Betrayal and Guilt

All three people looked up and spoke.
‎“Hi, Liesel.”
‎“Here’s a brush, Liesel.”
‎“About time, Saumensch. Where have you been so long?”
‎As she started painting, Liesel thought about Max Vandenburg fighting the Führer, exactly as he’d explained it.
‎BASEMENT VISIONS, JUNE 1941
‎Punches are thrown, the crowd climbs out of
‎the walls. Max and the Führer fight for their
‎lives, each rebounding off the stairway.
‎There’s blood in the Führer’s mustache, as
‎well as in his part line, on the right side
‎of his head. “Come on, Führer,” says the
‎Jew. He waves him forward. “Come on, Führer. ”
‎When the visions dissipated and she finished her first page, Papa winked at her. Mama castigated her for
‎hogging the paint. Max examined each and every page, perhaps watching what he planned to produce on them.
‎Many months later, he would also paint over the cover of that book and give it a new title, after one of the
‎stories he would write and illustrate inside it.
‎That afternoon, in the secret ground below 33 Himmel Street, the Hubermanns, Liesel Meminger, and Max
‎Vandenburg prepared the pages of The Word Shaker.
‎It felt good to be a painter.
‎The Showdown: June 24
‎Then came the seventh side of the die. Two days after Germany invaded Russia. Three days before Britain and
‎the Soviets joined forces.
‎Seven.
‎You roll and watch it coming, realizing completely that this is no regular die. You claim it to be bad luck, but
‎you’ve known all along that it had to come. You brought it into the room. The table could smell it on your
‎breath. The Jew was sticking out of your pocket from the outset. He’s smeared to your lapel, and the moment
‎you roll, you know it’s a seven—the one thing that somehow finds a way to hurt you. It lands. It stares you in
‎each eye, miraculous and loathsome, and you turn away with it feeding on your chest.
‎Just bad luck.
‎That’s what you say.
‎Of no consequence.That’s what you make yourself believe—because deep down, you know that this small piece of changing
‎fortune is a signal of things to come. You hide a Jew. You pay. Somehow or other, you must.
‎In hindsight, Liesel told herself that it was not such a big deal. Perhaps it was because so much more had
‎happened by the time she wrote her story in the basement. In the great scheme of things, she reasoned that Rosa
‎being fired by the mayor and his wife was not bad luck at all. It had nothing whatsoever to do with hiding Jews.
‎It had everything to do with the greater context of the war. At the time, though, there was most definitely a
‎feeling of punishment.
‎The beginning was actually a week or so earlier than June 24. Liesel scavenged a newspaper for Max
‎Vandenburg as she always did. She reached into a garbage can just off Munich Street and tucked it under her
‎arm. Once she delivered it to Max and he’d commenced his first reading, he glanced across at her and pointed to
‎a picture on the front page. “Isn’t this whose washing and ironing you deliver?”
‎Liesel came over from the wall. She’d been writing the word argumentsix times, next to Max’s picture of the
‎ropy cloud and the dripping sun. Max handed her the paper and she confirmed it. “That’s him.”
‎When she went on to read the article, Heinz Hermann, the mayor, was quoted as saying that although the war
‎was progressing splendidly, the people of Molching, like all responsible Germans, should take adequate
‎measures and prepare for the possibility of harder times. “You never know,” he stated, “what our enemies are
‎thinking, or how they will try to debilitate us.”
‎A week later, the mayor’s words came to nasty fruition. Liesel, as she always did, showed up at Grande Strasse
‎and read from The Whistler on the floor of the mayor’s library. The mayor’s wife showed no signs of
‎abnormality (or, let’s be frank, no additional signs) until it was time to leave.
‎This time, when she offered Liesel The Whistler, she insisted on the girl taking it. “Please.” She almost begged.
‎The book was held out in a tight, measured fist. “Take it. Please, take it.”
‎Liesel, touched by the strangeness of this woman, couldn’t bear to disappoint her again. The gray-covered book
‎with its yellowing pages found its way into her hand and she began to walk the corridor. As she was about to
‎ask for the washing, the mayor’s wife gave her a final look of bathrobed sorrow. She reached into the chest of
‎drawers and withdrew an envelope. Her voice, lumpy from lack of use, coughed out the words. “I’m sorry. It’s
‎for your mama.”
‎Liesel stopped breathing.
‎She was suddenly aware of how empty her feet felt inside her shoes. Something ridiculed her throat. She
‎trembled. When finally she reached out and took possession of the letter, she noticed the sound of the clock in
‎the library. Grimly, she realized that clocks don’t make a sound that even remotely resembles ticking, tocking.
‎It was more the sound of a hammer, upside down, hacking methodically at the earth. It was the sound of a
‎grave. If only mine was ready now, she thought—because Liesel Meminger, at that moment, wanted to die.
‎When the others had canceled, it hadn’t hurt so much. There was always the mayor, his library, and her
‎connection with his wife. Also, this was the last one, the last hope, gone. This time, it felt like the greatest
‎betrayal.
‎How could she face her mama?
‎For Rosa, the few scraps of money had still helped in various alleyways. An extra handful of flour. A piece of
‎fat.Ilsa Hermann was dying now herself—to get rid of her. Liesel could see it somewhere in the way she hugged
‎the robe a little tighter. The clumsiness of sorrow still kept her at close proximity, but clearly, she wanted this to
‎be over. “Tell your mama,” she spoke again. Her voice was adjusting now, as one sentence turned into two.
‎“That we’re sorry.” She started shepherding the girl toward the door.
‎Liesel felt it now in the shoulders. The pain, the impact of final rejection.
‎That’s it? she asked internally. You just boot me out?
‎Slowly, she picked up her empty bag and edged toward the door. Once outside, she turned and faced the
‎mayor’s wife for the second to last time that day. She looked her in the eyes with an almost savage brand of
‎pride. “Danke schön,” she said, and Ilsa Hermann smiled in a rather useless, beaten way.
‎“If you ever want to come just to read,” the woman lied (or at least the girl, in her shocked, saddened state,
‎perceived it as a lie), “you’re very welcome.”
‎At that moment, Liesel was amazed by the width of the doorway. There was so much space. Why did people
‎need so much space to get through the door? Had Rudy been there, he’d have called her an idiot—it was to get
‎all their stuff inside.
‎“Goodbye,” the girl said, and slowly, with great morosity, the door was closed.
‎Liesel did not leave.
‎For a long time, she sat on the steps and watched Molching. It was neither warm nor cool and the town was
‎clear and still. Molching was in a jar.
‎She opened the letter. In it, Mayor Heinz Hermann diplomatically outlined exactly why he had to terminate the
‎services of Rosa Hubermann. For the most part, he explained that he would be a hypocrite if he maintained his
‎own small luxuries while advising others to prepare for harder times.
‎When she eventually stood and walked home, her moment of reaction came once again when she saw the
‎STEINER-SCHNEIDERMEISTERsign on Munich Street. Her sadness left her and she was overwhelmed with
‎anger. “That bastard mayor,” she whispered. “That pathetic woman.” The fact that harder times were coming
‎was surely the best reason for keeping Rosa employed, but no, they fired her. At any rate, she decided, they
‎could do their own blasted washing and ironing, like normal people. Like poor people.
‎In her hand, The Whistler tightened.
‎“So you give me the book,” the girl said, “for pity—to make yourself feel better. . . .” The fact that she’d also
‎been offered the book prior to that day mattered little.
‎She turned as she had once before and marched back to 8 Grande Strasse. The temptation to run was immense,
‎but she refrained so that she’d have enough in reserve for the words.
‎When she arrived, she was disappointed that the mayor himself was not there. No car was slotted nicely on the
‎side of the road, which was perhaps a good thing. Had it been there, there was no telling what she might have
‎done to it in this moment of rich versus poor.
‎Two steps at a time, she reached the door and banged it hard enough to hurt. She enjoyed the small fragments of
‎pain.Evidently, the mayor’s wife was shocked when she saw her again. Her fluffy hair was slightly wet and her
‎wrinkles widened when she noticed the obvious fury on Liesel’s usually pallid face. She opened her mouth, but
‎nothing came out, which was handy, really, for it was Liesel who possessed the talking.
‎“You think,” she said, “you can buy me off with this book?” Her voice, though shaken, hooked at the woman’s
‎throat. The glittering anger was thick and unnerving, but she toiled through it. She worked herself up even
‎further, to the point where she needed to wipe the tears from her eyes. “You give me this Saumensch of a book
‎and think it’ll make everything good when I go and tell my mama that we’ve just lost our last one? While you
‎sit here in your mansion?”
‎The mayor’s wife’s arms.
‎They hung.
‎Her face slipped.
‎Liesel, however, did not buckle. She sprayed her words directly into the woman’s eyes.
‎“You and your husband. Sitting up here.” Now she became spiteful. More spiteful and evil than she thought
‎herself capable.
‎The injury of words.
‎Yes, the brutality of words.
‎She summoned them from someplace she only now recognized and hurled them at Ilsa Hermann. “It’s about
‎time,” she informed her, “that you do your own stinking washing anyway. It’s about time you faced the fact that
‎your son is dead. He got killed! He got strangled and cut up more than twenty years ago! Or did he freeze to
‎death? Either way, he’s dead! He’s dead and it’s pathetic that you sit here shivering in your own house to suffer
‎for it. You think you’re the only one?”
‎Immediately.
‎Her brother was next to her.
‎He whispered for her to stop, but he, too, was dead, and not worth listening to.
‎He died in a train.
‎They buried him in the snow.
‎Liesel glanced at him, but she could not make herself stop. Not yet.
‎“This book,” she went on. She shoved the boy down the steps, making him fall. “I don’t want it.” The words
‎were quieter now, but still just as hot. She threw The Whistler at the woman’s slippered feet, hearing the clack
‎of it as it landed on the cement. “I don’t want your miserable book. . . .”
‎Now she managed it. She fell silent.
‎Her throat was barren now. No words for miles.Her brother, holding his knee, disappeared.
‎After a miscarriaged pause, the mayor’s wife edged forward and picked up the book. She was battered and
‎beaten up, and not from smiling this time. Liesel could see it on her face. Blood leaked from her nose and licked
‎at her lips. Her eyes had blackened. Cuts had opened up and a series of wounds were rising to the surface of her
‎skin. All from the words. From Liesel’s words.
‎Book in hand, and straightening from a crouch to a standing hunch, Ilsa Hermann began the process again of
‎saying sorry, but the sentence did not make it out.
‎Slap me, Liesel thought. Come on, slap me.
‎Ilsa Hermann didn’t slap her. She merely retreated backward, into the ugly air of her beautiful house, and
‎Liesel, once again, was left alone, clutching at the steps. She was afraid to turn around because she knew that
‎when she did, the glass casing of Molching had now been shattered, and she’d be glad of it.
‎As her last orders of business, she read the letter one more time, and when she was close to the gate, she
‎screwed it up as tightly as she could and threw it at the door, as if it were a rock. I have no idea what the book
‎thief expected, but the ball of paper hit the mighty sheet of wood and twittered back down the steps. It landed at
‎her feet.
‎“Typical,” she stated, kicking it onto the grass. “Useless.”
‎On the way home this time, she imagined the fate of that paper the next time it rained, when the mended glass
‎house of Molching was turned upside down. She could already see the words dissolving letter by letter, till there
‎was nothing left. Just paper. Just earth.
‎At home, as luck would have it, when Liesel walked through the door, Rosa was in the kitchen. “And?” she
‎asked. “Where’s the washing?”
‎“No washing today,” Liesel told her.
‎Rosa came and sat down at the kitchen table. She knew. Suddenly, she appeared much older. Liesel imagined
‎what she’d look like if she untied her bun, to let it fall out onto her shoulders. A gray towel of elastic hair.
‎“What did you do there, you little Saumensch?” The sentence was numb. She could not muster her usual
‎venom.
‎“It was my fault,” Liesel answered. “Completely. I insulted the mayor’s wife and told her to stop crying over
‎her dead son. I called her pathetic. That was when they fired you. Here.” She walked to the wooden spoons,
‎grabbed a handful, and placed them in front of her. “Take your pick.”
‎Rosa touched one and picked it up, but she did not wield it. “I don’t believe you.”
‎Liesel was torn between distress and total mystification. The one time she desperately wanted a Watschen and
‎she couldn’t get one! “It’s my fault.”
‎“It’s not your fault,” Mama said, and she even stood and stroked Liesel’s waxy, unwashed hair. “I know you
‎wouldn’t say those things.”
‎“I said them!”