I was just about to leave when I found her kneeling there.
A mountain range of rubble was written, designed, erected around her. She was clutching at a book.
Apart from everything else, the book thief wanted desperately to go back to the basement, to write, or to read through her story one last time. In hindsight, I see it so obviously on her face. She was dying for it—the safety of it, the home of it—but she could not move. Also, the basement didn’t even exist anymore. It was part of the mangled landscape.
Please, again, I ask you to believe me.
I wanted to stop. To crouch down.
I wanted to say:
“I’m sorry, child.”
But that is not allowed.
I did not crouch down. I did not speak.
Instead, I watched her awhile. When she was able to move, I followed her.
• • •
She dropped the book.
She knelt.
The book thief howled.
Her book was stepped on several times as the cleanup began, and although orders were given only to clear the mess of concrete, the girl’s most precious item was thrown aboard a garbage truck, at which point I was compelled. I climbed aboard and took it in my hand, not realizing that I would keep it and view it several thousand times over the years. I would watch the places where we intersect, and marvel at what the girl saw and how she survived. That is the best I can do—watch it fall into line with everything else I spectated during that time.
When I recollect her, I see a long list of colors, but it’s the three in which I saw her in the flesh that resonate the most. Sometimes I manage to float far above those three moments. I hang suspended, until a septic truth bleeds toward clarity.
That’s when I see them formulate.
THE COLORS
RED: WHITE: BLACK:
They fall on top of each other. The scribbled signature black, onto the blinding global white, onto the thick soupy red.
Yes, often, I am reminded of her, and in one of my vast array of pockets, I have kept her story to retell. It is one of the small legion I carry, each one extraordinary in its own right. Each one an attempt—an immense leap of an attempt—to prove to me that you, and your human existence, are worth it.
Here it is. One of a handful.
The Book Thief.
If you feel like it, come with me. I will tell you a story.
I’ll show you something.
PART ONE
the grave digger’s handbook
featuring:
himmel street—the art of saumensching—an ironfisted
woman—a kiss attempt—jesse owens—