The Book Thief Part 71

the name, the girl.

Liesel.

Liesel shrugged away entirely from the crowd and entered the tide of Jews, weaving through them till she grabbed hold of his arm with her left hand.

His face fell on her.

It reached down as she tripped, and the Jew, the nasty Jew, helped her up. It took all of his strength.

"I'm here, Max," she said again. "I'm here."

"I can't believe ..." The words dripped from Max Vandenburg's mouth. "Look how much you've grown." There was an intense sadness in his eyes. They swelled. "Liesel ... they got me a few months ago." The voice was crippled but it dragged itself toward her. "Halfway to Stuttgart."

From the inside, the stream of Jews was a murky disaster of arms and legs. Ragged uniforms. No soldier had seen her yet, and Max gave her a warning. "You have to let go of me, Liesel." He even tried to push her away, but the girl was too strong. Max's starving arms could not sway her, and she walked on, between the filth, the hunger and confusion.

After a long line of steps, the first soldier noticed.

"Hey!" he called in. He pointed with his whip. "Hey, girl, what are you doing? Get out of there."

When she ignored him completely, the soldier used his arm to separate the stickiness of people. He shoved them aside and made his way through. He loomed above her as Liesel struggled on and noticed the strangled expression on Max Vandenburg's face. She had seen him afraid, but never like this.

The soldier took her.

His hands manhandled her clothes.

She could feel the bones in his fingers and the ball of each knuckle. They tore at her skin. "I said get out!" he ordered her, and now he dragged the girl to the side and flung her into the wall of onlooking Germans. It was getting warmer. The sun burned her face. The girl had landed sprawling with pain, but now she stood again. She recovered and waited. She reentered.

This time, Liesel made her way through from the back.

Ahead, she could just see the distinct twigs of hair and walked again toward them.

This time, she did not reach out-she stopped. Somewhere inside her were the souls of words. They climbed out and stood beside her.

"Max," she said. He turned and briefly closed his eyes as the girl continued. "'There was once a strange, small man,'" she said. Her arms were loose but her hands were fists at her side. "But there was a word shaker, too."

One of the Jews on his way to Dachau had stopped walking now.

He stood absolutely still as the others swerved morosely around him, leaving him completely alone. His eyes staggered, and it was so simple. The words were given across from the girl to the Jew. They climbed on to him.

The next time she spoke, the questions stumbled from her mouth. Hot tears fought for room in her eyes as she would not let them out. Better to stand resolute and proud. Let the words do all of it. "'Is it really you? the young man asked,'" she said. "'Is it from your cheek that I took the seed?'"

Max Vandenburg remained standing.

He did not drop to his knees.

People and Jews and clouds all stopped. They watched.

As he stood, Max looked first at the girl and then stared directly into the sky who was wide and blue and magnificent. There were heavy beams-planks of sun-falling randomly, wonderfully to the road. Clouds arched their backs to look behind as they started again to move on. "It's such a beautiful day," he said, and his voice was in many pieces. A great day to die. A great day to die, like this.

Liesel walked at him. She was courageous enough to reach out and hold his bearded face. "Is it really you, Max?"

Such a brilliant German day and its attentive crowd.

He let his mouth kiss her palm. "Yes, Liesel, it's me," and he held the girl's hand in his face and cried onto her fingers. He cried as the soldiers came and a small collection of insolent Jews stood and watched.

Standing, he was whipped.

"Max," the girl wept.

Then silently, as she was dragged away: Max.

Jewish fist fighter.

Inside, she said all of it.

Maxi Taxi. That's what that friend called you in Stuttgart when you fought on the street, remember? Remember, Max? You told me. I remember everything ....

That was you-the boy with the hard fists, and you said you would land a punch on death's face when he came for you.

Remember the snowman, Max?

Remember?

In the bas.e.m.e.nt?

Remember the white cloud with the gray heart?

The Fhrer still comes down looking for you sometimes. He misses you. We all miss you.

The whip. The whip.

The whip continued from the soldier's hand. It landed on Max's face. It clipped his chin and carved his throat.

Max hit the ground and the soldier now turned to the girl. His mouth opened. He had immaculate teeth.

A sudden flash came before her eyes. She recalled the day she'd wanted Ilsa Hermann or at least the reliable Rosa to slap her, but neither of them would do it. On this occasion, she was not let down.

The whip sliced her collarbone and reached across her shoulder blade.

"Liesel!"

She knew that person.

As the soldier swung his arm, she caught sight of a distressed Rudy Steiner in the gaps of the crowd. He was calling out. She could see his tortured face and yellow hair. "Liesel, get out of there!"

The book thief did not get out.

She closed her eyes and caught the next burning streak, and another, till her body hit the warm flooring of the road. It heated her cheek.

More words arrived, this time from the soldier.

"Steh'auf."

The economical sentence was directed not to the girl but the Jew. It was elaborated on. "Get up, you dirty a.s.shole, you Jewish wh.o.r.e-dog, get up, get up ...."

Max hoisted himself upright.

Just another push-up, Max.

Just another push-up on the cold bas.e.m.e.nt floor.

His feet moved.

They dragged and he traveled on.

His legs staggered and his hands wiped at the marks of the whip, to soothe the stinging. When he tried to look again for Liesel, the soldier's hands were placed upon his bloodied shoulders and pushed.

The boy arrived. His lanky legs crouched and he called over, to his left.

"Tommy, get out here and help me. We have to get her up. Tommy, hurry!" He lifted the book thief by her armpits. "Liesel, come on, you have to get off the road."

When she was able to stand, she looked at the shocked, frozen-faced Germans, fresh out of their packets. At their feet, she allowed herself to collapse, but only momentarily. A graze struck a match on the side of her face, where she'd met the ground. Her pulse flipped it over, frying it on both sides.

Far down the road, she could see the blurry legs and heels of the last walking Jew.

Her face was burning and there was a dogged ache in her arms and legs-a numbness that was simultaneously painful and exhausting.

She stood, one last time.

Waywardly, she began to walk and then run down Munich Street, to haul in the last steps of Max Vandenburg.

"Liesel, what are you doing?!"

She escaped the grip of Rudy's words and ignored the watching people at her side. Most of them were mute. Statues with beating hearts. Perhaps bystanders in the latter stages of a marathon. Liesel cried out again and was not heard. Hair was in her eyes. "Please, Max!"

After perhaps thirty meters, just as a soldier turned around, the girl was felled. Hands were clamped upon her from behind and the boy next door brought her down. He forced her knees to the road and suffered the penalty. He collected her punches as if they were presents. Her bony hands and elbows were accepted with nothing but a few short moans. He acc.u.mulated the loud, clumsy specks of saliva and tears as if they were lovely to his face, and more important, he was able to hold her down.

On Munich Street, a boy and girl were entwined.

They were twisted and comfortless on the road.

Together, they watched the humans disappear. They watched them dissolve, like moving tablets in the humid air.

CONFESSIONS.

When the Jews were gone, Rudy and Liesel untangled and the book thief did not speak. There were no answers to Rudy's questions.

Liesel did not go home, either. She walked forlornly to the train station and waited for her papa for hours. Rudy stood with her for the first twenty minutes, but since it was a good half day till Hans was due home, he fetched Rosa. On the way back, he told her what had happened, and when Rosa arrived, she asked nothing of the girl. She had already a.s.sembled the puzzle and merely stood beside her and eventually convinced her to sit down. They waited together.

When Papa found out, he dropped his bag, he kicked the Bahnhof air.

None of them ate that night. Papa's fingers desecrated the accordion, murdering song after song, no matter how hard he tried. Everything no longer worked.

For three days, the book thief stayed in bed.

Every morning and afternoon, Rudy Steiner knocked on the door and asked if she was still sick. The girl was not sick.

On the fourth day, Liesel walked to her neighbor's front door and asked if he might go back to the trees with her, where they'd distributed the bread the previous year.

"I should have told you earlier," she said.

As promised, they walked far down the road toward Dachau. They stood in the trees. There were long shapes of light and shade. Pinecones were scattered like cookies.

Thank you, Rudy.

For everything. For helping me off the road, for stopping me ...

She said none of it.

Her hand leaned on a flaking branch at her side. "Rudy, if I tell you something, will you promise not to say a word to anyone?"

"Of course." He could sense the seriousness in the girl's face, and the heaviness in her voice. He leaned on the tree next to hers. "What is it?"

"Promise."

"I did already."

"Do it again. You can't tell your mother, your brother, or Tommy Mller. n.o.body."

"I promise."

Leaning.

Looking at the ground.