“Papa!” she whispered. “I have no eyes!”
He patted the girl’s hair. She’d fallen into his trap. “With a smile like that,” Hans Hubermann said, “you don’t need eyes.” He hugged her and then looked again at the picture, with a face of warm silver. “Now for T.”
With the alphabet completed and studied a dozen times, Papa leaned over and said, “Enough for tonight?”
“A few more words?”
He was definite. “Enough. When you wake up, I’ll play accordion for you.”
“Thanks, Papa.”
“Good night.” A quiet, one-syllable laugh. “Good night, Saumensch.”
“Good night, Papa.”
He switched off the light, came back, and sat in the chair. In the darkness, Liesel kept her eyes open. She was watching the words.
THE SMELL OF FRIENDSHIP
It continued.
Over the next few weeks and into summer, the midnight class began at the end of each nightmare. There were two more bed-wetting occurrences, but Hans Hubermann merely repeated his previous cleanup heroics and got down to the task of reading, sketching, and reciting. In the morning’s early hours, quiet voices were loud.
On a Thursday, just after 3 p.m., Mama told Liesel to get ready to come with her and deliver some ironing. Papa had other ideas.
He walked into the kitchen and said, “Sorry, Mama, she’s not going with you today.”
Mama didn’t even bother looking up from the washing bag. “Who asked you, Arschloch? Come on, Liesel.”
“She’s reading,” he said. Papa handed Liesel a steadfast smile and a wink. “With me. I’m teaching her. We’re going to the Amper—upstream, where I used to practice the accordion.”
Now he had her attention.
Mama placed the washing on the table and eagerly worked herself up to the appropriate level of cynicism. “What did you say?”
“I think you heard me, Rosa.”
Mama laughed. “What the hell could you teach her?” A cardboard grin. Uppercut words. “Like you could read so much, you Saukerl.”
The kitchen waited. Papa counterpunched. “We’ll take your ironing for you.”
“You filthy—” She stopped. The words propped in her mouth as she considered it. “Be back before dark.”
“We can’t read in the dark, Mama,” Liesel said.
“What was that, Saumensch?”
“Nothing, Mama.”
Papa grinned and pointed at the girl. “Book, sandpaper, pencil,” he ordered her, “and accordion!” once she was already gone. Soon, they were on Himmel Street, carrying the words, the music, the washing.
As they walked toward Frau Diller’s, they turned around a few times to see if Mama was still at the gate, checking on them. She was. At one point, she called out, “Liesel, hold that ironing straight! Don’t crease it!”
“Yes, Mama!”
A few steps later: “Liesel, are you dressed warm enough?!”
“What did you say?”