The Jew stood before him, expecting another handful of derision, but he watched with everyone else as Hans Hubermann held his hand out and presented a piece of bread, like magic.
When it changed hands, the Jew slid down. He fell to his knees and held Papa’s shins. He buried his face between them and thanked him.
Liesel watched.
With tears in her eyes, she saw the man slide farther forward, pushing Papa back to cry into his ankles.
Other Jews walked past, all of them watching this small, futile miracle. They streamed by, like human water. That day, a few would reach the ocean. They would be handed a white cap.
Wading through, a soldier was soon at the scene of the crime. He studied the kneeling man and Papa, and he looked at the crowd. After another moment’s thought, he took the whip from his belt and began.
The Jew was whipped six times. On his back, his head, and his legs. “You filth! You swine!” Blood dripped now from his ear.
Then it was Papa’s turn.
A new hand held Liesel’s now, and when she looked in horror next to her, Rudy Steiner swallowed as Hans Hubermann was whipped on the street. The sound sickened her and she expected cracks to appear on her papa’s body. He was struck four times before he, too, hit the ground.
When the elderly Jew climbed to his feet for the last time and continued on, he looked briefly back. He took a last sad glance at the man who was kneeling now himself, whose back was burning with four lines of fire, whose knees were aching on the road. If nothing else, the old man would die like a human. Or at least with the thought that he was a human.
Me?
I’m not so sure if that’s such a good thing.
When Liesel and Rudy made it through and helped Hans to his feet, there were so many voices. Words and sunlight. That’s how she remembered it. The light sparkling on the road and the words like waves, breaking on her back. Only as they walked away did they notice the bread sitting rejected on the street.
As Rudy attempted to pick it up, a passing Jew snatched it from his hand and another two fought him for it as they continued on their way to Dachau.
Silver eyes were pelted then.
A cart was turned over and paint flowed onto the street.
They called him a Jew lover.
Others were silent, helping him back to safety.
Hans Hubermann leaned forward, arms outstretched against a house wall. He was suddenly overwhelmed by what had just happened.
There was an image, fast and hot.
33 Himmel Street—its basement.
Thoughts of panic were caught between the in-and-out struggle of his breath.
They’ll come now. They’ll come.
Oh, Christ, oh, crucified Christ.
He looked at the girl and closed his eyes.
“Are you hurt, Papa?”
She received questions rather than an answer.
“What was I thinking?” His eyes closed tighter and opened again. His overalls creased. There was paint and blood on his hands. And bread crumbs. How different from the bread of summer. “Oh my God, Liesel, what have I done?”
Yes.
I must agree.