Rudy Steiner and Liesel Meminger

Rudy looked up. “Sorry?”
‎The question was repeated, and the very stupid Rudy Steiner, who knew all too well that it was April 20, 1889,
‎answered with the birth of Christ. He even threw in Bethlehem as an added piece of information.
‎Franz smeared his hands together.
‎A very bad sign.
‎He walked over to Rudy and ordered him back outside for some more laps of the field.
‎Rudy ran them alone, and after every lap, he was asked again the date of the Führer’s birthday. He did seven
‎laps before he got it right.
‎The major trouble occurred a few days after the meeting.
‎On Munich Street, Rudy noticed Deutscher walking along the footpath with some friends and felt the need to
‎throw a rock at him. You might well ask just what the hell he was thinking. The answer is, probably nothing at
‎all. He’d probably say that he was exercising his God-given right to stupidity. Either that, or the very sight of
‎Franz Deutscher gave him the urge to destroy himself.
‎The rock hit its mark on the spine, though not as hard as Rudy might have hoped. Franz Deutscher spun around
‎and looked happy to find him standing there, with Liesel, Tommy, and Tommy’s little sister, Kristina.
‎“Let’s run,” Liesel urged him, but Rudy didn’t move.
‎“We’re not at Hitler Youth now,” he informed her. The older boys had already arrived. Liesel remained next to
‎her friend, as did the twitching Tommy and the delicate Kristina.
‎“Mr. Steiner,” Franz declared, before picking him up and throwing him to the pavement.
‎When Rudy stood up, it served only to infuriate Deutscher even more. He brought him to the ground for a
‎second time, following him down with a knee to the rib cage.
‎Again, Rudy stood up, and the group of older boys laughed now at their friend. This was not the best news for
‎Rudy. “Can’t you make him feel it?” the tallest of them said. His eyes were as blue and cold as the sky, and the
‎words were all the incentive Franz needed. He was determined that Rudy would hit the ground and stay there.
‎A larger crowd made its way around them as Rudy swung at Franz Deutscher’s stomach, missing him
‎completely. Simultaneously, he felt the burning sensation of a fist on his left eye socket. It arrived with sparks,
‎and he was on the ground before he even realized. He was punched again, in the same place, and he could feel
‎the bruise turn yellow and blue and black all at once. Three layers of exhilarating pain.
‎The developing crowd gathered and leered to see if Rudy might get up again. He didn’t. This time, he remained
‎on the cold, wet ground, feeling it rise through his clothes and spread itself out.
‎The sparks were still in his eyes, and he didn’t notice until it was too late that Franz now stood above him with a
‎brand-new pocketknife, about to crouch down and cut him.
‎“No!” Liesel protested, but the tall one held her back. In her ear, his words were deep and old.“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “He won’t do it. He doesn’t have the guts.”
‎He was wrong.
‎Franz merged into a kneeling position as he leaned closer to Rudy and whispered:
‎“When was our Führer born?” Each word was carefully created and fed into his ear. “Come on, Rudy, when
‎was he born? You can tell me, everything’s fine, don’t be afraid.”
‎And Rudy?
‎How did he reply?
‎Did he respond prudently, or did he allow his stupidity to sink himself deeper into the mire?
‎He looked happily into the pale blue eyes of Franz Deutscher and whispered, “Easter Monday.”
‎Within a few seconds, the knife was applied to his hair. It was haircut number two in this section of Liesel’s
‎life. The hair of a Jew was cut with rusty scissors. Her best friend was taken to with a gleaming knife. She knew
‎nobody who actually paid for a haircut.
‎As for Rudy, so far this year he’d swallowed mud, bathed himself in fertilizer, been half-strangled by a
‎developing criminal, and was now receiving something at least nearing the icing on the cake— public
‎humiliation on Munich Street.
‎For the most part, his fringe was sliced away freely, but with each stroke, there were always a few hairs that
‎held on for dear life and were pulled out completely. As each one was plucked, Rudy winced, his black eye
‎throbbing in the process and his ribs flashing in pain.
‎“April twentieth, eighteen eighty-nine!” Franz lectured him, and when he led his cohorts away, the audience
‎dispersed, leaving only Liesel, Tommy, and Kristina with their friend.
‎Rudy lay quietly on the ground, in the rising damp.
‎Which leaves us only with stupid act number three—skipping the Hitler Youth meetings.
‎He didn’t stop going right away, purely to show Deutscher that he wasn’t afraid of him, but after another few
‎weeks, Rudy ceased his involvement altogether.
‎Dressed proudly in his uniform, he exited Himmel Street and kept walking, his loyal subject, Tommy, by his
‎side.
‎Instead of attending the Hitler Youth, they walked out of town and along the Amper, skipping stones, heaving
‎enormous rocks into the water, and generally getting up to no good. He made sure to get the uniform dirty
‎enough to fool his mother, at least until the first letter arrived. That was when he heard the dreaded call from the
‎kitchen.
‎First, his parents threatened him. He didn’t attend.
‎They begged him to go. He refused.Eventually, it was the opportunity to join a different division that swayed Rudy in the right direction. This was
‎fortunate, because if he didn’t show his face soon, the Steiners would be fined for his non-attendance. His older
‎brother, Kurt, inquired as to whether Rudy might join the Flieger Division, which specialized in the teaching of
‎aircraft and flying. Mostly, they built model airplanes, and there was no Franz Deutscher. Rudy accepted, and
‎Tommy also joined. It was the one time in his life that his idiotic behavior delivered beneficial results.
‎In his new division, whenever he was asked the famous Führer question, Rudy would smile and answer, “April
‎20, 1889,” and then to Tommy, he’d whisper a different date, like Beethoven’s birthday, or Mozart’s, or
‎Strauss’s. They’d been learning about composers in school, where despite his obvious stupidity, Rudy excelled.At the beginning of December, victory finally came to Rudy Steiner, though not in a typical fashion.
‎It was a cold day, but very still. It had come close to snowing.
‎After school, Rudy and Liesel stopped in at Alex Steiner’s shop, and as they walked home, they saw Rudy’s old
‎friend Franz Deutscher coming around the corner. Liesel, as was her habit these days, was carrying The
‎Whistler. She liked to feel it in her hand. Either the smooth spine or the rough edges of paper. It was she who
‎saw him first.
‎“Look.” She pointed. Deutscher was loping toward them with another Hitler Youth leader.
‎Rudy shrank into himself. He felt at his mending eye. “Not this time.” He searched the streets. “If we go past
‎the church, we can follow the river and cut back that way.”
‎With no further words, Liesel followed him, and they successfully avoided Rudy’s tormentor—straight into the
‎path of another.
‎At first, they thought nothing of it.
‎The group crossing the bridge and smoking cigarettes could have been anybody, and it was too late to turn
‎around when the two parties recognized each other.
‎“Oh, no, they’ve seen us.”
‎Viktor Chemmel smiled.
‎He spoke very amiably. This could only mean that he was at his most dangerous. “Well, well, if it isn’t Rudy
‎Steiner and his little whore.” Very smoothly, he met them and snatched The Whistler from Liesel’s grip. “What
‎are we reading?”
‎“This is between us.” Rudy tried to reason with him. “It has nothing to do with her. Come on, give it back.”
‎“The Whistler.” He addressed Liesel now. “Any good?”
‎She cleared her throat. “Not bad.” Unfortunately, she gave herself away. In the eyes. They were agitated. She
‎knew the exact moment when Viktor Chemmel established that the book was a prize possession.
‎“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “For fifty marks, you can have it back.”
‎“Fifty marks!” That was Andy Schmeikl. “Come on, Viktor, you could buy a thousand books for that.”
‎“Did I ask you to speak?”
‎Andy kept quiet. His mouth seemed to swing shut.
‎Liesel tried a poker face. “You can keep it, then. I’ve already read it.” “What happens at the end?”
‎Damn it!
‎She hadn’t gotten that far yet.
‎She hesitated, and Viktor Chemmel deciphered it instantly.
‎Rudy rushed at him now. “Come on, Viktor, don’t do this to her. It’s me you’re after. I’ll do anything you
‎want.”
‎The older boy only swatted him away, the book held aloft. And he corrected him.
‎“No,” he said. “I’ll do anything I want,” and he proceeded to the river. Everyone followed, at catch-up speed.
‎Half walk, half run. Some protested. Some urged him on.
‎It was so quick, and relaxed. There was a question, and a mocking, friendly voice.
‎“Tell me,” Viktor said. “Who was the last Olympic discus champion, in Berlin?” He turned to face them. He
‎warmed up his arm. “Who was it? Goddamn it, it’s on the tip of my tongue. It was that American, wasn’t it?
‎Carpenter or something . . .”
‎“Please!”—Rudy.
‎The water toppled.
‎Viktor Chemmel did the spin.
‎The book was released gloriously from his hand. It opened and flapped, the pages rattling as it covered ground
‎in the air. More abruptly than expected, it stopped and appeared to be sucked toward the water. It clapped when
‎it hit the surface and began to float downstream.
‎Viktor shook his head. “Not enough height. A poor throw.” He smiled again. “But still good enough to win,
‎huh?”
‎Liesel and Rudy didn’t stick around to hear the laughter.
‎Rudy in particular had taken off down the riverbank, attempting to locate the book.
‎“Can you see it?” Liesel called out.
‎Rudy ran.
‎He continued down the water’s edge, showing her the book’s location. “Over there!” He stopped and pointed
‎and ran farther down to overtake it. Soon, he peeled off his coat and jumped in, wading to the middle of the
‎river.
‎Liesel, slowing to a walk, could see the ache of each step. The painful cold.