The Book Thief(92)
Papa, whod forgotten everythingeven his accordionrushed back to her and rescued the suitcase from her grip. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what have you got in here? he asked. An anvil?
Frau Holtzapfel advanced alongside him. The necessities.
The Fiedlers lived six houses down. They were a family of four, all with wheat-colored hair and good German eyes. More important, they had a nice, deep basement. Twenty-two people crammed themselves into it, including the Steiner family, Frau Holtzapfel, Pfiffikus, a young man, and a family named Jenson. In the interest of a civil environment, Rosa Hubermann and Frau Holtzapfel were kept separated, though some things were above petty arguments.
One light globe dangled from the ceiling and the room was dank and cold. Jagged walls jutted out and poked people in the back as they stood and spoke. The muffled sound of sirens leaked in from somewhere. They could hear a distorted version of them that somehow found a way inside. Although creating considerable apprehension about the quality of the shelter, at least they could hear the three sirens that would signal the end of the raid and safety. They didnt need a Luftschutzwartan air-raid supervisor.
It wasnt long before Rudy found Liesel and was standing next to her. His hair was pointing at something on the ceiling. Isnt this great?
She couldnt resist some sarcasm. Its lovely.
Ah, come on, Liesel, dont be like that. Whats the worst that can happen, apart from all of us being flattened or fried or whatever bombs do?
Liesel looked around, gauging the faces. She started compiling a list of who was most afraid.
THE HIT LIST
Frau Holtzapfel
Mr. Fiedler
The young man
Rosa Hubermann
Frau Holtzapfels eyes were trapped open. Her wiry frame was stooped forward, and her mouth was a circle. Herr Fiedler busied himself by asking people, sometimes repeatedly, how they were feeling. The young man, Rolf Schultz, kept to himself in the corner, speaking silently at the air around him, castigating it. His hands were cemented into his pockets. Rosa rocked back and forth, ever so gently. Liesel, she whispered, come here. She held the girl from behind, tightening her grip. She sang a song, but it was so quiet that Liesel could not make it out. The notes were born on her breath, and they died at her lips. Next to them, Papa remained quiet and motionless. At one point, he placed his warm hand on Liesels cool skull. Youll live, it said, and it was right.
To their left, Alex and Barbara Steiner stood with the younger of their children, Emma and Bettina. The two girls were attached to their mothers right leg. The oldest boy, Kurt, stared ahead in a perfect Hitler Youth stance, holding the hand of Karin, who was tiny, even for her seven years. The ten-year-old, Anna-Marie, played with the pulpy surface of the cement wall.
On the other side of the Steiners were Pfiffikus and the Jenson family.
Pfiffikus kept himself from whistling.
The bearded Mr. Jenson held his wife tightly, and their two kids drifted in and out of silence. Occasionally they pestered each other, but they held back when it came to the beginning of true argument.
After ten minutes or so, what was most prominent in the cellar was a kind of nonmovement. Their bodies were welded together and only their feet changed position or pressure. Stillness was shackled to their faces. They watched each other and waited.
DUDEN DICTIONARY MEANING #3
Angst Fear:
An unpleasant, often strong
emotion caused by anticipation
or awareness of danger.
Related words: terror, horror,
panic, fright, alarm.
From other shelters, there were stories of singing Deutschland ber Alles or of people arguing amid the staleness of their own breath. No such things happened in the Fiedler shelter. In that place, there was only fear and apprehension, and the dead song at Rosa Hubermanns cardboard lips.
Not long before the sirens signaled the end, Alex Steinerthe man with the immovable, wooden facecoaxed the kids from his wifes legs. He was able to reach out and grapple for his sons free hand. Kurt, still stoic and full of stare, took it up and tightened his grip gently on the hand of his sister. Soon, everyone in the cellar was holding the hand of another, and the group of Germans stood in a lumpy circle. The cold hands melted into the warm ones, and in some cases, the feeling of another human pulse was transported. It came through the layers of pale, stiffened skin. Some of them closed their eyes, waiting for their final demise, or hoping for a sign that the raid was finally over.
Did they deserve any better, these people?
How many had actively persecuted others, high on the scent of Hitlers gaze, repeating his sentences, his paragraphs, his opus? Was Rosa Hubermann responsible? The hider of a Jew? Or Hans? Did they all deserve to die? The children?
The answer to each of these questions interests me very much, though I cannot allow them to seduce me. I only know that all of those people would have sensed me that night, excluding the youngest of the children. I was the suggestion. I was the advice, my imagined feet walking into the kitchen and down the corridor.
As is often the case with humans, when I read about them in the book thiefs words, I pitied them, though not as much as I felt for the ones I scooped up from various camps in that time. The Germans in basements were pitiable, surely, but at least they had a chance. That basement was not a washroom. They were not sent there for a shower. For those people, life was still achievable.