The Book Thief(97)

Stars of David were plastered to their shirts, and misery was attached to them as if assigned. Dont forget your misery . . . In some cases, it grew on them like a vine.



At their side, the soldiers also made their way past, ordering them to hurry up and to stop moaning. Some of those soldiers were only boys. They had the Fhrer in their eyes.



As she watched all of this, Liesel was certain that these were the poorest souls alive. Thats what she wrote about them. Their gaunt faces were stretched with torture. Hunger ate them as they continued forward, some of them watching the ground to avoid the people on the side of the road. Some looked appealingly at those who had come to observe their humiliation, this prelude to their deaths. Others pleaded for someone, anyone, to step forward and catch them in their arms.



No one did.



Whether they watched this parade with pride, temerity, or shame, nobody came forward to interrupt it. Not yet.



Once in a while a man or womanno, they were not men and women; they were Jewswould find Liesels face among the crowd. They would meet her with their defeat, and the book thief could do nothing but watch them back in a long, incurable moment before they were gone again. She could only hope they could read the depth of sorrow in her face, to recognize that it was true, and not fleeting.



I have one of you in my basement! she wanted to say. We built a snowman together! I gave him thirteen presents when he was sick!



Liesel said nothing at all.



What good would it be?



She understood that she was utterly worthless to these people. They could not be saved, and in a few minutes, she would see what would happen to those who might try to help them.



In a small gap in the procession, there was a man, older than the others.



He wore a beard and torn clothes.



His eyes were the color of agony, and weightless as he was, he was too heavy for his legs to carry.



Several times, he fell.



The side of his face was flattened against the road.



On each occasion, a soldier stood above him. Steh auf, he called down. Stand up.



The man rose to his knees and fought his way up. He walked on.



Every time he caught up sufficiently to the back of the line, he would soon lose momentum and stumble again to the ground. There were more behind hima good trucks worthand they threatened to overtake and trample him.



The ache in his arms was unbearable to watch as they shook, trying to lift his body. They gave way one more time before he stood and took another group of steps.



He was dead.



The man was dead.



Just give him five more minutes and he would surely fall into the German gutter and die. They would all let him, and they would all watch.



Then, one human.



Hans Hubermann.



It happened so quickly.



The hand that held firmly on to Liesels let it drop to her side as the man came struggling by. She felt her palm slap her hip.



Papa reached into his paint cart and pulled something out. He made his way through the people, onto the road.



The Jew stood before him, expecting another handful of derision, but he watched with everyone else as Hans Hubermann held his hand out and presented a piece of bread, like magic.



When it changed hands, the Jew slid down. He fell to his knees and held Papas shins. He buried his face between them and thanked him.



Liesel watched.



With tears in her eyes, she saw the man slide farther forward, pushing Papa back to cry into his ankles.



Other Jews walked past, all of them watching this small, futile miracle. They streamed by, like human water. That day, a few would reach the ocean. They would be handed a white cap.



Wading through, a soldier was soon at the scene of the crime. He studied the kneeling man and Papa, and he looked at the crowd. After another moments thought, he took the whip from his belt and began.



The Jew was whipped six times. On his back, his head, and his legs. You filth! You swine! Blood dripped now from his ear.



Then it was Papas turn.



A new hand held Liesels now, and when she looked in horror next to her, Rudy Steiner swallowed as Hans Hubermann was whipped on the street. The sound sickened her and she expected cracks to appear on her papas body. He was struck four times before he, too, hit the ground.



When the elderly Jew climbed to his feet for the last time and continued on, he looked briefly back. He took a last sad glance at the man who was kneeling now himself, whose back was burning with four lines of fire, whose knees were aching on the road. If nothing else, the old man would die like a human. Or at least with the thought that he was a human.



Me?



Im not so sure if thats such a good thing.



When Liesel and Rudy made it through and helped Hans to his feet, there were so many voices. Words and sunlight. Thats how she remembered it. The light sparkling on the road and the words like waves, breaking on her back. Only as they walked away did they notice the bread sitting rejected on the street.