The Book Thief(60)

When she returned to the basement, she told him.



The sky is blue today, Max, and there is a big long cloud, and its stretched out, like a rope. At the end of it, the sun is like a yellow hole. . . .



Max, at that moment, knew that only a child could have given him a weather report like that. On the wall, he painted a long, tightly knotted rope with a dripping yellow sun at the end of it, as if you could dive right into it. On the ropy cloud, he drew two figuresa thin girl and a withering Jewand they were walking, arms balanced, toward that dripping sun. Beneath the picture, he wrote the following sentence.





THE WALL-WRITTEN WORDS

OF MAX VANDENBURG

It was a Monday, and they walked

on a tightrope to the sun.





The Boxer: End of May





For Max Vandenburg, there was cool cement and plenty of time to spend with it.



The minutes were cruel.



Hours were punishing.



Standing above him at all moments of awakeness was the hand of time, and it didnt hesitate to wring him out. It smiled and squeezed and let him live. What great malice there could be in allowing something to live.



At least once a day, Hans Hubermann would descend the basement steps and share a conversation. Rosa would occasionally bring a spare crust of bread. It was when Liesel came down, however, that Max found himself most interested in life again. Initially, he tried to resist, but it was harder every day that the girl appeared, each time with a new weather report, either of pure blue sky, cardboard clouds, or a sun that had broken through like God sitting down after hed eaten too much for his dinner.



When he was alone, his most distinct feeling was of disappearance. All of his clothes were graywhether theyd started out that way or notfrom his pants to his woolen sweater to the jacket that dripped from him now like water. He often checked if his skin was flaking, for it was as if he were dissolving.



What he needed was a series of new projects. The first was exercise. He started with push-ups, lying stomach-down on the cool basement floor, then hoisting himself up. It felt like his arms snapped at each elbow, and he envisaged his heart seeping out of him and dropping pathetically to the ground. As a teenager in Stuttgart, he could reach fifty push-ups at a time. Now, at the age of twenty-four, perhaps fifteen pounds lighter than his usual weight, he could barely make it to ten. After a week, he was completing three sets each of sixteen push-ups and twenty-two sit-ups. When he was finished, he would sit against the basement wall with his paint-can friends, feeling his pulse in his teeth. His muscles felt like cake.



He wondered at times if pushing himself like this was even worth it. Sometimes, though, when his heartbeat neutralized and his body became functional again, he would turn off the lamp and stand in the darkness of the basement.



He was twenty-four, but he could still fantasize.



In the blue corner, he quietly commentated, we have the champion of the world, the Aryan masterpiecethe Fhrer. He breathed and turned. And in the red corner, we have the Jewish, rat-faced challengerMax Vandenburg.



Around him, it all materialized.



White light lowered itself into a boxing ring and a crowd stood and murmuredthat magical sound of many people talking all at once. How could every person there have so much to say at the same time? The ring itself was perfect. Perfect canvas, lovely ropes. Even the stray hairs of each thickened string were flawless, gleaming in the tight white light. The room smelled like cigarettes and beer.



Diagonally across, Adolf Hitler stood in the corner with his entourage. His legs poked out from a red-and-white robe with a black swastika burned into its back. His mustache was knitted to his face. Words were whispered to him from his trainer, Goebbels. He bounced foot to foot, and he smiled. He smiled loudest when the ring announcer listed his many achievements, which were all vociferously applauded by the adoring crowd. Undefeated! the ringmaster proclaimed. Over many a Jew, and over any other threat to the German ideal! Herr Fhrer, he concluded, we salute you! The crowd: mayhem.



Next, when everyone had settled down, came the challenger.



The ringmaster swung over toward Max, who stood alone in the challengers corner. No robe. No entourage. Just a lonely young Jew with dirty breath, a naked chest, and tired hands and feet. Naturally, his shorts were gray. He too moved from foot to foot, but it was kept at a minimum to conserve energy. Hed done a lot of sweating in the gym to make the weight.



The challenger! sang the ringmaster. Of, and he paused for effect, Jewish blood. The crowd oohed, like human ghouls. Weighing in at . . .



The rest of the speech was not heard. It was overrun with the abuse from the bleachers, and Max watched as his opponent was derobed and came to the middle to hear the rules and shake hands.



Guten Tag, Herr Hitler. Max nodded, but the Fhrer only showed him his yellow teeth, then covered them up again with his lips.



Gentlemen, a stout referee in black pants and a blue shirt began. A bow tie was fixed to his throat. First and foremost, we want a good clean fight. He addressed only the Fhrer now. Unless, of course, Herr Hitler, you begin to lose. Should this occur, I will be quite willing to turn a blind eye to any unconscionable tactics you might employ to grind this piece of Jewish stench and filth into the canvas. He nodded, with great courtesy. Is that clear?