The Book Thief Part 21

"Hurry up, Saumensch, that's ten already."

"It's not, it's only eight-I've got two to go."

"Well, hurry up, then. I told you we should have gotten a knife and sawn it in half .... Come on, that's two."

"All right. Here. And don't swallow it."

"Do I look like an idiot?"

[A short pause] "This is great, isn't it?"

"It sure is, Saumensch."

At the end of August and summer, they found one pfennig on the ground. Pure excitement.

It was sitting half rotten in some dirt, on the was.h.i.+ng and ironing route. A solitary corroded coin.

"Take a look at that!"

Rudy swooped on it. The excitement almost stung as they rushed back to Frau Diller's, not even considering that a single pfennig might not be the right price. They burst through the door and stood in front of the Aryan shopkeeper, who regarded them with contempt.

"I'm waiting," she said. Her hair was tied back and her black dress choked her body. The framed photo of the Fhrer kept watch from the wall.

"Heil Hitler," Rudy led.

"Heil Hitler," she responded, straightening taller behind the counter. "And you?" She glared at Liesel, who promptly gave her a "heil Hitler" of her own.

It didn't take Rudy long to dig the coin from his pocket and place it firmly on the counter. He looked straight into Frau Diller's spectacled eyes and said, "Mixed candy, please."

Frau Diller smiled. Her teeth elbowed each other for room in her mouth, and her unexpected kindness made Rudy and Liesel smile as well. Not for long.

She bent down, did some searching, and came back. "Here," she said, tossing a single piece of candy onto the counter. "Mix it yourself."

Outside, they unwrapped it and tried biting it in half, but the sugar was like gla.s.s. Far too tough, even for Rudy's animal-like choppers. Instead, they had to trade sucks on it until it was finished. Ten sucks for Rudy. Ten for Liesel. Back and forth.

"This," Rudy announced at one point, with a candy-toothed grin, "is the good life," and Liesel didn't disagree. By the time they were finished, both their mouths were an exaggerated red, and as they walked home, they reminded each other to keep their eyes peeled, in case they found another coin.

Naturally, they found nothing. No one can be that lucky twice in one year, let alone a single afternoon.

Still, with red tongues and teeth, they walked down Himmel Street, happily searching the ground as they went.

The day had been a great one, and n.a.z.i Germany was a wondrous place.

THE STRUGGLER, CONTINUED.

We move forward now, to a cold night struggle. We'll let the book thief catch up later.

It was November 3, and the floor of the train held on to his feet. In front of him, he read from the copy of Mein Kampf. His savior. Sweat was swimming out of his hands. Fingermarks clutched the book.

BOOK THIEF PRODUCTIONS.

OFFICIALLY PRESENTS.

Mein Kampf

(My Struggle)

by

Adolf Hitler

Behind Max Vandenburg, the city of Stuttgart opened its arms in mockery.

He was not welcome there, and he tried not to look back as the stale bread disintegrated in his stomach. A few times, he s.h.i.+fted again and watched the lights become only a handful and then disappear altogether.

Look proud, he advised himself. You cannot look afraid. Read the book. Smile at it. It's a great book-the greatest book you've ever read. Ignore that woman on the other side. She's asleep now anyway. Come on, Max, you're only a few hours away.

As it had turned out, the promised return visit in the room of darkness didn't take days; it had taken a week and a half. Then another week till the next, and another, until he lost all sense of the pa.s.sing of days and hours. He was relocated once more, to another small storage room, where there was more light, more visits, and more food. Time, however, was running out.

"I'm leaving soon," his friend Walter Kugler told him. "You know how it is-the army."

"I'm sorry, Walter."

Walter Kugler, Max's friend from childhood, placed his hand on the Jew's shoulder. "It could be worse." He looked his friend in his Jewish eyes. "I could be you."

That was their last meeting. A final package was left in the corner, and this time, there was a ticket. Walter opened Mein Kampf and slid it inside, next to the map he'd brought with the book itself. "Page thirteen." He smiled. "For luck, yes?"

"For luck," and the two of them embraced.

When the door shut, Max opened the book and examined the ticket. Stuttgart to Munich to Pasing. It left in two days, in the night, just in time to make the last connection. From there, he would walk. The map was already in his head, folded in quarters. The key was still taped to the inside cover.

He sat for half an hour before stepping toward the bag and opening it. Apart from food, a few other items sat inside.

THE EXTRACONTENTS OF.

WALTER KUGLER'S GIFT

One small razor.

A spoon-the closest thing to a mirror.

Shaving cream.

A pair of scissors.

When he left it, the storeroom was empty but for the floor.

"Goodbye," he whispered.

The last thing Max saw was the small mound of hair, sitting casually against the wall.

Goodbye.

With a clean-shaven face and lopsided yet neatly combed hair, he had walked out of that building a new man. In fact, he walked out German. Hang on a second, he was German. Or more to the point, he had been.

In his stomach was the electric combination of nourishment and nausea.

He walked to the station.

He showed his ticket and ident.i.ty card, and now he sat in a small box compartment of the train, directly in danger's spotlight.

"Papers."

That was what he dreaded to hear.