake up, one with a scream in drowning sheets, the other with a gasp for air next to a smoking fire.



Sometimes, when Liesel was reading with Papa close to three oclock, they would both hear the waking moment of Max. He dreams like you, Papa would say, and on one occasion, stirred by the sound of Maxs anxiety, Liesel decided to get out of bed. From listening to his history, she had a good idea of what he saw in those dreams, if not the exact part of the story that paid him a visit each night.