From Molching to Stalingrad: The Tragic Foreshadowing of Hans Junior

“Some of it’s missing.” Mama counted the money a fourth time, with Liesel over at the stove. It was warm there‎and it cooked the fast flow of her blood. “What happened, Liesel?”‎She lied. “They must have given me less than usual.”‎“Did you count it?”‎She broke. “I spent it, Mama.”‎Rosa came closer. This was not a good sign. She was very close to the wooden spoons. “You what?”‎Before she could answer, the wooden spoon came down on Liesel Meminger’s body like the gait of God. Red‎marks like footprints, and they burned. From the floor, when it was over, the girl actually looked up and‎explained.‎There was pulse and yellow light, all together. Her eyes blinked. “I mailed my letters.”‎What came to her then was the dustiness of the floor, the feeling that her clothes were more next to her than on‎her, and the sudden realization that this would all be for nothing—that her mother would never write back and‎she would never see her again. The reality of this gave her a second Watschen. It stung her, and it did not stop‎for many minutes.‎Above her, Rosa appeared to be smudged, but she soon clarified as her cardboard face loomed closer. Dejected,‎she stood there in all her plumpness, holding the wooden spoon at her side like a club. She reached down and‎leaked a little. “I’m sorry, Liesel.”‎Liesel knew her well enough to understand that it was not for the hiding.‎The red marks grew larger, in patches on her skin, as she lay there, in the dust and the dirt and the dim light. Her‎breathing calmed, and a stray yellow tear trickled down her face. She could feel herself against the floor. A‎forearm, a knee. An elbow. A cheek. A calf muscle.‎The floor was cold, especially against her cheek, but she was unable to move.‎She would never see her mother again.‎For nearly an hour, she remained, spread out under the kitchen table, till Papa came home and played the‎accordion. Only then did she sit up and start to recover.‎When she wrote about that night, she held no animosity toward Rosa Hubermann at all, or toward her mother‎for that matter. To her, they were only victims of circumstance. The only thought that continually recurred was‎the yellow tear. Had it been dark, she realized, that tear would have been black.‎But it was dark, she told herself.‎No matter how many times she tried to imagine that scene with the yellow light that she knew had been there,‎she had to struggle to visualize it. She was beaten in the dark, and she had remained there, on a cold, dark‎kitchen floor. Even Papa’s music was the color of darkness.‎Even Papa’s music.The strange thing was that she was vaguely comforted by that thought, rather than distressed by it.‎The dark, the light.‎What was the difference?‎Nightmares had reinforced themselves in each, as the book thief began to truly understand how things were and‎how they would always be. If nothing else, she could prepare herself. Perhaps that’s why on the Führer ’s‎birthday, when the answer to the question of her mother’s suffering showed itself completely, she was able to‎react, despite her perplexity and her rage.‎Liesel Meminger was ready.‎Happy birthday, Herr Hitler.‎Many happy returns.Against all hopelessness, Liesel still checked the mailbox each afternoon, throughout March and well into April.‎This was despite a Hans-requested visit from Frau Heinrich, who explained to the Hubermanns that the foster‎care office had lost contact completely with Paula Meminger. Still, the girl persisted, and as you might expect,‎each day, when she searched the mail, there was nothing.‎Molching, like the rest of Germany, was in the grip of preparing for Hitler’s birthday. This particular year, with‎the development of the war and Hitler’s current victorious position, the Nazi partisans of Molching wanted the‎celebration to be especially befitting. There would be a parade. Marching. Music. Singing. There would be a‎fire.‎While Liesel walked the streets of Molching, picking up and delivering washing and ironing, Nazi Party‎members were accumulating fuel. A couple of times, Liesel was a witness to men and women knocking on‎doors, asking people if they had any material that they felt should be done away with or destroyed. Papa’s copy‎of the Molching Express announced that there would be a celebratory fire in the town square, which would be‎attended by all local Hitler Youth divisions. It would commemorate not only the Führer’s birthday, but the‎victory over his enemies and over the restraints that had held Germany back since the end of World War I.‎“Any materials,” it requested, “from such times—newspapers, posters, books, flags—and any found‎propaganda of our enemies should be brought forward to the Nazi Party office on Munich Street.” Even Schiller‎Strasse—the road of yellow stars—which was still awaiting its renovation, was ransacked one last time, to find‎something, anything, to burn in the name of the Führer’s glory. It would have come as no surprise if certain‎members of the party had gone away and published a thousand or so books or posters of poisonous moral matter‎simply to incinerate them.‎Everything was in place to make April 20 magnificent. It would be a day full of burning and cheering.‎And book thievery.‎In the Hubermann household that morning, all was typical.‎“That Saukerl ’s looking out the window again,” cursed Rosa Hubermann. “Every day,” she went on. “What are‎you looking at this time?”‎“Ohhh,” moaned Papa with delight. The flag cloaked his back from the top of the window. “You should have a‎look at this woman I can see.” He glanced over his shoulder and grinned at Liesel. “I might just go and run after‎her. She leaves you for dead, Mama.”‎“Schwein!” She shook the wooden spoon at him.‎Papa continued looking out the window, at an imaginary woman and a very real corridor of German flags.‎On the streets of Molching that day, each window was decorated for the Führer. In some places, like Frau‎Diller’s, the glass was vigorously washed, and the swastika looked like a jewel on a red-and-white blanket. In‎others, the flag trundled from the ledge like washing hung out to dry. But it was there.‎Earlier, there had been a minor calamity. The Hubermanns couldn’t find their flag.“They’ll come for us,” Mama warned her husband. “They’ll come and take us away.” They. “We have to find‎it!” At one point, it seemed like Papa might have to go down to the basement and paint a flag on one of his drop‎sheets. Thankfully, it turned up, buried behind the accordion in the cupboard.‎“That infernal accordion, it was blocking my view!” Mama swiveled. “Liesel!”‎The girl had the honor of pinning the flag to the window frame.‎Hans Junior and Trudy came home for the afternoon eating, like they did at Christmas or Easter. Now seems‎like a good time to introduce them a little more comprehensively:‎Hans Junior had the eyes of his father and the height. The silver in his eyes, however, wasn’t warm, like Papa’s‎—they’d been Führer ed. There was more flesh on his bones, too, and he had prickly blond hair and skin like‎off-white paint.‎Trudy, or Trudel, as she was often known, was only a few inches taller than Mama. She had cloned Rosa‎Hubermann’s unfortunate, waddlesome walking style, but the rest of her was much milder. Being a live-in‎housemaid in a wealthy part of Munich, she was most likely bored of children, but she was always capable of at‎least a few smiled words in Liesel’s direction. She had soft lips. A quiet voice.‎They came home together on the train from Munich, and it didn’t take long for old tensions to rise up.‎A SHORT HISTORY OF‎HANS HUBERMANN VS. HIS SON‎The young man was a Nazi; his father was not. In the opinion of Hans Junior, his father was part of an‎old, decrepit Germany— one that allowed everyone else to take it for the proverbial ride while its own‎people suffered. As a teenager, he was aware that‎his father had been called “Der Fuden Maler”—the Jew painter—for painting Jewish houses. Then came‎an incident I’ll fully present to you soon enough—the day Hans blew it, on the verge of joining the party.‎Everyone knew you weren’t supposed to paint over slurs written on a Jewish shop front. Such behavior‎was bad for Germany, and it was bad for the transgressor.‎“So have they let you in yet?” Hans Junior was picking up where they’d left off at Christmas.‎“In what?”‎“Take a guess—the party.”‎“No, I think they’ve forgotten about me.”‎“Well, have you even tried again? You can’t just sit around waiting for the new world to take it with you. You‎have to go out and be part of it—despite your past mistakes.”‎Papa looked up. “Mistakes? I’ve made many mistakes in my life, but not joining the Nazi Party isn’t one of‎them. They still have my application—you know that—but I couldn’t go back to ask. I just . . .”‎That was when a great shiver arrived.It waltzed through the window with the draft. Perhaps it was the breeze of the Third Reich, gathering even‎greater strength. Or maybe it was just Europe again, breathing. Either way, it fell across them as their metallic‎eyes clashed like tin cans in the kitchen.‎“You’ve never cared about this country,” said Hans Junior. “Not enough, anyway.”‎Papa’s eyes started corroding. It did not stop Hans Junior. He looked now for some reason at the girl. With her‎three books standing upright on the table, as if in conversation, Liesel was silently mouthing the words as she‎read from one of them. “And what trash is this girl reading? She should be reading Mein Kampf. ”‎Liesel looked up.‎“Don’t worry, Liesel,” Papa said. “Just keep reading. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”‎But Hans Junior wasn’t finished. He stepped closer and said, “You’re either for the Führer or against him—and‎I can see that you’re against him. You always have been.” Liesel watched Hans Junior in the face, fixated on the‎thinness of his lips and the rocky line of his bottom teeth. “It’s pathetic—how a man can stand by and do‎nothing as a whole nation cleans out the garbage and makes itself great.”‎Trudy and Mama sat silently, scaredly, as did Liesel. There was the smell of pea soup, something burning, and‎confrontation.‎They were all waiting for the next words.‎They came from the son. Just two of them.‎“You coward.” He upturned them into Papa’s face, and he promptly left the kitchen, and the house.‎Ignoring futility, Papa walked to the doorway and called out to his son. “Coward? I’m the coward?!” He then‎rushed to the gate and ran pleadingly after him. Mama hurried to the window, ripped away the flag, and opened‎up. She, Trudy, and Liesel all crowded together, watching a father catch up to his son and grab hold of him,‎begging him to stop. They could hear nothing, but the manner in which Hans Junior shrugged loose was loud‎enough. The sight of Papa watching him walk away roared at them from up the street.‎“Hansi!” Mama finally cried out. Both Trudy and Liesel flinched from her voice. “Come back!”‎The boy was gone.‎Yes, the boy was gone, and I wish I could tell you that everything worked out for the younger Hans‎Hubermann, but it didn’t.‎When he vanished from Himmel Street that day in the name of the Führer, he would hurtle through the events‎of another story, each step leading tragically to Russia.‎To Stalingrad.‎SOME FACTS ABOUT STALINGRAD‎1. In 1942 and early ’43, in that city, the sky was bleached bedsheet-white each morning.‎2. All day long, as I carried the souls across it, that sheet was splashed with blood, until it was full and‎bulging to the earth.