The Book Thief(61)

The Fhrer spoke his first word then. Crystal.



To Max, the referee extended a warning. As for you, my Jewish chum, Id watch my step very closely if I were you. Very closely indeed, and they were sent back to their respective corners.



A brief quiet ensued.



The bell.



First out was the Fhrer, awkward-legged and bony, running at Max and jabbing him firmly in the face. The crowd vibrated, the bell still in their ears, and their satisfied smiles hurdled the ropes. The smoky breath of Hitler steamed from his mouth as his hands bucked at Maxs face, collecting him several times, on the lips, the nose, the chinand Max had still not ventured out of his corner. To absorb the punishment, he held up his hands, but the Fhrer then aimed at his ribs, his kidneys, his lungs. Oh, the eyes, the Fhrers eyes. They were so deliciously brownlike Jews eyesand they were so determined that even Max stood transfixed for a moment as he caught sight of them between the healthy blur of punching gloves.



There was only one round, and it lasted hours, and for the most part, nothing changed.



The Fhrer pounded away at the punching-bag Jew.



Jewish blood was everywhere.



Like red rain clouds on the white-sky canvas at their feet.



Eventually, Maxs knees began to buckle, his cheekbones silently moaned, and the Fhrers delighted face still chipped away, chipped away, until depleted, beaten, and broken, the Jew flopped to the floor.



First, a roar.



Then silence.



The referee counted. He had a gold tooth and a plethora of nostril hair.



Slowly, Max Vandenburg, the Jew, rose to his feet and made himself upright. His voice wobbled. An invitation. Come on, Fhrer, he said, and this time, when Adolf Hitler set upon his Jewish counterpart, Max stepped aside and plunged him into the corner. He punched him seven times, aiming on each occasion for only one thing.



The mustache.



With the seventh punch, he missed. It was the Fhrers chin that sustained the blow. All at once, Hitler hit the ropes and creased forward, landing on his knees. This time, there was no count. The referee flinched in the corner. The audience sank down, back to their beer. On his knees, the Fhrer tested himself for blood and straightened his hair, right to left. When he returned to his feet, much to the approval of the thousand-strong crowd, he edged forward and did something quite strange. He turned his back on the Jew and took the gloves from his fists.



The crowd was stunned.



Hes given up, someone whispered, but within moments, Adolf Hitler was standing on the ropes, and he was addressing the arena.



My fellow Germans, he called, you can see something here tonight, cant you? Bare-chested, victory-eyed, he pointed over at Max. You can see that what we face is something far more sinister and powerful than we ever imagined. Can you see that?



They answered. Yes, Fhrer.



Can you see that this enemy has found its waysits despicable waysthrough our armor, and that clearly, I cannot stand up here alone and fight him? The words were visible. They dropped from his mouth like jewels. Look at him! Take a good look. They looked. At the bloodied Max Vandenburg. As we speak, he is plotting his way into your neighborhood. Hes moving in next door. Hes infesting you with his family and hes about to take you over. He Hitler glanced at him a moment, with disgust. He will soon own you, until it is he who stands not at the counter of your grocery shop, but sits in the back, smoking his pipe. Before you know it, youll be working for him at minimum wage while he can hardly walk from the weight in his pockets. Will you simply stand there and let him do this? Will you stand by as your leaders did in the past, when they gave your land to everybody else, when they sold your country for the price of a few signatures? Will you stand out there, powerless? Orand now he stepped one rung higherwill you climb up into this ring with me?



Max shook. Horror stuttered in his stomach.



Adolf finished him. Will you climb in here so that we can defeat this enemy together?



In the basement of 33 Himmel Street, Max Vandenburg could feel the fists of an entire nation. One by one they climbed into the ring and beat him down. They made him bleed. They let him suffer. Millions of themuntil one last time, when he gathered himself to his feet . . .



He watched the next person climb through the ropes. It was a girl, and as she slowly crossed the canvas, he noticed a tear torn down her left cheek. In her right hand was a newspaper.



The crossword, she gently said, is empty, and she held it out to him.



Dark.



Nothing but dark now.



Just basement. Just Jew.





The New Dream: A Few Nights Later





It was afternoon. Liesel came down the basement steps. Max was halfway through his push-ups.



She watched awhile, without his knowledge, and when she came and sat with him, he stood up and leaned back against the wall. Did I tell you, he asked her, that Ive been having a new dream lately?



Liesel shifted a little, to see his face.



But I dream this when Im awake. He motioned to the glowless kerosene lamp. Sometimes I turn out the light. Then I stand here and wait.