“Because they’ll take you away.”
“Why?”
“Because you shouldn’t want to be like black people or Jewish people or anyone who is … not us.”
“Who are Jewish people?”
“You know my oldest customer, Mr. Kaufmann? Where we bought your shoes?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he’s Jewish.”
“I didn’t know that. Do you have to pay to be Jewish? Do you need a license?”
“No, Rudy.” Mr. Steiner was steering the bike with one hand and Rudy with the other. He was having trouble steering the conversation. He still hadn’t relinquished the hold on his son’s earlobe. He’d forgotten about it. “It’s like you’re German or Catholic.”
“Oh. Is Jesse Owens Catholic?”
“I don’t know!” He tripped on a bike pedal then and released the ear.
They walked on in silence for a while, until Rudy said, “I just wish I was like Jesse Owens, Papa.”
This time, Mr. Steiner placed his hand on Rudy’s head and explained, “I know, son—but you’ve got beautiful blond hair and big, safe blue eyes. You should be happy with that; is that clear?”
But nothing was clear.
Rudy understood nothing, and that night was the prelude of things to come. Two and a half years later, the Kaufmann Shoe Shop was reduced to broken glass, and all the shoes were flung aboard a truck in their boxes.
THE OTHER SIDE OF SANDPAPER
People have defining moments, I suppose, especially when they’re children. For some it’s a Jesse Owens incident. For others it’s a moment of bed-wetting hysteria:
It was late May 1939, and the night had been like most others. Mama shook her iron fist. Papa was out. Liesel cleaned the front door and watched the Himmel Street sky.
Earlier, there had been a parade.
The brown-shirted extremist members of the NSDAP (otherwise known as the Nazi Party) had marched down Munich Street, their banners worn proudly, their faces held high, as if on sticks. Their voices were full of song, culminating in a roaring rendition of “Deutschland über Alles.” “Germany over Everything.”
As always, they were clapped.
They were spurred on as they walked to who knows where.
People on the street stood and watched, some with straight-armed salutes, others with hands that burned from applause. Some kept faces that were contorted by pride and rally like Frau Diller, and then there were the scatterings of odd men out, like Alex Steiner, who stood like a human-shaped block of wood, clapping slow and dutiful. And beautiful. Submission.
On the footpath, Liesel stood with her papa and Rudy. Hans Hubermann wore a face with the shades pulled down.
SOME CRUNCHED NUMBERS
In 1933, 90 percent of Germans showed unflinching support for Adolf Hitler.
That leaves 10 percent who didn’t.
Hans Hubermann belonged to the 10 percent.
There was a reason for that.
In the night, Liesel dreamed like she always did. At first, she saw the brownshirts marching, but soon enough, they led her to a train, and the usual discovery awaited. Her brother was staring again.