The Book Thief Part 56

It was the supervising teacher, Herr Heckenstaller, who answered. He was more a black suit than a man. His face was a mustache. Examining the boys, his choice came swiftly.

"Schwarz."

The unfortunate Jrgen Schwarz undid his uniform with great discomfort. He was left standing only in his shoes and underwear. A luckless plea was marooned on his German face.

"And?" Herr Heckenstaller asked. "The shoes?"

He removed both shoes, both socks.

"Und die Unterhosen," said the nurse. "And the underpants."

Both Rudy and the other boy, Olaf Spiegel, had started undressing now as well, but they were nowhere near the perilous position of Jrgen Schwarz. The boy was shaking. He was a year younger than the other two, but taller. When his underpants came down, it was with abject humiliation that he stood in the small, cool office. His self-respect was around his ankles.

The nurse watched him with intent, her arms folded across her devastating chest.

Heckenstaller ordered the other two to get moving.

The doctor scratched his scalp and coughed. His cold was killing him.

The three naked boys were each examined on the cold flooring.

They cupped their genitals in their hands and s.h.i.+vered like the future.

Between the doctor's coughing and wheezing, they were put through their paces.

"Breathe in." Sniffle.

"Breathe out." Second sniffle.

"Arms out now." A cough. "I said arms out." A horrendous hail of coughing.

As humans do, the boys looked constantly at each other for some sign of mutual sympathy. None was there. All three pried their hands from their p.e.n.i.ses and held out their arms. Rudy did not feel like he was part of a master race.

"We are gradually succeeding," the nurse was informing the teacher, "in creating a new future. It will be a new cla.s.s of physically and mentally advanced Germans. An officer cla.s.s."

Unfortunately, her sermon was cut short when the doctor creased in half and coughed with all his might over the abandoned clothes. Tears welled up in his eyes and Rudy couldn't help but wonder.

A new future? Like him?

Wisely, he did not speak it.

The examination was completed and he managed to perform his first nude "heil Hitler." In a perverse kind of way, he conceded that it didn't feel half bad.

Stripped of their dignity, the boys were allowed to dress again, and as they were shown from the office, they could already hear the discussion held in their honor behind them.

"They're a little older than usual," the doctor said, "but I'm thinking at least two of them."

The nurse agreed. "The first and the third."

Three boys stood outside.

First and third.

"First was you, Schwarz," said Rudy. He then questioned Olaf Spiegel. "Who was third?"

Spiegel made a few calculations. Did she mean third in line or third examined? It didn't matter. He knew what he wanted to believe. "That was you, I think."

"Cow s.h.i.+t, Spiegel, it was you."

A SMALL GUARANTEE.

The coat men knew who was third.

The day after they'd visited Himmel Street, Rudy sat on his front step with Liesel and related the whole saga, even the smallest details. He gave up and admitted what had happened that day at school when he was taken out of cla.s.s. There was even some laughter about the tremendous nurse and the look on Jrgen Schwarz's face. For the most part, though, it was a tale of anxiety, especially when it came to the voices in the kitchen and the dead-body dominoes.

For days, Liesel could not s.h.i.+ft one thought from her head.

It was the examination of the three boys, or if she was honest, it was Rudy.

She would lie in bed, missing Max, wondering where he was, praying that he was alive, but somewhere, standing among all of it, was Rudy.

He glowed in the dark, completely naked.

There was great dread in that vision, especially the moment when he was forced to remove his hands. It was disconcerting to say the least, but for some reason, she couldn't stop thinking about it.

PUNISHMENT.

On the ration cards of n.a.z.i Germany, there was no listing for punishment, but everyone had to take their turn. For some it was death in a foreign country during the war. For others it was poverty and guilt when the war was over, when six million discoveries were made throughout Europe. Many people must have seen their punishments coming, but only a small percentage welcomed it. One such person was Hans Hubermann.

You do not help Jews on the street.

Your bas.e.m.e.nt should not be hiding one.

At first, his punishment was conscience. His oblivious unearthing of Max Vandenburg plagued him. Liesel could see it sitting next to his plate as he ignored his dinner, or standing with him at the bridge over the Amper. He no longer played the accordion. His silver-eyed optimism was wounded and motionless. That was bad enough, but it was only the beginning.

One Wednesday in early November, his true punishment arrived in the mailbox. On the surface, it appeared to be good news.

PAPER IN THE KITCHEN.

We are delighted to inform you that your application to join the NSDAP has been approved ....

"The n.a.z.i Party?" Rosa asked. "I thought they didn't want you."

"They didn't."

Papa sat down and read the letter again.

He was not being put on trial for treason or for helping Jews or anything of the sort. Hans Hubermann was being rewarded, at least as far as some people were concerned. How could this be possible?

"There has to be more."

There was.

On Friday, a statement arrived to say that Hans Hubermann was to be drafted into the German army. A member of the party would be happy to play a role in the war effort, it concluded. If he wasn't, there would certainly be consequences.

Liesel had just returned from reading with Frau Holtzapfel. The kitchen was heavy with soup steam and the vacant faces of Hans and Rosa Hubermann. Papa was seated. Mama stood above him as the soup started to burn.

"G.o.d, please don't send me to Russia," Papa said.

"Mama, the soup's burning."

"What?"

Liesel hurried across and took it from the stove. "The soup." When she'd successfully rescued it, she turned and viewed her foster parents. Faces like ghost towns. "Papa, what's wrong?"

He handed her the letter and her hands began to shake as she made her way through it. The words had been punched forcefully into the paper.

THE CONTENTS OF.

LIESEL MEMINGER'S IMAGINATION

In the sh.e.l.l-shocked kitchen, somewhere near the stove, there's an image of a lonely, overworked typewriter. It sits in a distant, near-empty room. Its keys are faded and a blank sheet waits patiently upright in the a.s.sumed position. It wavers slightly in the breeze from the window. Coffee break is nearly over. A pile of paper the height of a human stands casually by the door. It could easily be smoking.

In truth, Liesel only saw the typewriter later, when she wrote. She wondered how many letters like that were sent out as punishment to Germany's Hans Hubermanns and Alex Steiners-to those who helped the helpless, and those who refused to let go of their children.

It was a sign of the German army's growing desperation.

They were losing in Russia.

Their cities were being bombed.

More people were needed, as were ways of attaining them, and in most cases, the worst possible jobs would be given to the worst possible people.

As her eyes scanned the paper, Liesel could see through the punched letter holes to the wooden table. Words like compulsory and duty were beaten into the page. Saliva was triggered. It was the urge to vomit. "What is this?"

Papa's answer was quiet. "I thought I taught you to read, my girl." He did not speak with anger or sarcasm. It was a voice of vacancy, to match his face.

Liesel looked now to Mama.

Rosa had a small rip beneath her right eye, and within the minute, her cardboard face was broken. Not down the center, but to the right. It gnarled down her cheek in an arc, finis.h.i.+ng at her chin.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER:.

A GIRL ON HIMMEL STREET.

She looks up. She speaks in a whisper. "The sky is soft today, Max. The clouds are so soft and sad, and ..." She looks away and crosses her arms. She thinks of her papa going to war and grabs her jacket at each side of her body. "And it's cold, Max. It's so cold ...."