Blond Hair, Blue Eyes, and Black Charcoal: Rudy Steiner’s Search for Identity

of charcoal contaminating his fingers. He covered everything, didn’t‎he? he thought. It’s even in his ears, for God’s sake. “Come on.”‎On the way home, Mr. Steiner decided to talk politics with the boy as‎best he could. Only in the years ahead would Rudy understand it all‎—when it was too late to bother understanding anything.‎THE CONTRADICTORY POLITICS‎OF ALEX STEINER‎Point One: He was a member of the Nazi Party, but he did not‎hate the Jews, or anyone else for that matter.‎Point Two: Secretly, though, he couldn’t help feeling a‎percentage of relief (or worse—gladness!) when Jewish shop‎owners were put out of business—propaganda informed him‎that it was only a matter of time before a plague of Jewish‎tailors showed up and stole his customers.‎Point Three: But did that mean they should be driven out‎completely?‎Point Four: His family. Surely, he had to do whatever he could to‎support them. If that meant being in the party, it meant being in‎the party.‎Point Five: Somewhere, far down, there was an itch in his heart,‎but he made it a point not to scratch it. He was afraid of what‎might come leaking out.‎They walked around a few corners onto Himmel Street, and Alex said,‎“Son, you can’t go around painting yourself black, you hear?”‎Rudy was interested, and confused. The moon was undone now,‎free to move and rise and fall and drip on the boy’s face, making him nice and murky, like his thoughts. “Why not, Papa?”‎“Because they’ll take you away.”‎“Why?”‎“Because you shouldn’t want to be like black people or Jewish‎people or anyone who is … not us.”‎“Who are Jewish people?”‎“You know my oldest customer, Mr. Kaufmann? Where we bought‎your shoes?”‎“Yes.”‎“Well, he’s Jewish.”‎“I didn’t know that. Do you have to pay to be Jewish? Do you need‎a license?”‎“No, Rudy.” Mr. Steiner was steering the bike with one hand and‎Rudy with the other. He was having trouble steering the‎conversation. He still hadn’t relinquished the hold on his son’s‎earlobe. 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 the‎ear.‎They walked on in silence for a while, until Rudy said, “I just wish I‎was like Jesse Owens, Papa.”‎This time, Mr. Steiner placed his hand on Rudy’s head and‎explained, “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 things‎to come. Two and a half years later, the Kaufmann Shoe Shop was‎reduced to broken glass, and all the shoes were flung aboard a truck‎in their boxes.People have defining moments, I suppose, especially when they’re‎children. For some it’s a Jesse Owens incident. For others it’s a‎moment of bed-wetting hysteria:‎It was late May 1939, and the night had been like most others. Mama‎shook her iron fist. Papa was out. Liesel cleaned the front door and‎watched the Himmel Street sky.‎Earlier, there had been a parade.‎The brown-shirted extremist members of the NSDAP (otherwise‎known as the Nazi Party) had marched down Munich Street, their‎banners worn proudly, their faces held high, as if on sticks. Their‎voices 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-armed‎salutes, others with hands that burned from applause. Some kept‎faces that were contorted by pride and rally like Frau Diller, and then‎there were the scatterings of odd men out, like Alex Steiner, who‎stood like a human-shaped block of wood, clapping slow and dutiful.‎And beautiful. Submission.‎On the footpath, Liesel stood with her papa and Rudy. Hans‎Hubermann wore a face with the shades pulled down.‎SOME CRUNCHED NUMBERS‎In 1933, 90 percent of Germans showed unflinching support for‎Adolf 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 the‎brownshirts marching, but soon enough, they led her to a train, and‎the usual discovery awaited. Her brother was staring again.‎When she woke up screaming, Liesel knew immediately that on this‎occasion, something had changed. A smell leaked out from under the‎sheets, warm and sickly. At first, she tried convincing herself that‎nothing had happened, but as Papa came closer and held her, she‎cried and admitted the fact in his ear.‎“Papa,” she whispered, “Papa,” and that was all. He could probably‎smell it.‎He lifted her gently from the bed and carried her into the‎washroom. The moment came a few minutes later.‎“We take the sheets off,” Papa said, and when he reached under and‎pulled at the fabric, something loosened and landed with a thud. A‎black book with silver writing on it came hurtling out and landed on‎the floor, between the tall man’s feet.‎He looked down at it.‎He looked at the girl, who timidly shrugged.‎Then he read the title, with concentration, aloud: “The Grave‎Digger’s Handbook.”‎So that’s what it’s called, Liesel thought.‎A patch of silence stood among them now. The man, the girl, the‎book. He picked it up and spoke soft as cotton.‎“Is this yours?”‎“Yes, Papa.”‎“Do you want to read it?”‎Again,‎“Yes, Papa.”‎A tired smile. Metallic eyes, melting.‎“Well, we’d better read it, then.”‎Four years later, when she came to write in the basement, two‎thoughts struck Liesel about the trauma of wetting the bed. First, she‎felt extremely lucky that it was Papa who discovered the book.‎(Fortunately, when the sheets had been washed previously, Rosa had‎made Liesel strip the bed and make it up. “And be quick about it,‎Saumensch! Does it look like we’ve got all day?”) Second, she was‎clearly proud of Hans Hubermann’s part in her education. You‎wouldn’t think it, she wrote, but it was not so much the school who helped‎me to read. It was Papa. People think he’s not so smart, and it’s true that‎he doesn’t read too fast, but I would soon learn that words and writing‎actually saved his life once. Or at least, words and a man who taught him‎the accordion …‎• • •‎“First things first,” Hans Hubermann said that night. He washed the‎sheets and hung them up. “Now,” he said upon his return. “Let’s get‎this midnight class started.”‎The yellow light was alive with dust.‎Liesel sat on cold clean sheets, ashamed, elated. The thought of‎bed-wetting prodded her, but she was going to read. She was going to‎read the book.‎The excitement stood up in her.‎Visions of a ten-year-old reading genius were set alight.‎If only it was that easy.