The Book Thief(58)

Yes, I know it.



In the darkness of my dark-beating heart, I know. Hed have loved it, all right.



You see?



Even death has a heart.





THE GAMBLERS





(A SEVEN-SIDED DIE)





Of course, Im being rude. Im spoiling the ending, not only of the entire book, but of this particular piece of it. I have given you two events in advance, because I dont have much interest in building mystery. Mystery bores me. It chores me. I know what happens and so do you. Its the machinations that wheel us there that aggravate, perplex, interest, and astound me.



There are many things to think of.



There is much story.



Certainly, theres a book called The Whistler, which we really need to discuss, along with exactly how it came to be floating down the Amper River in the time leading up to Christmas 1941. We should deal with all of that first, dont you think?



Its settled, then.



We will.



It started with gambling. Roll a die by hiding a Jew and this is how you live. This is how it looks.





The Haircut: Mid-April 1941





Life was at least starting to mimic normality with more force:



Hans and Rosa Hubermann were arguing in the living room, even if it was much quieter than it used to be. Liesel, in typical fashion, was an onlooker.



The argument originated the previous night, in the basement, where Hans and Max were sitting with paint cans, words, and drop sheets. Max asked if Rosa might be able to cut his hair at some stage. Its getting me in the eyes, hed said, to which Hans had replied, Ill see what I can do.



Now Rosa was riffling through the drawers. Her words were shoved back to Papa with the rest of the junk. Where are those damn scissors?



Not in the one below?



Ive been through that one already.



Maybe you missed them.



Do I look blind? She raised her head and bellowed. Liesel!



Im right here.



Hans cowered. Goddamn it, woman, deafen me, why dont you!



Quiet, Saukerl. Rosa went on riffling and addressed the girl. Liesel, where are the scissors? But Liesel had no idea, either. Saumensch, youre useless, arent you?



Leave her out of it.



More words were delivered back and forth, from elastic-haired woman to silver-eyed man, till Rosa slammed the drawer. Ill probably make a lot of mistakes on him anyway.



Mistakes? Papa looked ready to tear his own hair out by that stage, but his voice became a barely audible whisper. Who the hells going to see him? He motioned to speak again but was distracted by the feathery appearance of Max Vandenburg, who stood politely, embarrassed, in the doorway. He carried his own scissors and came forward, handing them not to Hans or Rosa but to the twelve-year-old girl. She was the calmest option. His mouth quivered a moment before he said, Would you?



Liesel took the scissors and opened them. They were rusty and shiny in different areas. She turned to Papa, and when he nodded, she followed Max down to the basement.



The Jew sat on a paint can. A small drop sheet was wrapped around his shoulders. As many mistakes as you want, he told her.



Papa parked himself on the steps.



Liesel lifted the first tufts of Max Vandenburgs hair.



As she cut the feathery strands, she wondered at the sound of scissors. Not the snipping noise, but the grinding of each metal arm as it cropped each group of fibers.



When the job was done, a little severe in places, a little crooked in others, she walked upstairs with the hair in her hands and fed it into the stove. She lit a match and watched as the clump shriveled and sank, orange and red.



Again, Max was in the doorway, this time at the top of the basement steps. Thanks, Liesel. His voice was tall and husky, with the sound in it of a hidden smile.



No sooner had he spoken than he disappeared again, back into the ground.





The Newspaper: Early May





Theres a Jew in my basement.



Theres a Jew. In my basement.



Sitting on the floor of the mayors roomful of books, Liesel Meminger heard those words. A bag of washing was at her side and the ghostly figure of the mayors wife was sitting hunch-drunk over at the desk. In front of her, Liesel read The Whistler, pages twenty-two and twenty-three. She looked up. She imagined herself walking over, gently tearing some fluffy hair to the side, and whispering in the womans ear:



Theres a Jew in my basement.



As the book quivered in her lap, the secret sat in her mouth. It made itself comfortable. It crossed its legs.



I should be getting home. This time, she actually spoke. Her hands were shaking. Despite a trace of sunshine in the distance, a gentle breeze rode through the open window, coupled with rain that came in like sawdust.



When Liesel placed the book back into position, the womans chair stubbed the floor and she made her way over. It was always like this at the end. The gentle rings of sorrowful wrinkles swelled a moment as she reached across and retrieved the book.