Luck.
Actually.
Forget the ten minutes.
The gates open now.
BOOK OF FIRE
The dark came in pieces, and with the cigarette brought to an end, Liesel and Hans Hubermann began to walk home. To get out of the square, they would walk past the bonfire site and through a small side road onto Munich Street. They didn’t make it that far.
A middle-aged carpenter named Wolfgang Edel called out. He’d built the platforms for the Nazi big shots to stand on during the fire and he was in the process now of pulling them down. “Hans Hubermann?” He had long sideburns that pointed to his mouth and a dark voice. “Hansi!”
“Hey, Wolfal,” Hans replied. There was an introduction to the girl and a “heil Hitler.” “Good, Liesel.?
?
For the first few minutes, Liesel stayed within a five-meter radius of the conversation. Fragments came past her, but she didn’t pay too much attention.
“Getting much work?”
“No, it’s all tighter now. You know how it is, especially when you’re not a member.”
“You told me you were joining, Hansi.”
“I tried, but I made a mistake—I think they’re still considering.”
• • •
Liesel wandered toward the mountain of ash. It sat like a magnet, like a freak. Irresistible to the eyes, similar to the road of yellow stars.
As with her previous urge to see the mound’s ignition, she could not look away. All alone, she didn’t have the discipline to keep a safe distance. It sucked her toward it and she began to make her way around.
Above her, the sky was completing its routine of darkening, but far away, over the mountain’s shoulder, there was a dull trace of light.
“Pass auf, Kind,” a uniform said to her at one point. “Look out, child,” as he shoveled some more ash onto a cart.
Closer to the town hall, under a light, some shadows stood and talked, most likely exulting in the success of the fire. From Liesel’s position, their voices were only sounds. Not words at all.
For a few minutes, she watched the men shoveling up the pile, at first making it smaller at the sides to allow more of it to collapse. They came back and forth from a truck, and after three return trips, when the heap was reduced near the bottom, a small section of living material slipped from inside the ash.
THE MATERIAL
Half a red flag, two posters advertising a Jewish poet, three books, and a wooden sign with something written on it in Hebrew
Perhaps they were damp. Perhaps the fire didn’t burn long enough to fully reach the depth where they sat. Whatever the reason, they were huddled among the ashes, shaken. Survivors.
“Three books.” Liesel spoke softly and she looked at the backs of the men.
“Come on,” said one of them. “Hurry up, will you, I’m starving.”
They moved toward the truck.
The threesome of books poked their noses out.
Liesel moved in.
The heat was still strong enough to warm her when she stood at the foot of the ash heap. When she reached her hand in, she was bitten, but on the second attempt, she made sure she was fast enough. She latched onto the closest of the books. It was hot, but it was also wet, burned only at the edges, but otherwise unhurt.