She would lie in bed, missing Max, wondering where he was, praying that he was alive, but somewhere, sta
nding among all of it, was Rudy.
He glowed in the dark, completely naked.
There was great dread in that vision, especially the moment when he was forced to remove his hands. It was disconcerting to say the least, but for some reason, she couldn’t stop thinking about it.
PUNISHMENT
On the ration cards of Nazi Germany, there was no listing for punishment, but everyone had to take their turn. For some it was death in a foreign country during the war. For others it was poverty and guilt when the war was over, when six million discoveries were made throughout Europe. Many people must have seen their punishments coming, but only a small percentage welcomed it. One such person was Hans Hubermann.
You do not help Jews on the street.
Your basement should not be hiding one.
At first, his punishment was conscience. His oblivious unearthing of Max Vandenburg plagued him. Liesel could see it sitting next to his plate as he ignored his dinner, or standing with him at the bridge over the Amper. He no longer played the accordion. His silver-eyed optimism was wounded and motionless. That was bad enough, but it was only the beginning.
One Wednesday in early November, his true punishment arrived in the mailbox. On the surface, it appeared to be good news.
PAPER IN THE KITCHEN
We are delighted to inform you that your application to join the NSDAP has been approved ….
“The Nazi Party?” Rosa asked. “I thought they didn’t want you.”
“They didn’t.”
Papa sat down and read the letter again.
He was not being put on trial for treason or for helping Jews or anything of the sort. Hans Hubermann was being rewarded, at least as far as some people were concerned. How could this be possible?
“There has to be more.”
There was.
On Friday, a statement arrived to say that Hans Hubermann was to be drafted into the German army. A member of the party would be happy to play a role in the war effort, it concluded. If he wasn’t, there would certainly be consequences.
Liesel had just returned from reading with Frau Holtzapfel. The kitchen was heavy with soup steam and the vacant faces of Hans and Rosa Hubermann. Papa was seated. Mama stood above him as the soup started to burn.
“God, please don’t send me to Russia,” Papa said.
“Mama, the soup’s burning.”
“What?”
Liesel hurried across and took it from the stove. “The soup.” When she’d successfully rescued it, she turned and viewed her foster parents. Faces like ghost towns. “Papa, what’s wrong?”
He handed her the letter and her hands began to shake as she made her way through it. The words had been punched forcefully into the paper.
THE CONTENTS OF
LIESEL MEMINGER’S IMAGINATION
In the shell-shocked kitchen, somewhere near the stove, there’s an image of a lonely, overworked typewriter. It sits in a distant, near-empty room. Its keys are faded and a blank sheet waits patiently upright in the assumed position. It wavers slightly in the breeze from the window. Coffee break is nearly over. A pile of paper the height of a human stands casually by the door. It could easily be smoking.
In truth, Liesel only saw the typewriter later, when she wrote. She wondered how many letters like that were sent out as punishment to Germany’s Hans Hubermanns and Alex Steiners—to those who helped the helpless, and those who refused to let go of their children.
It was a sign of the German army’s growing desperation.