The Book Thief Part 8

THE CONTRADICTORY POLITICS.

OF ALEX STEINER.

Point One: He was a member of the n.a.z.i Party, but he did not hate the Jews, or anyone else for that matter.

Point Two: Secretly, though, he couldn't help feeling a percentage of relief (or worse-gladness!) when Jewish shop owners were put out of business-propaganda informed him that it was only a matter of time before a plague of Jewish tailors showed up and stole his customers.

Point Three: But did that mean they should be driven out completely?

Point Four: His family. Surely, he had to do whatever he could to support them. If that meant being in the party, it meant being in the party.

Point Five: Somewhere, far down, there was an itch in his heart, but he made it a point not to scratch it. He was afraid of what might come leaking out.

They walked around a few corners onto Himmel Street, and Alex said, "Son, you can't go around painting yourself black, you hear?"

Rudy was interested, and confused. The moon was undone now, free to move and rise and fall and drip on the boy's face, making him nice and murky, like his thoughts. "Why not, Papa?"

"Because they'll take you away."

"Why?"

"Because you shouldn't want to be like black people or Jewish people or anyone who is ... not us."

"Who are Jewish people?"

"You know my oldest customer, Mr. Kaufmann? Where we bought your shoes?"

"Yes."

"Well, he's Jewish."

"I didn't know that. Do you have to pay to be Jewish? Do you need a license?"

"No, Rudy." Mr. Steiner was steering the bike with one hand and Rudy with the other. He was having trouble steering the conversation. He still hadn't relinquished the hold on his son's earlobe. He'd forgotten about it. "It's like you're German or Catholic."

"Oh. Is Jesse Owens Catholic?"

"I don't know!" He tripped on a bike pedal then and released the ear.

They walked on in silence for a while, until Rudy said, "I just wish I was like Jesse Owens, Papa."

This time, Mr. Steiner placed his hand on Rudy's head and explained, "I know, son-but you've got beautiful blond hair and big, safe blue eyes. You should be happy with that; is that clear?"

But nothing was clear.

Rudy understood nothing, and that night was the prelude of things to come. Two and a half years later, the Kaufmann Shoe Shop was reduced to broken gla.s.s, and all the shoes were flung aboard a truck in their boxes.

THE OTHER SIDE OF SANDPAPER.

People have defining moments, I suppose, especially when they're children. For some it's a Jesse Owens incident. For others it's a moment of bed-wetting hysteria: It was late May 1939, and the night had been like most others. Mama shook her iron fist. Papa was out. Liesel cleaned the front door and watched the Himmel Street sky.

Earlier, there had been a parade.

The brown-s.h.i.+rted extremist members of the NSDAP (otherwise known as the n.a.z.i Party) had marched down Munich Street, their banners worn proudly, their faces held high, as if on sticks. Their voices were full of song, culminating in a roaring rendition of "Deutschland ber Alles." "Germany over Everything."

As always, they were clapped.

They were spurred on as they walked to who knows where.

People on the street stood and watched, some with straight-armed salutes, others with hands that burned from applause. Some kept faces that were contorted by pride and rally like Frau Diller, and then there were the scatterings of odd men out, like Alex Steiner, who stood like a human-shaped block of wood, clapping slow and dutiful. And beautiful. Submission.

On the footpath, Liesel stood with her papa and Rudy. Hans Hubermann wore a face with the shades pulled down.

SOME CRUNCHED NUMBERS.

In 1933, 90 percent of Germans showed unflinching support for Adolf Hitler.

That leaves 10 percent who didn't.

Hans Hubermann belonged to the 10 percent.

There was a reason for that.

In the night, Liesel dreamed like she always did. At first, she saw the browns.h.i.+rts marching, but soon enough, they led her to a train, and the usual discovery awaited. Her brother was staring again.

When she woke up screaming, Liesel knew immediately that on this occasion, something had changed. A smell leaked out from under the sheets, warm and sickly. At first, she tried convincing herself that nothing had happened, but as Papa came closer and held her, she cried and admitted the fact in his ear.

"Papa," she whispered, "Papa," and that was all. He could probably smell it.

He lifted her gently from the bed and carried her into the washroom. The moment came a few minutes later.

"We take the sheets off," Papa said, and when he reached under and pulled at the fabric, something loosened and landed with a thud. A black book with silver writing on it came hurtling out and landed on the floor, between the tall man's feet.

He looked down at it.

He looked at the girl, who timidly shrugged.

Then he read the t.i.tle, with concentration, aloud: "The Grave Digger's Handbook."

So that's what it's called, Liesel thought.

A patch of silence stood among them now. The man, the girl, the book. He picked it up and spoke soft as cotton.

A 2 A.M. CONVERSATION.

"Is this yours?"

"Yes, Papa."

"Do you want to read it?"

Again, "Yes, Papa."

A tired smile. Metallic eyes, melting.

"Well, we'd better read it, then."

Four years later, when she came to write in the bas.e.m.e.nt, two thoughts struck Liesel about the trauma of wetting the bed. First, she felt extremely lucky that it was Papa who discovered the book. (Fortunately, when the sheets had been washed previously, Rosa had made Liesel strip the bed and make it up. "And be quick about it, Saumensch! Does it look like we've got all day?") Second, she was clearly proud of Hans Hubermann's part in her education. You wouldn't think it, she wrote, but it was not so much the school who helped me to read. It was Papa. People think he's not so smart, and it's true that he doesn't read too fast, but I would soon learn that words and writing actually saved his life once. Or at least, words and a man who taught him the accordion ...

"First things first," Hans Hubermann said that night. He washed the sheets and hung them up. "Now," he said upon his return. "Let's get this midnight cla.s.s started."