The Book Thief(86)

God.



Twice, I speak it.



I say His name in a futile attempt to understand. But its not your job to understand. Thats me who answers. God never says anything. You think youre the only one he never answers? Your job is to . . . And I stop listening to me, because to put it bluntly, I tire me. When I start thinking like that, I become so exhausted, and I dont have the luxury of indulging fatigue. Im compelled to continue on, because although its not true for every person on earth, its true for the vast majoritythat death waits for no manand if he does, he doesnt usually wait very long.



On June 23, 1942, there was a group of French Jews in a German prison, on Polish soil. The first person I took was close to the door, his mind racing, then reduced to pacing, then slowing down, slowing down. . . .



Please believe me when I tell you that I picked up each soul that day as if it were newly born. I even kissed a few weary, poisoned cheeks. I listened to their last, gasping cries. Their vanishing words. I watched their love visions and freed them from their fear.



I took them all away, and if ever there was a time I needed distraction, this was it. In complete desolation, I looked at the world above. I watched the sky as it turned from silver to gray to the color of rain. Even the clouds were trying to get away.



Sometimes I imagined how everything looked above those clouds, knowing without question that the sun was blond, and the endless atmosphere was a giant blue eye.



They were French, they were Jews, and they were you.





PART SEVEN





the complete duden dictionary and thesaurus





featuring:

champagne and accordions

a trilogysome sirensa sky

stealeran offerthe long

walk to dachaupeace

an idiot and some coat men





CHAMPAGNE AND ACCORDIONS





In the summer of 1942, the town of Molching was preparing for the inevitable. There were still people who refused to believe that this small town on Munichs outskirts could be a target, but the majority of the population was well aware that it was not a question of if, but when. Shelters were more clearly marked, windows were in the process of being blackened for the nights, and everyone knew where the closest basement or cellar was.



For Hans Hubermann, this uneasy development was actually a slight reprieve. At an unfortunate time, good luck had somehow found its way into his painting business. People with blinds were desperate enough to enlist his services to paint them. His problem was that black paint was normally used more as a mixer, to darken other colors, and it was soon depleted and hard to find. What he did have was the knack of being a good tradesman, and a good tradesman has many tricks. He took coal dust and stirred it through, and he worked cheap. There were many houses in all parts of Molching in which he confiscated the window light from enemy eyes.



On some of his workdays, Liesel went with him.



They carted his paint through town, smelling the hunger on some of the streets and shaking their heads at the wealth on others. Many times, on the way home, women with nothing but kids and poverty would come running out and plead with him to paint their blinds.



Frau Hallah, Im sorry, I have no black paint left, he would say, but a little farther down the road, he would always break. There was tall man and long street. Tomorrow, hed promise, first thing, and when the next morning dawned, there he was, painting those blinds for nothing, or for a cookie or a warm cup of tea. The previous evening, hed have found another way to turn blue or green or beige to black. Never did he tell them to cover their windows with spare blankets, for he knew theyd need them when winter came. He was even known to paint peoples blinds for half a cigarette, sitting on the front step of a house, sharing a smoke with the occupant. Laughter and smoke rose out of the conversation before they moved on to the next job.



When the time came to write, I remember clearly what Liesel Meminger had to say about that summer. A lot of the words have faded over the decades. The paper has suffered from the friction of movement in my pocket, but still, many of her sentences have been impossible to forget.





A SMALL SAMPLE OF SOME

GIRL-WRITTEN WORDS

That summer was a new beginning, a new end.

When I look back, I remember my slippery

hands of paint and the sound of Papas feet

on Munich Street, and I know that a small

piece of the summer of 1942 belonged to only

one man. Who else would do some painting for

the price of half a cigarette? That was Papa,

that was typical, and I loved him.





Every day when they worked together, he would tell Liesel his stories. There was the Great War and how his miserable handwriting helped save his life, and the day he met Mama. He said that she was beautiful once, and actually very quiet-spoken. Hard to believe, I know, but absolutely true. Each day, there was a story, and Liesel forgave him if he told the same one more than once.



On other occasions, when she was daydreaming, Papa would dab her lightly with his brush, right between the eyes. If he misjudged and there was too much on it, a small path of paint would dribble down the side of her nose. She would laugh and try to return the favor, but Hans Hubermann was a hard man to catch out at work. It was there that he was most alive.