The Book Thief (30 page)

The first event in the book was a murder. A stabbing. A Vienna street. Not far from the Stephansdom—the cathedral in the main square.

Liesel was unsure whether it was the words or the open window that caused her to tremble. Every time she picked up or delivered from the mayor’s house, she read three pages and shivered, but she could not last forever.

Similarly, Max Vandenburg could not withstand the basement much longer. He didn’t complain—he had no right—but he could slowly feel himself deteriorating in the cold. As it turned out, his rescue owed itself to some reading and writing, and a book called
The Shoulder Shrug
.

“Liesel,” said Hans one night. “Come on.”

Since Max’s arrival, there had been a considerable hiatus in the reading practice of Liesel and her papa. He clearly felt that now was a
good time to resume.
“Na, komm,”
he told her. “I don’t want you slacking off. Go and get one of your books. How about
The Shoulder Shrug?”

The disturbing element in all of this was that when she came back, book in hand, Papa was motioning that she should follow him down to their old workroom. The basement.

“But, Papa,” she tried to tell him. “We can’t—”

“What? Is there a monster down there?”

It was early December and the day had been icy. The basement became unfriendlier with each concrete step.

“It’s too cold, Papa.”

“That never bothered you before.”

“Yes, but it was never
this
cold ….”

When they made their way down, Papa whispered to Max, “Can we borrow the lamplight, please?”

With trepidation, the sheets and cans moved and the light was passed out, exchanging hands. Looking at the flame, Hans shook his head and followed it with some words.
“Es ist ja Wahnsinn, net?
This is crazy, no?” Before the hand from within could reposition the sheets, he caught it. “Bring yourself, too. Please, Max.”

Slowly then, the drop sheets were dragged aside and the emaciated body and face of Max Vandenburg appeared. In the moist light, he stood with a magic discomfort. He shivered.

Hans touched his arm, to bring him closer.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. You cannot stay down here. You’ll freeze to death.” He turned. “Liesel, fill up the tub. Not too hot. Make it just like it is when it starts cooling down.”

Liesel ran up.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

She heard it again when she reached the hallway.

When he was in the pint-sized bath, Liesel listened at the washroom door, imagining the tepid water turning to steam as it warmed his iceberg
body. Mama and Papa were at the climax of debate in the combined bedroom and living room, their quiet voices trapped inside the corridor wall.

“He’ll die down there, I promise you.”

“But what if someone sees in?”

“No, no, he only comes up at night. In the day, we leave everything open. Nothing to hide. And we use this room rather than the kitchen. Best to keep away from the front door.”

Silence.

Then Mama. “All right … Yes, you’re right.”

“If we gamble on a Jew,” said Papa soon after, “I would prefer to gamble on a live one,” and from that moment, a new routine was born.

Each night, the fire was lit in Mama and Papa’s room, and Max would silently appear. He would sit in the corner, cramped and perplexed, most likely by the kindness of the people, the torment of survival, and overriding all of it, the brilliance of the warmth.

With the curtains clamped tight, he would sleep on the floor with a cushion beneath his head, as the fire slipped away and turned to ash.

In the morning, he would return to the basement.

A voiceless human.

The Jewish rat, back to his hole.

Christmas came and went with the smell of extra danger. As expected, Hans Junior did not come home (both a blessing and an ominous disappointment), but Trudy arrived as usual, and fortunately, things went smoothly.

•   •   •

It was decided that Trudy, despite her mild demeanor, could not be trusted.

“We trust only the people we have to,” Papa stated, “and that is the three of us.”

There was extra food and the apology to Max that this was not his religion, but a ritual nonetheless.

He didn’t complain.

What grounds did he have?

He explained that he was a Jew in upbringing, in blood, but also that Jewry was now more than ever a label—a ruinous piece of the dumbest luck around.

It was then that he also took the opportunity to say he was sorry that the Hubermanns’ son had not come home. In response, Papa told him that such things were out of their control. “After all,” he said, “you should know it yourself—a young man is still a boy, and a boy sometimes has the right to be stubborn.”

They left it at that.

For the first few weeks in front of the fire, Max remained wordless. Now that he was having a proper bath once a week, Liesel noticed that his hair was no longer a nest of twigs, but rather a collection of feathers, flopping about on his head. Still shy of the stranger, she whispered it to her papa.

“His hair is like feathers.”

“What?” The fire had distorted the words.

“I said,” she whispered again, leaning closer, “his hair is like feathers ….”

Hans Hubermann looked across and nodded his agreement. I’m sure he was wishing to have eyes like the girl. They didn’t realize that Max had heard everything.

Occasionally he brought the copy of
Mein Kampf
and read it next to the flames, seething at the content. The third time he brought it, Liesel finally found the courage to ask her question.

“Is it—good?”

He looked up from the pages, forming his fingers into a fist and then flattening them back out. Sweeping away the anger, he smiled at her. He lifted the feathery fringe and dumped it toward his eyes. “It’s the best book ever.” Looking at Papa, then back at the girl. “It saved my life.”

The girl moved a little and crossed her legs. Quietly, she asked it.

“How?”

So began a kind of storytelling phase in the living room each night. It was spoken just loud enough to hear. The pieces of a Jewish fist-fighting puzzle were assembled before them all.

Sometimes there was humor in Max Vandenburg’s voice, though its physicality was like friction—like a stone being gently rubbed across a large rock. It was deep in places and scratched apart in others, sometimes breaking off altogether. It was deepest in regret, and broken off at the end of a joke or a statement of self-deprecation.

“Crucified Christ” was the most common reaction to Max Vandenburg’s stories, usually followed by a question.

When Liesel looked back on the events of her life, those nights in the living room were some of the clearest memories she had. She could see the burning light on Max’s eggshell face and even taste the human flavor of his words. The course of his survival was related, piece by piece, as if he were cutting each part out of him and presenting it on a plate.

“I’m so selfish.”

When he said that, he used his forearm to shield his face. “Leaving people behind. Coming here. Putting all of you in danger …” He dropped everything out of him and started pleading with them. Sorrow and desolation were clouted across his face. “I’m sorry. Do you believe me? I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m—!”