The Book Thief

“Jesus.” A coughing fit. “Mary and Joseph.” Now he yanked at the paste of sweat and powder in

his eye sockets. “Not much you could do about that.”

One of the other men wiped his face and said, “Just once I want to be there when they hit a pub, for Christ’s sake. I’m dying for a beer.” Each man leaned back.

They could all taste it, putting out the fires in their throats and softening the smoke. It was a nice dream, and an impossible one. They were all aware that any beer that flowed in these streets would not be beer at all, but a kind of milk shake or porridge.

All four men were plastered with the gray-and-white conglomeration of dust. When they stood up fully, to resume work, only small cracks of their uniform could be seen.

The sergeant walked to Brunnenweg. He brushed heavily at his chest. Several smacks. “That’s better. You had some dust on there, my friend.” As Brunnenweg laughed, the sergeant turned to his newest recruit. “You first this time, Hubermann.”

They put the fires out for several hours, and they found anything they could to convince a building to remain standing. In some cases, where the sides were damaged, the remaining edges poked out like elbows. This was Hans Hubermann’s strong point. He almost came to enjoy finding a smoldering rafter or disheveled slab of concrete to prop those elbows up, to give them something to rest on.

His hands were packed tightly with splinters, and his teeth were caked with residue from the fallout. Both lips were set with moist dust that had hardened, and there wasn’t a pocket, a thread, or a hidden crease in his uniform that wasn’t covered in a film left by the loaded air.

The worst part of the job was the people.

Once in a while there was a person roaming doggedly through the fog, mostly single-worded. They always shouted a name.

Sometimes it was Wolfgang.

“Have you seen my Wolfgang?”

Their handprints would remain on his jacket.

“Stephanie!”

“Hansi!”

“Gustel! Gustel Stoboi!”

As the density subsided, the roll call of names limped through the ruptured streets, sometimes ending with an ash-filled embrace or a knelt-down howl of grief. They accumulated, hour by hour, like sweet and sour dreams, waiting to happen.

The dangers merged into one. Powder and smoke and the gusty flames. The damaged people. Like the rest of the men in the unit, Hans would need to perfect the art of forgetting.

“How are you, Hubermann?” the sergeant asked at one point. Fire was at his shoulder.

Hans nodded, uneasily, at the pair of them.

Midway through the shift, there was an old man who staggered defenselessly through the streets. As Hans finished stabilizing a building, he turned to find him at his back, waiting calmly for his turn. A bloodstain was signed across his face. It trailed off down his throat and neck. He was wearing a white shirt with a dark red collar and he held his leg as if it was next to him. “Could you prop me up now, young man?”

Hans picked him up and carried him out of the haze.

A SMALL, SAD NOTE

I visited that small city

street with the man still in

Hans Hubermann’s arms.

The sky was white-horse gray.

It wasn’t until he placed him down on a patch of concrete-coated grass that Hans noticed.

“What is it?” one of the other men asked.

Hans could only point.