saw him hip-deep in some icy water, chasing a book, and I saw a boy lying in bed, imagining how a kiss would taste from his glorious next-door neighbor. He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It’s his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.
Lastly, the Hubermanns.
Hans.
Papa.
He was tall in the bed and I could see the silver through his eyelids. His soul sat up. It met me. Those kinds of souls always do—the best ones. The ones who rise up and say, “I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go, of course, but I will come.” Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out. More of them have already found their way to other places. This one was sent out by the breath of an accordion, the odd taste of champagne in summer, and the art of promise-keeping. He lay in my arms and rested. There was an itchy lung for a last cigarette and an immense, magnetic pull toward the basement, for the girl who was his daughter and was writing a book down there that he hoped to read one day.
Liesel.
His soul whispered it as I carried him. But there was no Liesel in that house. Not for me, anyway.
For me, there was only a Rosa, and yes, I truly think I picked her up midsnore, for her mouth was open and her papery pink lips were still in the act of moving. If she’d seen me, I’m sure she would have called me a Saukerl, though I would not have taken it badly. After reading The Book Thief, I discovered that she called everyone that. Saukerl. Saumensch. Especially the people she loved. Her elastic hair was out. It rubbed against the pillow and her wardrobe body had risen with the beating of her heart. Make no mistake, the woman had a heart. She had a bigger one than people would think. There was a lot in it, stored up, high in miles of hidden shelving. Remember that she was the woman with the instrument strapped to her body in the long, moon-slit night. She was a Jew feeder without a question in the world on a man’s first night in Molching. And she was an arm reacher, deep into a mattress, to deliver a sketchbook to a teenage girl.
THE LASTLUCK
I moved from street to street and
came back for a single man named
Schultz at the bottom of Himmel.
• • •
He couldn’t hold out inside the collapsed house, and I was carrying his soul up Himmel Street when I noticed the LSE shouting and laughing.
There was a small valley in the mountain range of rubble.
The hot sky was red and turning. Pepper streaks were starting to swirl and I became curious. Yes, yes, I know what I told you at the beginning. Usually my curiosity leads to the dreaded witnessing of some kind of human outcry, but on this occasion, I have to say that although it broke my heart, I was, and still am, glad I was there.
When they pulled her out, it’s true that she started to wail and scream for Hans Hubermann. The men of the LSE attempted to keep her in their powdery arms, but the book thief managed to break away. Desperate humans often seem able to do this.
She did not know where she was running, for Himmel Street no longer existed. Everything was new and apocalyptic. Why was the sky red? How could it be snowing? And why did the snowflakes burn her arms?
Liesel slowed to a staggering walk and concentrated up ahead.
Where’s Frau Diller’s? she thought. Where’s—
She wandered a short while longer until the man who found her took her arm and kept talking. “You’re just in shock, my girl. It’s just shock; you’re going to be fine.”
“What’s happened?” Liesel asked. “Is this still Himmel Street?”
“Yes.” The man had disappointed eyes. What had he seen these past few years? “This is Himmel. You got bombed, my girl. Es tut mir leid, Schatzi. I’m sorry, darling.”
The girl’s mouth wandered on, even if her body was now still. She had forgotten her previous wails for Hans Hubermann. That was years ago—a bombing will do that. She said, “We have to get my papa, my mama. We have to get Max out of the basement. If he’s not there, he’s in the hallway, looking out the window. He does that sometimes when there’s a raid—he doesn’t get to look much at the sky, you see. I have to tell him how the weather looks now. He’ll never believe me ….”
Her body buckled at that moment and the LSE man caught her and sat her down. “We’ll move her in a minute,” he told his sergeant. The book thief looked at what was heavy and hurting in her hand.
The book.
The words.
Her fingers were bleeding, just like they had on her arrival here.
The LSE man lifted her and started to lead her away. A wooden spoon was on fire. Aman walked past with a broken accordion case and Liesel could see the instrument inside. She could see its white teeth and the black notes in between. They smiled at her and triggered an alertness to her reality. We were bombed, she thought, and now she turned to the man at her side and said, “That’s my papa’s accordion.” Again. “That’s my papa’s accordion.”
“Don’t worry, young girl, you’re safe; just come a little farther.”