When she stopped breathing, he stayed with her, and I could sense he would hold her for hours.
There were two stolen apples in his pocket.
This time, they played it smarter. They ate one chestnut each and sold the rest of them door to door.
“If you have a few pfennig to spare,” Liesel said at each house, “I have chestnuts.” They ended up with sixteen coins.
“Now,” Rudy grinned, “revenge.”
That same afternoon, they returned to Frau Diller’s, “heil Hitlered,” and waited.
“Mixed candy again?” She schmunzeled, to which they nodded. The money splashed the counter and Frau Diller’s smile fell slightly ajar.
“Yes, Frau Diller,” they said in unison. “Mixed candy, please.”
The framed Führer looked proud of them.
Triumph before the storm.
THE STRUGGLER, CONCLUDED
The juggling comes to an end now, but the struggling does not. I have Liesel Meminger in one hand, Max Vandenburg in the other. Soon, I will clap them together. Just give me a few pages.
The struggler:
If they killed him tonight, at least he would die alive.
The train ride was far away now, the snorer most likely tucked up in the carriage she’d made her bed, traveling on. Now there were only footsteps between Max and survival. Footsteps and thoughts, and doubts.
He followed the map in his mind, from Pasing to Molching. It was late when he saw the town. His legs ached terribly, but he was nearly there—the most dangerous place to be. Close enough to touch it.
Just as it was described, he found Munich Street and made his way along the footpath.
Everything stiffened.
Glowing pockets of streetlights.
Dark, passive buildings.
The town hall stood like a giant ham-fisted youth, too big for his age. The church disappeared in darkness the farther his eyes traveled upward.
It all watched him.
He shivered.
He warned himself. “Keep your eyes open.”
(German children were on the lookout for stray coins. German Jews kept watch for possible capture.)
In keeping with the usage of number thirteen for luck, he counted his footsteps in groups of that number. Just thirteen footsteps, he would tell himself. Come on, just thirteen more. As an estimate, he completed ninety sets, till at last, he stood on the corner of Himmel Street.
In one hand, he held his suitcase.
The other was still holding Mein Kampf.
Both were heavy, and both were handled with a gentle secretion of sweat.
Now he turned on to the side street, making his way to number thirty-three, resisting the urge to smile, resisting the urge to sob or even imagine the safety that might be awaiting him. He reminded himself that this was no time for hope. Certainly, he could almost touch it. He could feel it, somewhere just out of reach. Instead of acknowledging it, he went about the business of deciding again what to do if he was caught at the last moment or if by some chance the wrong person awaited him inside.