“Well, go on,” the boy hurried her. Molching was darkening. The cold was climbing out of the ground. “Move it, Saumensch.” He remained at the gate.
After the path, there were eight steps up to the main entrance of the house, and the great door was like a monster. Liesel frowned at the brass knocker.
“What are you waiting for?” Rudy called out.
Liesel turned and faced the street. Was there any way, any way at all, for her to evade this? Was there another story, or let’s face it, another lie, that she’d overlooked?
“We don’t have all day.” Rudy’s distant voice again. “What the hell are you waiting for?”
“Will you shut your trap, Steiner?” It was a shout delivered as a whisper.
“What?”
“I said shut up, you stupid Saukerl ….”
With that, she faced the door again, lifted back the brass knuckle, and tapped it three times, slowly. Feet approached from the other side.
At first, she didn’t look at the woman but focused on the washing bag in her hand. She examined the drawstring as she passed it over. Money was handed out to her and then, nothing. The mayor’s wife, who never spoke, simply stood in her bathrobe, her soft fluffy hair tied back into a short tail. A draft made itself known. Something like the imagined breath of a corpse. Still there were no words, and when Liesel found the courage to face her, the woman wore an expression not of reproach, but utter distance. For a moment, she looked over Liesel’s shoulder at the boy, then nodded and stepped back, closing the door.
For quite a while, Liesel remained, facing the blanket of upright wood.
“Hey, Saumensch!” No response. “Liesel!”
Liesel reversed.
Cautiously.
She took the first few steps backward, calculating.
Perhaps the woman hadn’t seen her steal the book after all. It had been getting dark. Perhaps it was one of those times when a person appears to be looking directly at you when, in fact, they’re contentedly watching something else or simply daydreaming. Whatever the answer, Liesel didn’t attempt any further analysis. She’d gotten away with it and that was enough.
She turned and handled the remainder of the steps normally, taking the last three all at once.
“Let’s go, Saukerl.” She even allowed herself a laugh. Eleven-year-old paranoia was powerful. Eleven-year-old relief was euphoric.
A LITTLE SOMETHING TO
DAMPEN THE EUPHORIA
She had gotten away with nothing.
The mayor’s wife had seen her, all right.
She
was just waiting for the right moment.
• • •
A few weeks passed.
Soccer on Himmel Street.
Reading The Shoulder Shrug between two and three o’clock each morning, post-nightmare, or during the afternoon, in the basement.
Another benign visit to the mayor’s house.
All was lovely.