The Book Thief

THE SNOWS OF STALINGRAD

In the middle of January 1943, the corridor of Himmel Street was its dark, miserable self. Liesel shut the gate and made her way to Frau Holtzapfel’s door and knocked. She was surprised by the answerer.

Her first thought was that the man must have been one of her sons, but he did not look like either of the brothers in the framed photos by the door. He seemed far too old, although it was difficult to tell. His face was dotted with whiskers and his eyes looked painful and loud. A bandaged hand fell out of his coat sleeve and cherries of blood were seeping through the wrapping.

“Perhaps you should come back later.”

Liesel tried to look past him. She was close to calling out to Frau Holtzapfel, but the man blocked her.

“Child,” he said. “Come back later. I’ll get you. Where are you from?”

More than three hours later, a knock arrived at 33 Himmel Street and the man stood before her. The cherries of blood had grown into plums.

“She’s ready for you now.”

• • •

Outside, in the fuzzy gray light, Liesel couldn’t help asking the man what had happened to his hand. He blew some air from his nostrils—a single syllable—before his reply. “Stalingrad.”

“Sorry?” He had looked into the wind when he spoke. “I couldn’t hear you.”

He answered again, only louder, and now, he answered the question fully. “Stalingrad happened to my hand. I was shot in the ribs and I had three of my fingers blown off. Does that answer your question?” He placed his uninjured hand in his pocket and shivered with contempt for the German wind. “You think it’s cold here?”

Liesel touched the wall at her side. She couldn’t lie. “Yes, of course.”

The man laughed. “This isn’t cold.” He pulled out a cigarette and placed it in his mouth. One-handed, he tried to light a match. In the dismal weather, it would have been difficult with both hands, but with just the one, it was impossible. He dropped the matchbook and swore.

Liesel picked it up.

She took his cigarette and put it in her mouth. She, too, could not light it.

“You have to suck on it,” the man explained. “In this weather, it only lights when you suck. Verstehst?”

She gave it another go, trying to remember how Papa did it. This time, her mouth filled with smoke. It climbed her teeth and scratched her throat, but she restrained herself from coughing.

“Well done.” When he took the cigarette and breathed it in, he reached out his uninjured hand, his left. “Michael Holtzapfel.”

“Liesel Meminger.”

“You’re coming to read to my mother?”

Rosa arrived behind her at that point, and Liesel could feel the shock at her back. “Michael?” she asked. “Is that you?”

Michael Holtzapfel nodded. “Guten Tag, Frau Hubermann. It’s been a long time.”

“You look so …”

“Old?”

Rosa was still in shock, but she composed herself. “Would you like to come in? I see you met my foster daughter ….” Her voice trailed off as she noticed the bloodied hand.

“My brother’s dead,” said Michael Holtzapfel, and he could not have delivered the punch any better with his one usable fist. For Rosa staggered. Certainly, war meant dying, but it always shifted the ground beneath a person’s feet when it was someone who had once lived and breathed in close proximity. Rosa had watched both of the Holtzapfel boys grow up.

The oldened young man somehow found a way to list what happened without losing his nerve. “I was in one of the buildings we used for a hospital when they brought him in. It was a week before I was coming home. I spent three days of that week sitting with him before he died ….”

“I’m sorry.” The words didn’t seem to come from Rosa’s mouth. It was someone else standing behind Liesel Meminger that evening, but she did not dare to look.

“Please.” Michael stopped her. “Don’t say anything else. Can I take the girl to read? I doubt my mother will hear it, but she said for her to come.”