Finding Humanity in the Darkness

She heard it again when she reached the hallway.
‎When he was in the pint-sized bath, Liesel listened at the washroom door, imagining the tepid water turning to
‎steam as it warmed his iceberg body. Mama and Papa were at the climax of debate in the combined bedroom
‎and living room, their quiet voices trapped inside the corridor wall.
‎“He’ll die down there, I promise you.”
‎“But what if someone sees in?”
‎“No, no, he only comes up at night. In the day, we leave everything open. Nothing to hide. And we use this
‎room rather than the kitchen. Best to keep away from the front door.”
‎Silence.
‎Then Mama. “All right . . . Yes, you’re right.”
‎“If we gamble on a Jew,” said Papa soon after, “I would prefer to gamble on a live one,” and from that moment,
‎a new routine was born.
‎Each night, the fire was lit in Mama and Papa’s room, and Max would silently appear. He would sit in the
‎corner, cramped and perplexed, most likely by the kindness of the people, the torment of survival, and
‎overriding all of it, the brilliance of the warmth.
‎With the curtains clamped tight, he would sleep on the floor with a cushion beneath his head, as the fire slipped
‎away and turned to ash.
‎In the morning, he would return to the basement.
‎A voiceless human.
‎The Jewish rat, back to his hole.
‎Christmas came and went with the smell of extra danger. As expected, Hans Junior did not come home (both a
‎blessing and an ominous disappointment), but Trudy arrived as usual, and fortunately, things went smoothly.
‎THE QUALITIES OF SMOOTHNESS
‎Max remained in the basement.
‎Trudy came and went without
‎any suspicion.
‎It was decided that Trudy, despite her mild demeanor, could not be trusted.
‎“We trust only the people we have to,” Papa stated, “and that is the three of us.”
‎There was extra food and the apology to Max that this was not his religion, but a ritual nonetheless.
‎He didn’t complain.
‎What grounds did he have? He explained that he was a Jew in upbringing, in blood, but also that Jewry was now more than ever a label—a
‎ruinous piece of the dumbest luck around.
‎It was then that he also took the opportunity to say he was sorry that the Hubermanns’ son had not come home.
‎In response, Papa told him that such things were out of their control. “After all,” he said, “you should know it
‎yourself—a young man is still a boy, and a boy sometimes has the right to be stubborn.”
‎They left it at that.
‎For the first few weeks in front of the fire, Max remained wordless. Now that he was having a proper bath once
‎a week, Liesel noticed that his hair was no longer a nest of twigs, but rather a collection of feathers, flopping
‎about on his head. Still shy of the stranger, she whispered it to her papa.
‎“His hair is like feathers.”
‎“What?” The fire had distorted the words.
‎“I said,” she whispered again, leaning closer, “his hair is like feathers. . . .”
‎Hans Hubermann looked across and nodded his agreement. I’m sure he was wishing to have eyes like the girl.
‎They didn’t realize that Max had heard everything.
‎Occasionally he brought the copy of Mein Kampf and read it next to the flames, seething at the content. The
‎third time he brought it, Liesel finally found the courage to ask her question.
‎“Is it—good?”
‎He looked up from the pages, forming his fingers into a fist and then flattening them back out. Sweeping away
‎the anger, he smiled at her. He lifted the feathery fringe and dumped it toward his eyes. “It’s the best book
‎ever.” Looking at Papa, then back at the girl. “It saved my life.”
‎The girl moved a little and crossed her legs. Quietly, she asked it.
‎“How?”
‎So began a kind of storytelling phase in the living room each night. It was spoken just loud enough to hear. The
‎pieces of a Jewish fist-fighting puzzle were assembled before them all.
‎Sometimes there was humor in Max Vandenburg’s voice, though its physicality was like friction—like a stone
‎being gently rubbed across a large rock. It was deep in places and scratched apart in others, sometimes breaking
‎off altogether. It was deepest in regret, and broken off at the end of a joke or a statement of selfdeprecation.
‎“Crucified Christ” was the most common reaction to Max Vandenburg’s stories, usually followed by a question.
‎QUESTIONS LIKE
‎How long did you stay in that room?
‎Where is Walter Kugler now?
‎Do you know what happened to your family?
‎Where was the snorer traveling to?
‎A 10–3 losing record!
‎Why would you keep fighting him? When Liesel looked back on the events of her life, those nights in the living room were some of the clearest
‎memories she had. She could see the burning light on Max’s eggshell face and even taste the human flavor of
‎his words. The course of his survival was related, piece by piece, as if he were cutting each part out of him and
‎presenting it on a plate.
‎“I’m so selfish.”
‎When he said that, he used his forearm to shield his face. “Leaving people behind. Coming here. Putting all of
‎you in danger . . .” He dropped everything out of him and started pleading with them. Sorrow and desolation
‎were clouted across his face. “I’m sorry. Do you believe me? I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m—!”
‎His arm touched the fire and he snapped it back.
‎They all watched him, silent, until Papa stood and walked closer. He sat next to him.
‎“Did you burn your elbow?”
‎One evening, Hans, Max, and Liesel were sitting in front of the fire. Mama was in the kitchen. Max was reading
‎Mein Kampf again.
‎“You know something?” Hans said. He leaned toward the fire. “Liesel’s actually a good little reader herself.”
‎Max lowered the book. “And she has more in common with you than you might think.” Papa checked that Rosa
‎wasn’t coming. “She likes a good fistfight, too.”
‎“Papa!”
‎Liesel, at the high end of eleven, and still rake-skinny as she sat against the wall, was devastated. “I’ve never
‎been in a fight!”
‎“Shhh,” Papa laughed. He waved at her to keep her voice down and tilted again, this time to the girl. “Well,
‎what about the hiding you gave Ludwig Schmeikl, huh?”
‎“I never—” She was caught. Further denial was useless. “How did you find out about that?”
‎“I saw his papa at the Knoller.”
‎Liesel held her face in her hands. Once uncovered again, she asked the pivotal question. “Did you tell Mama?”
‎“Are you kidding?” He winked at Max and whispered to the girl, “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”
‎That night was also the first time Papa played his accordion at home for months. It lasted half an hour or so
‎until he asked a question of Max.
‎“Did you learn?”
‎The face in the corner watched the flames. “I did.” There was a considerable pause. “Until I was nine. At that
‎age, my mother sold the music studio and stopped teaching. She kept only the one instrument but gave up on me
‎not long after I resisted the learning. I was foolish.”
‎“No,” Papa said. “You were a boy.” During the nights, both Liesel Meminger and Max Vandenburg would go about their other similarity. In their
‎separate rooms, they would dream their nightmares and wake up, one with a scream in drowning sheets, the
‎other with a gasp for air next to a smoking fire.
‎Sometimes, when Liesel was reading with Papa close to three o’clock, they would both hear the waking
‎moment of Max. “He dreams like you,” Papa would say, and on one occasion, stirred by the sound of Max’s
‎anxiety, Liesel decided to get out of bed. From listening to his history, she had a good idea of what he saw in
‎those dreams, if not the exact part of the story that paid him a visit each night.
‎She made her way quietly down the hallway and into the living and bedroom.
‎“Max?”
‎The whisper was soft, clouded in the throat of sleep.
‎To begin with, there was no sound of reply, but he soon sat up and searched the darkness.
‎With Papa still in her bedroom, Liesel sat on the other side of the fireplace from Max. Behind them, Mama
‎loudly slept. She gave the snorer on the train a good run for her money.
‎The fire was nothing now but a funeral of smoke, dead and dying, simultaneously. On this particular morning,
‎there were also voices.
‎THE SWAPPING OF NIGHTMARES
‎The girl: “Tell me. What do you see
‎when you dream like that?”
‎The Few: “. . . I see myself turning
‎around, and waving goodbye.”
‎The girl: “I also have nightmares.”
‎The Few: “What do you see?”
‎The girl: “A train, and my dead brother.”
‎The Few: “Your brother?”
‎The girl: “He died when I moved
‎here, on the way.”
‎The girl and the Few, together: “Fa —yes.”
‎It would be nice to say that after this small breakthrough, neither Liesel nor Max dreamed their bad visions
‎again. It would be nice but untrue. The nightmares arrived like they always did, much like the best player in the
‎opposition when you’ve heard rumors that he might be injured or sick—but there he is, warming up with the
‎rest of them, ready to take the field. Or like a timetabled train, arriving at a nightly platform, pulling the
‎memories behind it on a rope. A lot of dragging. A lot of awkward bounces.
‎The only thing that changed was that Liesel told her papa that she should be old enough now to cope on her own
‎with the dreams. For a moment, he looked a little hurt, but as always with Papa, he gave the right thing to say
‎his best shot.
‎“Well, thank God.” He halfway grinned. “At least now I can get some proper sleep. That chair was killing me.”
‎He put his arm around the girl and they walked to the kitchen.
‎As time progressed, a clear distinction developed between two very different worlds—the world inside 33
‎Himmel Street, and the one that resided and turned outside it. The trick was to keep them apart.In the outside world, Liesel was learning to find some more of its uses. One afternoon, when she was walking
‎home with an empty washing bag, she noticed a newspaper poking out of a garbage can. The weekly edition of
‎the Molching Express. She lifted it out and took it home, presenting it to Max. “I thought,” she told him, “you
‎might like to do the crossword to pass the time.”
‎Max appreciated the gesture, and to justify her bringing it home, he read the paper from cover to cover and
‎showed her the puzzle a few hours later, completed but for one word.
‎“Damn that seventeen down,” he said.
‎In February 1941, for her twelfth birthday, Liesel received another used book, and she was grateful. It was
‎called The Mud Men and was about a very strange father and son. She hugged her mama and papa, while Max
‎stood uncomfortably in the corner.
‎“Alles Gute zum Geburtstag.” He smiled weakly. “All the best for your birthday.” His hands were in his
‎pockets. “I didn’t know, or else I could have given you something.” A blatant lie—he had nothing to give,
‎except maybe Mein Kampf, and there was no way he’d give such propaganda to a young German girl. That
‎would be like the lamb handing a knife to the butcher.
‎There was an uncomfortable silence.
‎She had embraced Mama and Papa.
‎Max looked so alone.
‎Liesel swallowed.
‎And she walked over and hugged him for the first time. “Thanks, Max.”
‎At first, he merely stood there, but as she held on to him, gradually his hands rose up and gently pressed into her
‎shoulder blades.
‎Only later would she find out about the helpless expression on Max Vandenburg’s face. She would also
‎discover that he resolved at that moment to give her something back. I often imagine him lying awake all that
‎night, pondering what he could possibly offer.
‎As it turned out, the gift was delivered on paper, just over a week later.
‎He would bring it to her in the early hours of morning, before retreating down the concrete steps to what he now
‎liked to call home.