with his earlobes.
They dragged each other out until only the corpse was left in the truck.
The driver, Helmut Brohmann, was sitting on the ground, scratching his head. “The tire,” he explained, “it just blew.” Some of the men sat with him and echoed that it wasn’t his fault. Others walked around smoking, asking each other if they thought their injuries were bad enough to be relieved of duty. Another small group gathered at the back of the truck and viewed the body.
Over by a tree, a thin strip of intense pain was still opening in Hans Hubermann’s leg. “It should have been me,” he said.
“What?” the sergeant called over from the truck.
“He was sitting in my seat.”
Helmut Brohmann regained his senses and climbed back into the driver’s compartment. Sideways, he tried to start the engine, but there was no kicking it over. Another truck was sent for, as was an ambulance. The ambulance didn’t come.
“You know what that means, don’t you?” said Boris Schipper. They did.
When they resumed the trip back to camp, each man tried not to look down at Reinhold Zucker’s openmouthed sneer. “I told you we should have turned him facedown,” someone mentioned. A few times, some of them simply forgot and rested their feet on the body. Once they arrived, they all tried to avoid the task of pulling him out. When the job was done, Hans Hubermann took a few abbreviated steps before the pain fractured in his leg and brought him down.
An hour later, when the doctor examined him, he was told it was definitely broken. The sergeant was on hand and stood with half a grin.
“Well, Hubermann. Looks like you’ve got away with it, doesn’t it?” He was shaking his round face, smoking, and he provided a list of what would happen next. “You’ll rest up. They’ll ask me what we should do with you. I’ll tell them you did a great job.” He blew some more smoke. “And I think I’ll tell them you’re not fit for the LSE anymore and you should be sent back to Munich to work in an office or do whatever cleaning up needs doing there. How does that sound?”
Unable to resist a laugh within the grimace of pain, Hans replied, “It sounds good, Sergeant.”
Boris Schipper finished his cigarette. “Damn right it sounds good. You’re lucky I like you, Hubermann. You’re lucky you’re a good man, and generous with the cigarettes.”
In the next room, they were making up the plaster.
THE BITTER TASTE OF QUESTIONS
Just over a week after Liesel’s birthday in mid-February, she and Rosa finally received a detailed letter from Hans Hubermann. She ran inside from the mailbox and showed it to Mama. Rosa made her read it aloud, and they could not contain their excitement when Liesel read about his broken leg. She was stunned to the extent that she mouthed the next sentence only to herself.
“What is it?” Rosa pushed. “Saumensch?”
Liesel looked up from the letter and was close to shouting. The sergeant had been true to his word. “He’s coming home, Mama. Papa’s coming home!”
They embraced in the kitchen and the letter was crushed between their bodies. A broken leg was certainly something to celebrate.
When Liesel took the news next door, Barbara Steiner was ecstatic. She rubbed the girl’s arms and called out to the rest of her family. In their kitchen, the household of Steiners seemed buoyed by the news that Hans Hubermann was returning home. Rudy smiled and laughed, and Liesel could see that he was at least trying. However, she could also sense the bitter taste of questions in his mouth.
Why him?
Why Hans Hubermann and not Alex Steiner?
He had a point.
ONE TOOLBOX, ONE BLEEDER, ONE BEAR
Since his father’s recruitment to the army the previous October, Rudy’s anger had been growing nicely. The news of Hans Hubermann’s return was all he needed to take it a few steps further. He did not tell Liesel about it. There was no complaining that it wasn’t fair. His decision was to act.
He carried a metal case up Himmel Street at the typical thieving time of darkening afternoon.
RUDY’S TOOLBOX
It was patchy red and the
length of an oversized shoe box.
It contained the following: