Rudy’s Greed and Liesel’s Theft

‎“Hurry up,” Rudy warned her. But very calmly and cleanly, Liesel walked over, picked up the book, and made
‎her way cautiously out. Headfirst, she climbed from the window, managing to land on her feet again, feeling the
‎pang of pain once more, this time in her ankles.
‎“Come on,” Rudy implored her. “Run, run. Schnell!”
‎Once around the corner, on the road back down to the river and Munich Street, she stopped to bend over and
‎recover. Her body was folded in the middle, the air half frozen in her mouth, her heart tolling in her ears.
‎Rudy was the same.
‎When he looked over, he saw the book under her arm. He struggled to speak. “What’s”—he grappled with the
‎words—“with the book?”
‎The darkness was filling up truly now. Liesel panted, the air in her throat defrosting. “It was all I could find.”
‎Unfortunately, Rudy could smell it. The lie. He cocked his head and told her what he felt was a fact. “You
‎didn’t go in for food, did you? You got what you wanted. . . .”
‎Liesel straightened then and was overcome with the sickness of another realization.
‎The shoes.
‎She looked at Rudy’s feet, then at his hands, and at the ground all around him.
‎“What?” he asked. “What is it?”
‎“Saukerl,” she accused him. “Where are my shoes?” Rudy’s face whitened, which left her in no doubt.
‎“They’re back at the house,” she suggested, “aren’t they?”
‎Rudy searched desperately around himself, begging against all reality that he might have brought them with
‎him. He imagined himself picking them up, wishing it true—but the shoes were not there. They sat uselessly, or
‎actually, much worse, incriminatingly, by the wall at 8 Grande Strasse.
‎“Dummkopf !” he admonished himself, smacking his ear. He looked down shamefully at the sullen sight of
‎Liesel’s socks. “Idiot!” It didn’t take him long to decide on making it right. Earnestly, he said, “Just wait,” and
‎he hurried back around the corner.
‎“Don’t get caught,” Liesel called after him, but he didn’t hear.
‎The minutes were heavy while he was gone.
‎Darkness was now complete and Liesel was quite certain that a Watschen was most likely in the cards when she
‎returned home. “Hurry,” she murmured, but still Rudy didn’t appear. She imagined the sound of a police siren
‎throwing itself forward and reeling itself in. Collecting itself.
‎Still, nothing.
‎Only when she walked back to the intersection of the two streets in her damp, dirty socks did she see him.
‎Rudy’s triumphant face was held nicely up as he trotted steadily toward her. His teeth were gnashed into a grin,and the shoes dangled from his hand. “They nearly killed me,” he said, “but I made it.” Once they’d crossed the
‎river, he handed Liesel the shoes, and she threw them down.
‎Sitting on the ground, she looked up at her best friend. “Danke,” she said. “Thank you.”
‎Rudy bowed. “My pleasure.” He tried for a little more. “No point asking if I get a kiss for that, I guess?”
‎“For bringing my shoes, which you left behind?”
‎“Fair enough.” He held up his hands and continued speaking as they walked on, and Liesel made a concerted
‎effort to ignore him. She only heard the last part. “Probably wouldn’t want to kiss you anyway—not if your
‎breath’s anything like your shoes.”
‎“You disgust me,” she informed him, and she hoped he couldn’t see the escaped beginnings of a smile that had
‎fallen from her mouth.
‎On Himmel Street, Rudy captured the book. Under a lamppost, he read out the title and wondered what it was
‎about.
‎Dreamily, Liesel answered. “Just a murderer.”
‎“Is that all?”
‎“There’s also a policeman trying to catch him.”
‎Rudy handed it back. “Speaking of which, I think we’re both slightly in for it when we get home. You
‎especially.”
‎“Why me?”
‎“You know—your mama.”
‎“What about her?” Liesel was exercising the blatant right of every person who’s ever belonged to a family. It’s
‎all very well for such a person to whine and moan and criticize other family members, but they won’t let
‎anyone else do it. That’s when you get your back up and show loyalty. “Is there something wrong with her?”
‎Rudy backed away. “Sorry, Saumensch. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
‎Even in the night, Liesel could see that Rudy was growing. His face was lengthening. The blond shock of hair
‎was darkening ever so slightly and his features seemed to be changing shape. But there was one thing that
‎would never change. It was impossible to be angry at him for long.
‎“Anything good to eat at your place tonight?” he asked.
‎“I doubt it.”
‎“Me neither. It’s a shame you can’t eat books. Arthur Berg said something like that once. Remember?”
‎They recounted the good old days for the remainder of the walk, Liesel often glancing down at The Whistler, at
‎the gray cover and the black imprinted title.Before they went into their respective homes, Rudy stopped a moment and said, “Goodbye, Saumensch.” He
‎laughed. “Good night, book thief.”
‎It was the first time Liesel had been branded with her title, and she couldn’t hide the fact that she liked it very
‎much. As we’re both aware, she’d stolen books previously, but in late October 1941, it became official. That
‎night, Liesel Meminger truly became the book thief.The problem with Rudy’s first act was greed. It was a typically dreary afternoon in mid-November 1941.
‎Earlier, he’d woven through the women with their coupons quite brilliantly, almost, dare I say it, with a touch of
‎criminal genius. He nearly went completely unnoticed.
‎Inconspicuous as he was, however, he managed to take hold of the biggest potato of the lot—the very same one
‎that several people in the line had been watching. They all looked on as a thirteen-year-old fist rose up and
‎grabbed it. A choir of heavyset Helgas pointed him out, and Thomas Mamer came storming toward the dirty
‎fruit.
‎“Meine Erdäpfel,” he said. “My earth apples.”
‎The potato was still in Rudy’s hands (he couldn’t hold it in just the one), and the women gathered around him
‎like a troop of wrestlers. Some fast talking was required.
‎“My family,” Rudy explained. A convenient stream of clear fluid began to trickle from his nose. He made a
‎point of not wiping it away. “We’re all starving. My sister needed a new coat. The last one was stolen.”
‎Mamer was no fool. Still holding Rudy by the collar, he said, “And you plan to dress her with a potato?”
‎“No, sir.” He looked diagonally into the one eye he could see of his captor. Mamer was a barrel of a man, with
‎two small bullet holes to look out of. His teeth were like a soccer crowd, crammed in. “We traded all our points
‎for the coat three weeks ago and now we have nothing to eat.”
‎The grocer held Rudy in one hand and the potato in the other. He called out the dreaded word to his wife.
‎“Polizei.”
‎“No,” Rudy begged, “please.” He would tell Liesel later on that he was not the slightest bit afraid, but his heart
‎was certainly bursting at that moment, I’m sure. “Not the police. Please, not the police.”
‎“Polizei.” Mamer remained unmoved as the boy wriggled and fought with the air.
‎Also in the line that afternoon was a teacher, Herr Link. He was in the percentage of teachers at school who
‎were not priests or nuns. Rudy found him and accosted him in the eyes.
‎“Herr Link.” This was his last chance. “Herr Link, tell him, please. Tell him how poor I am.”
‎The grocer looked at the teacher with inquiring eyes.Herr Link stepped forward and said, “Yes, Herr Mamer. This boy is poor. He’s from Himmel Street.” The
‎crowd of predominantly women conferred at that point, knowing that Himmel Street was not exactly the
‎epitome of idyllic Molching living. It was well known as a relatively poor neighborhood. “He has eight brothers
‎and sisters.”
‎Eight!
‎Rudy had to hold back a smile, though he wasn’t in the clear yet. At least he had the teacher lying now. He’d
‎somehow managed to add three more children to the Steiner family.
‎“Often, he comes to school without breakfast,” and the crowd of women was conferring again. It was like a coat
‎of paint on the situation, adding a little extra potency and atmosphere.
‎“So that means he should be allowed to steal my potatoes?”
‎“The biggest one!” one of the women ejaculated.
‎“Keep quiet, Frau Metzing,” Mamer warned her, and she quickly settled down.
‎At first, all attention was on Rudy and the scruff of his neck. It then moved back and forth, from the boy to the
‎potato to Mamer—from best-looking to worst—and exactly what made the grocer decide in Rudy’s favor would
‎forever be unanswered.
‎Was it the pathetic nature of the boy?
‎The dignity of Herr Link?
‎The annoyance of Frau Metzing?
‎Whatever it was, Mamer dropped the potato back on the pile and dragged Rudy from his premises. He gave him
‎a good push with his right boot and said, “Don’t come back.”
‎From outside, Rudy looked on as Mamer reached the counter to serve his next customer with food and sarcasm.
‎“I wonder which potato you’re going to ask for,” he said, keeping one eye open for the boy.
‎For Rudy, it was yet another failure.
‎The second act of stupidity was equally dangerous, but for different reasons.
‎Rudy would finish this particular altercation with a black eye, cracked ribs, and a haircut.
‎Again, at the Hitler Youth meetings, Tommy Müller was having his problems, and Franz Deutscher was just
‎waiting for Rudy to step in. It didn’t take long.
‎Rudy and Tommy were given another comprehensive drill session while the others went inside to learn tactics.
‎As they ran in the cold, they could see the warm heads and shoulders through the windows. Even when they
‎joined the rest of the group, the drills weren’t quite finished. As Rudy slumped into the corner and flicked mud
‎from his sleeve at the window, Franz fired the Hitler Youth’s favorite question at him.
‎“When was our Führer, Adolf Hitler, born?”