When he looked over, he saw the book under her arm. He struggled to speak. “What’s”—he grappled with the words—“with the book?”
The darkness was filling up truly now. Liesel panted, the air in her throat defrosting. “It was all I could find.”
Unfortunately, Rudy could smell it. The lie. He cocked his head and told her what he felt was a fact. “You didn’t go in for food, did you? You got what you wanted ….”
Liesel straightened then and was overcome with the sickness of another realization.
The shoes.
She looked at Rudy’s feet, then at his hands, and at the ground all around him.
“What?” he asked. “What is it?”
“Saukerl,” she accused him. “Where are my shoes?” Rudy’s face whitened, which left her in no doubt. “They’re back at the house,” she suggested, “aren’t they?”
Rudy searched desperately around himself, begging against all reality that he might have brought them with him. He imagined himself picking them up, wishing it true—but the shoes were not there. They sat uselessly, or actually, much worse, incriminatingly, by the wall at 8 Grande Strasse.
“Dummkopf!” he admonished himself, smacking his ear. He looked down shamefully at the sullen sight of Liesel’s socks. “Idiot!” It didn’t take him long to decide on making it right. Earnestly, he said, “Just wait,” and he hurried back around the corner.
“Don’t get caught,” Liesel called after him, but he didn’t hear.
The minutes were heavy while he was gone.
Darkness was now complete and Liesel was quite certain that a Watschen was most likely in the cards when she returned home. “Hurry,” she murmured, but still Rudy didn’t appear. She imagined the sound of a police siren throwing itself forward and reeling itself in. Collecting itself.
Still, nothing.
Only when she walked back to the intersection of the two streets in her damp, dirty socks did she see him. Rudy’s triumphant face was held nicely up as he trotted steadily toward her. His teeth were gnashed into a grin, and the shoes dangled from his hand. “They nearly killed me,” he said, “but I made it.” Once they’d crossed the river, he handed Liesel the shoes, and she threw them down.
Sitting on the ground, she looked up at her best friend. “Danke,” she said. “Thank you.”
Rudy bowed. “My pleasure.” He tried for a little more. ?
??No point asking if I get a kiss for that, I guess?”
“For bringing my shoes, which you left behind?”
“Fair enough.” He held up his hands and continued speaking as they walked on, and Liesel made a concerted effort to ignore him. She only heard the last part. “Probably wouldn’t want to kiss you anyway—not if your breath’s anything like your shoes.”
“You disgust me,” she informed him, and she hoped he couldn’t see the escaped beginnings of a smile that had fallen from her mouth.
On Himmel Street, Rudy captured the book. Under a lamppost, he read out the title and wondered what it was about.
Dreamily, Liesel answered. “Just a murderer.”
“Is that all?”
“There’s also a policeman trying to catch him.”
Rudy handed it back. “Speaking of which, I think we’re both slightly in for it when we get home. You especially.”
“Why me?”
“You know—your mama.”
“What about her?” Liesel was exercising the blatant right of every person who’s ever belonged to a family. It’s all very well for such a person to whine and moan and criticize other family members, but they won’t let anyone else do it. That’s when you get your back up and show loyalty. “Is there something wrong with her?”
Rudy backed away. “Sorry, Saumensch. I didn’t mean to offend you.”