The Book Thief (14 page)

“And?”

It was Mama, her mouth still half full.

“I just wanted to know how you found the money to buy my books.”

A short grin was smiled into Papa’s spoon. “You really want to know?”

“Of course.”

From his pocket, Papa took what was left of his tobacco ration and began rolling a cigarette, at which Liesel became impatient.

“Are you going to tell me or not?”

Papa laughed. “But I
am
telling you, child.” He completed the production of one cigarette, flipped it on the table, and began on another. “Just like this.”

That was when Mama finished her soup with a clank, suppressed a cardboard burp, and answered for him. “That
Saukerl,”
she said. “You know what he did? He rolled up all of his filthy cigarettes, went to the market when it was in town, and traded them with some gypsy.”

“Eight cigarettes per book.” Papa shoved one to his mouth, in
triumph. He lit up and took in the smoke. “Praise the Lord for cigarettes, huh, Mama?”

Mama only handed him one of her trademark looks of disgust, followed by the most common ration of her vocabulary.
“Saukerl.”

Liesel swapped a customary wink with her papa and finished eating her soup. As always, one of her books was next to her. She could not deny that the answer to her question had been more than satisfactory. There were not many people who could say that their education had been paid for with cigarettes.

Mama, on the other hand, said that if Hans Hubermann was any good at all, he would trade some tobacco for the new dress she was in desperate need of or some better shoes. “But no …” She emptied the words out into the sink. “When it comes to me, you’d rather smoke a whole ration, wouldn’t you?
Plus
some of next door’s.”

A few nights later, however, Hans Hubermann came home with a box of eggs. “Sorry, Mama.” He placed them on the table. “They were all out of shoes.”

Mama didn’t complain.

She even sang to herself while she cooked those eggs to the brink of burndom. It appeared that there was great joy in cigarettes, and it was a happy time in the Hubermann household.

It ended a few weeks later.

The rot started with the washing and it rapidly increased.

When Liesel accompanied Rosa Hubermann on her deliveries across Molching, one of her customers, Ernst Vogel, informed them that he could no longer afford to have his washing and ironing done. “The times,” he excused himself, “what can I say? They’re getting harder. The war’s making things tight.” He looked at the girl. “I’m sure you get an allowance for keeping the little one, don’t you?”

To Liesel’s dismay, Mama was speechless.

An empty bag was at her side.

Come on, Liesel.

It was not said. It was pulled along, rough-handed.

Vogel called out from his front step. He was perhaps five foot nine and his greasy scraps of hair swung lifelessly across his forehead. “I’m sorry, Frau Hubermann!”

Liesel waved at him.

He waved back.

Mama castigated.

“Don’t wave to that
Arschloch,”
she said. “Now hurry up.”

That night, when Liesel had a bath, Mama scrubbed her
especially hard, muttering the whole time about that Vogel
Saukerl
and imitating him at two-minute intervals. “‘You must get an allowance for the girl ….’” She berated Liesel’s naked chest as she scrubbed away. “You’re not worth
that
much,
Saumensch
. You’re not making me rich, you know.”

Liesel sat there and took it.

Not more than a week after that particular incident, Rosa hauled her into the kitchen. “Right, Liesel.” She sat her down at the table. “Since you spend half your time on the street playing soccer, you can make yourself useful out there. For a change.”

Liesel watched only her own hands. “What is it, Mama?”

“From now on you’re going to pick up and deliver the washing for me. Those rich people are less likely to fire us if
you’re
the one standing in front of them. If they ask you where I am, tell them I’m sick. And look sad when you tell them. You’re skinny and pale enough to get their pity.”

“Herr Vogel didn’t pity me.”

“Well …” Her agitation was obvious. “The others
might
. So don’t argue.”

“Yes, Mama.”

For a moment, it appeared that her foster mother would comfort her or pat her on the shoulder.

Good girl, Liesel. Good girl. Pat, pat, pat.

She did no such thing.

Instead, Rosa Hubermann stood up, selected a wooden spoon, and held it under Liesel’s nose. It was a necessity as far as she was concerned. “When you’re out on that street, you take the bag to each place and you bring it straight home,
with
the money, even though it’s next to nothing. No going to Papa if he’s actually working for once. No mucking around with that little
Saukerl
, Rudy Steiner. Straight. Home.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“And when you hold that bag, you hold it
properly
. You don’t swing it, drop it, crease it, or throw it over your shoulder.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Yes, Mama.”
Rosa Hubermann was a great imitator, and a fervent one. “You’d better not,
Saumensch
. I’ll find out if you do; you know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mama.”

Saying those two words was often the best way to survive, as was doing what she was told, and from there, Liesel walked the streets of Molching, from the poor end to the rich, picking up and delivering the washing. At first, it was a solitary job, which she never complained about. After all, the very first time she took the sack through town, she turned the corner onto Munich Street, looked both ways, and gave it one enormous swing—a whole revolution—and then checked the contents inside. Thankfully, there were no creases. No wrinkles. Just a smile, and a promise never to swing it again.

Overall, Liesel enjoyed it. There was no share of the pay, but she was out of the house, and walking the streets without Mama was heaven in itself. No finger-pointing or cursing. No people staring at them as she was sworn at for holding the bag wrong. Nothing but serenity.

She came to like the people, too:

* The Pfaffelhürvers, inspecting the clothes and saying,
“Ja, ja, sehr gut, sehr gut.”
Liesel imagined that they did everything twice.

* Gentle Helena Schmidt, handing the money over with an arthritic curl of the hand.

* The Weingartners, whose bent-whiskered cat always answered the door with them. Little Goebbels, that’s what they called him, after Hitler’s right-hand man.

* And Frau Hermann, the mayor’s wife, standing fluffy-haired
and shivery in her enormous, cold-aired doorway. Always silent. Always alone. No words, not once.

Sometimes Rudy came along.

“How much money do you have there?” he asked one afternoon. It was nearly dark and they were walking onto Himmel Street, past the shop. “You’ve heard about Frau Diller, haven’t you? They say she’s got candy hidden somewhere, and for the right price …”

“Don’t even think about it.” Liesel, as always, was gripping the money hard. “It’s not so bad for you—you don’t have to face my mama.”

Rudy shrugged. “It was worth a try.”

In the middle of January, schoolwork turned its attention to letter writing. After learning the basics, each student was to write two letters, one to a friend and one to somebody in another class.

Liesel’s letter from Rudy went like this:

When Sister Maria found it, she asked him a question, very amiably.

Needless to say, Rudy answered in the negative, and the paper was torn up and he started again. The second attempt was written to someone named Liesel and inquired as to what her hobbies might be.

At home, while completing a letter for homework, Liesel decided that writing to Rudy or some other
Saukerl
was actually ridiculous. It meant nothing. As she wrote in the basement, she spoke over to Papa, who was repainting the wall again.

Both he and the paint fumes turned around.
“Was wuistz?”
Now this was the roughest form of German a person could speak, but it was spoken with an air of absolute pleasantness. “Yeah, what?”

“Would I be able to write a letter to Mama?”

A pause.

“What do you want to write a letter to her for? You have to put up with her every day.” Papa was
schmunzel
ing—a sly smile. “Isn’t that bad enough?”

“Not
that
mama.” She swallowed.

“Oh.” Papa returned to the wall and continued painting. “Well, I guess so. You could send it to what’s-her-name—the one who brought you here and visited those few times—from the foster people.”

“Frau Heinrich.”

“That’s right. Send it to her. Maybe she can send it on to your mother.” Even at the time, he sounded unconvincing, as if he wasn’t telling Liesel something. Word of her mother had also been tight-lipped on Frau Heinrich’s brief visits.

Instead of asking him what was wrong, Liesel began writing immediately, choosing to ignore the sense of foreboding that was quick to accumulate inside her. It took three hours and six drafts to perfect the letter, telling her mother all about Molching, her papa and his accordion, the strange but true ways of Rudy Steiner, and the exploits of Rosa Hubermann. She also explained how proud she was that she could now read and write a little. The next day, she posted it at Frau Diller’s with a stamp from the kitchen drawer. And she began to wait.

The night she wrote the letter, she overheard a conversation between Hans and Rosa.

“What’s she doing writing to her mother?” Mama was saying. Her voice was surprisingly calm and caring. As you can imagine, this worried the girl a great deal. She’d have preferred to hear them arguing. Whispering adults hardly inspired confidence.

“She asked me,” Papa answered, “and I couldn’t say no. How could I?”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Again with the whisper. “She should just forget her. Who knows where she is? Who knows what they’ve done to her?”

In bed, Liesel hugged herself tight. She balled herself up. She thought of her mother and repeated Rosa Hubermann’s questions.

Where was she?

What had they done to her?

And once and for all, who, in actual fact, were
they?

Flash forward to the basement, September 1943.

A fourteen-year-old girl is writing in a small dark-covered book. She is bony but strong and has seen many things. Papa sits with the accordion at his feet.

He says, “You know, Liesel? I nearly wrote you a reply and signed your mother’s name.” He scratches his leg, where the plaster used to be. “But I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself.”

Several times, through the remainder of January and the entirety of February 1940, when Liesel searched the mailbox for a reply to her letter, it clearly broke her foster father’s heart. “I’m sorry,” he would tell her. “Not today, huh?” In hindsight, she saw that the whole exercise had been pointless. Had her mother been in a position to do so, she would have already made contact with the foster care people, or directly with the girl, or the Hubermanns. But there had been nothing.

To lend insult to injury, in mid-February, Liesel was given a letter from another ironing customer, the Pfaffelhürvers, from Heide Strasse. The pair of them stood with great tallness in the doorway,
giving her a melancholic regard. “For your mama,” the man said, handing her the envelope. “Tell her we’re sorry. Tell her we’re sorry.”

That was not a good night in the Hubermann residence.

Even when Liesel retreated to the basement to write her fifth letter to her mother (all but the first one yet to be sent), she could hear Rosa swearing and carrying on about those Pfaffelhürver
Arschlöcher
and that lousy Ernst Vogel.