“What was that, Saumensch?”“Nothing, Mama.”Papa grinned and pointed at the girl. “Book, sandpaper, pencil,” heordered her, “and accordion!” once she was already gone. Soon, theywere on Himmel Street, carrying the words, the music, the washing.As they walked toward Frau Diller’s, they turned around a few timesto see if Mama was still at the gate, checking on them. She was. Atone point, she called out, “Liesel, hold that ironing straight! Don’tcrease it!”“Yes, Mama!”A few steps later: “Liesel, are you dressed warm enough?!”“What did you say?”“Saumensch dreckiges, you never hear anything! Are you dressedwarm enough? It might get cold later!”Around the corner, Papa bent down to do up a shoelace. “Liesel,”he said, “could you roll me a cigarette?”Nothing would give her greater pleasure.Once the ironing was delivered, they made their way back to theAmper River, which flanked the town. It worked its way past,pointing in the direction of Dachau, the concentration camp.There was a wooden-planked bridge.They sat maybe thirty meters down from it, in the grass, writing thewords and reading them aloud, and when darkness was near, Hanspulled out the accordion. Liesel looked at him and listened, thoughshe did not immediately notice the perplexed expression on herpapa’s face that evening as he played.PAPA’S FACEIt traveled and wondered, but it disclosed no answers.There had been a change in him. A slight shift.She saw it but didn’t realize until later, when all the stories cametogether. She didn’t see him watching as he played, having no ideathat Hans Hubermann’s accordion was a story. In the times ahead,that story would arrive at 33 Himmel Street in the early hours ofmorning, wearing ruffled shoulders and a shivering jacket. It wouldcarry a suitcase, a book, and two questions. A story. Story after story.Story within story.For now, there was only the one as far as Liesel was concerned, andshe was enjoying it.She settled into the long arms of grass, lying back.She closed her eyes and her ears held the notes.There were, of course, some problems as well. A few times, Papanearly yelled at her. “Come on, Liesel,” he’d say. “You know thisword; you know it!” Just when progress seemed to be flowing well,somehow things would become lodged.When the weather was good, they’d go to the Amper in theafternoon. In bad weather, it was the basement. This was mainly onaccount of Mama. At first, they tried in the kitchen, but there was noway.“Rosa,” Hans said to her at one point. Quietly, his words cutthrough one of her sentences. “Could you do me a favor?”She looked up from the stove. “What?”“I’m asking you, I’m begging you, could you please shut your mouthfor just five minutes?”You can imagine the reaction.They ended up in the basement.There was no lighting there, so they took a kerosene lamp, andslowly, between school and home, from the river to the basement,from the good days to the bad, Liesel was learning to read and write.“Soon,” Papa told her, “you’ll be able to read that awful gravesbook with your eyes closed.”“And I can get out of that midget class.”She spoke those words with a grim kind of ownership.In one of their basement sessions, Papa dispensed with the sandpaper(it was running out fast) and pulled out a brush. There were fewluxuries in the Hubermann household, but there was an oversupply ofpaint, and it became more than useful for Liesel’s learning. Papawould say a word and the girl would have to spell it aloud and thenpaint it on the wall, as long as she got it right. After a month, the wallwas recoated. A fresh cement page.Some nights, after working in the basement, Liesel would sit crouchedin the bath and hear the same utterances from the kitchen.“You stink,” Mama would say to Hans. “Like cigarettes andkerosene.”Sitting in the water, she imagined the smell of it, mapped out onher papa’s clothes. More than anything, it was the smell of friendship,and she could find it on herself, too. Liesel loved that smell. Shewould sniff her arm and smile as the water cooled around her.The summer of ’39 was in a hurry, or perhaps Liesel was. She spenther time playing soccer with Rudy and the other kids on HimmelStreet (a year-round pastime), taking ironing around town withMama, and learning words. It felt like it was over a few days after itbegan.In the latter part of the year, two things happened.SEPTEMBER-NOVEMBER 19391. World War Two begins.2. Liesel Meminger becomes the heavyweight champion of theschool yard.The beginning of September.It was a cool day in Molching when the war began and myworkload increased.The world talked it over.Newspaper headlines reveled in it.The Führer’s voice roared from German radios. We will not give up.We will not rest. We will be victorious. Our time has come.The German invasion of Poland had begun and people weregathered everywhere, listening to the news of it. Munich Street, likeevery other main street in Germany, was alive with war. The smell,the voice. Rationing had begun a few days earlier—the writing on thewall—and now it was official. England and France had made theirdeclaration on Germany. To steal a phrase from Hans Hubermann The fun begins.The day of the announcement, Papa was lucky enough to have somework. On his way home, he picked up a discarded newspaper, andrather than stopping to shove it between paint cans in his cart, hefolded it up and slipped it beneath his shirt. By the time he made ithome and removed it, his sweat had drawn the ink onto his skin. Thepaper landed on the table, but the news was stapled to his chest. Atattoo. Holding the shirt open, he looked down in the unsure kitchenlight.“What does it say?” Liesel asked him. She was looking back andforth, from the black outlines on his skin to the paper.“ ‘Hitler takes Poland,’ ” he answered, and Hans Hubermannslumped into a chair. “Deutschland über Alles,” he whispered, and hisvoice was not remotely patriotic.The face was there again—his accordion face.That was one war started.Liesel would soon be in another.Nearly a month after school resumed, she was moved up to herrightful year level. You might think this was due to her improvedreading, but it wasn’t. Despite the advancement, she still read withgreat difficulty. Sentences were strewn everywhere. Words fooled her.The reason she was elevated had more to do with the fact that shebecame disruptive in the younger class. She answered questionsdirected to other children and called out. A few times, she was givenwhat was known as a Watschen (pronounced “varchen”) in thecorridor.