More Than Words: The Symbolism of Sandpaper and Sketches in Markus Zusak’s Classic

“To tell you the truth,” Papa explained upfront, “I am not such a good‎reader myself.”‎But it didn’t matter that he read slowly. If anything, it might have‎helped that his own reading pace was slower than average. Perhaps it‎would cause less frustration in coping with the girl’s lack of ability.‎Still, initially, Hans appeared a little uncomfortable holding the‎book and looking through it.‎When he came over and sat next to her on the bed, he leaned back,‎his legs angling over the side. He examined the book again and‎dropped it on the blanket. “Now why would a nice girl like you want‎to read such a thing?”‎Again, Liesel shrugged. Had the apprentice been reading the‎complete works of Goethe or any other such luminary, that was what‎would have sat in front of them. She attempted to explain. “I—when‎… It was sitting in the snow, and—” The soft-spoken words fell off‎the side of the bed, emptying to the floor like powder.‎Papa knew what to say, though. He always knew what to say.‎He ran a hand through his sleepy hair and said, “Well, promise me‎one thing, Liesel. If I die anytime soon, you make sure they bury me‎right.”‎She nodded, with great sincerity.‎“No skipping chapter six or step four in chapter nine.” He laughed,‎as did the bed wetter. “Well, I’m glad that’s settled. We can get on‎with it now.”‎He adjusted his position and his bones creaked like itchy‎floorboards. “The fun begins.”‎Amplified by the still of night, the book opened—a gust of wind.‎Looking back, Liesel could tell exactly what her papa was thinking‎when he scanned the first page of The Grave Digger’s Handbook. As he‎realized the difficulty of the text, he was clearly aware that such a‎book was hardly ideal. There were words in there that he’d have trouble with himself. Not to mention the morbidity of the subject. As‎for the girl, there was a sudden desire to read it that she didn’t even‎attempt to understand. On some level, perhaps she wanted to make‎sure her brother was buried right. Whatever the reason, her hunger to‎read that book was as intense as any ten-year-old human could‎experience.‎Chapter one was called “The First Step: Choosing the Right‎Equipment.” In a short introductory passage, it outlined the kind of‎material to be covered in the following twenty pages. Types of‎shovels, picks, gloves, and so forth were itemized, as well as the vital‎need to properly maintain them. This grave digging was serious.‎As Papa flicked through it, he could surely feel Liesel’s eyes on him.‎They reached over and gripped him, waiting for something, anything,‎to slip from his lips.‎“Here.” He shifted again and handed her the book. “Look at this‎page and tell me how many words you can read.”‎She looked at it—and lied.‎“About half.”‎“Read some for me.” But of course, she couldn’t. When he made her‎point out any words she could read and actually say them, there were‎only three—the three main German words for “the.” The whole page‎must have had two hundred words on it.‎This might be harder than I thought.‎She caught him thinking it, just for a moment.‎He lifted himself forward, rose to his feet, and walked out.‎This time, when he came back, he said, “Actually, I have a better‎idea.” In his hand, there was a thick painter’s pencil and a stack of‎sandpaper. “Let’s start from scratch.” Liesel saw no reason to argue.‎In the left corner of an upturned piece of sandpaper, he drew a‎square of perhaps an inch and shoved a capital A inside it. In the‎other corner, he placed a lowercase one. So far, so good.A,” Liesel said.‎“A for what?”‎She smiled. “Apfel.”‎He wrote the word in big letters and drew a misshapen apple under‎it. He was a housepainter, not an artist. When it was complete, he‎looked over and said, “Now for B.”‎As they progressed through the alphabet, Liesel’s eyes grew larger.‎She had done this at school, in the kindergarten class, but this time‎was better. She was the only one there, and she was not gigantic. It‎was nice to watch Papa’s hand as he wrote the words and slowly‎constructed the primitive sketches.‎“Ah, come on, Liesel,” he said when she struggled later on.‎“Something that starts with S. It’s easy. I’m very disappointed in you.”‎She couldn’t think.‎“Come on!” His whisper played with her. “Think of Mama.”‎That was when the word struck her face like a slap. A reflex grin.‎“SAUMENSCH!” she shouted, and Papa roared with laughter, then‎quieted.‎“Shhh, we have to be quiet.” But he roared all the same and wrote‎the word, completing it with one of his sketches.‎ATYPICAL HANS HUBERMANN‎ARTWORK‎“Papa!” she whispered. “I have no eyes!” He patted the girl’s hair. She’d fallen into his trap. “With a smile‎like that,” Hans Hubermann said, “you don’t need eyes.” He hugged‎her and then looked again at the picture, with a face of warm silver.‎“Now for T.”‎With the alphabet completed and studied a dozen times, Papa leaned‎over and said, “Enough for tonight?”‎“A few more words?”‎He was definite. “Enough. When you wake up, I’ll play accordion‎for you.”‎“Thanks, Papa.”‎“Good night.” A quiet, one-syllable laugh. “Good night, Saumensch.”‎“Good night, Papa.”‎He switched off the light, came back, and sat in the chair. In the‎darkness, Liesel kept her eyes open. She was watching the words.It continued.‎Over the next few weeks and into summer, the midnight class‎began at the end of each nightmare. There were two more bedwetting occurrences, but Hans Hubermann merely repeated his‎previous cleanup heroics and got down to the task of reading,‎sketching, and reciting. In the morning’s early hours, quiet voices‎were loud.‎On a Thursday, just after 3 p.m., Mama told Liesel to get ready to‎come with her and deliver some ironing. Papa had other ideas.‎He walked into the kitchen and said, “Sorry, Mama, she’s not going‎with you today.”‎Mama didn’t even bother looking up from the washing bag. “Who‎asked you, Arschloch? Come on, Liesel.”‎“She’s reading,” he said. Papa handed Liesel a steadfast smile and a‎wink. “With me. I’m teaching her. We’re going to the Amper—‎upstream, where I used to practice the accordion.”‎Now he had her attention.‎Mama placed the washing on the table and eagerly worked herself‎up to the appropriate level of cynicism. “What did you say?”‎“I think you heard me, Rosa.”‎Mama laughed. “What the hell could you teach her?” A cardboard‎grin. Uppercut words. “Like you could read so much, you Saukerl.”‎The kitchen waited. Papa counterpunched. “We’ll take your ironing‎for you.”‎“You filthy—” She stopped. The words propped in her mouth as she‎considered it. “Be back before dark.”‎“We can’t read in the dark, Mama,” Liesel said.