The Weight of Secrets

She slept hard and long.
‎A hand woke her just after eight-thirty the next morning.
‎The voice at the end of it informed her that she would not be attending school that day. Apparently, she was
‎sick.
‎When she awoke completely, she watched the stranger in the bed opposite. The blanket showed only a nest of
‎lopsided hair at the top, and there was not a sound, as if he’d somehow trained himself even to sleep more
‎quietly. With great care, she walked the length of him, following Papa to the hall.
‎For the first time ever, the kitchen and Mama were dormant. It was a kind of bemused, inaugural silence. To
‎Liesel’s relief, it lasted only a few minutes.
‎There was food and the sound of eating.
‎Mama announced the day’s priority. She sat at the table and said, “Now listen, Liesel. Papa’s going to tell you
‎something today.” This was serious—she didn’t even say Saumensch. It was a personal feat of abstinence.
‎“He’ll talk to you and you have to listen. Is that clear?”
‎The girl was still swallowing.
‎“Is that clear, Saumensch?”
‎That was better.
‎The girl nodded.
‎When she reentered the bedroom to fetch her clothes, the body in the opposite bed had turned and curled up. It
‎was no longer a straight log but a kind of Z shape, reaching diagonally from corner to corner. Zigzagging the
‎bed.
‎She could see his face now, in the tired light. His mouth was open and his skin was the color of eggshells.
‎Whiskers coated his jaw and chin, and his ears were hard and flat. He had a small but misshapen nose.
‎“Liesel!”
‎She turned.
‎“Move it!”
‎She moved, to the washroom.
‎Once changed and in the hallway, she realized she would not be traveling far. Papa was standing in front of the
‎door to the basement. He smiled very faintly, lit the lamp, and led her down.
‎Among the mounds of drop sheets and the smell of paint, Papa told her to make herself comfortable. Ignited on
‎the walls were the painted words, learned in the past. “I need to tell you some things.”
‎Liesel sat on top of a meter-tall heap of drop sheets, Papa on a fifteen-liter paint can. For a few minutes, he
‎searched for the words. When they came, he stood to deliver them. He rubbed his eyes.“Liesel,” he said quietly, “I was never sure if any of this would happen, so I never told you. About me. About
‎the man upstairs.” He walked from one end of the basement to the other, the lamplight magnifying his shadow.
‎It turned him into a giant on the wall, walking back and forth.
‎When he stopped pacing, his shadow loomed behind him, watching. Someone was always watching.
‎“You know my accordion?” he said, and there the story began.
‎He explained World War I and Erik Vandenburg, and then the visit to the fallen soldier’s wife. “The boy who
‎came into the room that day is the man upstairs. Verstehst? Understand?”
‎The book thief sat and listened to Hans Hubermann’s story. It lasted a good hour, until the moment of truth,
‎which involved a very obvious and necessary lecture.
‎“Liesel, you must listen.” Papa made her stand up and held her hand.
‎They faced the wall.
‎Dark shapes and the practice of words.
‎Firmly, he held her fingers.
‎“Remember the Führer’s birthday—when we walked home from the fire that night? Remember what you
‎promised me?”
‎The girl concurred. To the wall, she said, “That I would keep a secret.”
‎“That’s right.” Between the hand-holding shadows, the painted words were scattered about, perched on their
‎shoulders, resting on their heads, and hanging from their arms. “Liesel, if you tell anyone about the man up
‎there, we will all be in big trouble.” He walked the fine line of scaring her into oblivion and soothing her
‎enough to keep her calm. He fed her the sentences and watched with his metallic eyes. Desperation and
‎placidity. “At the very least, Mama and I will be taken away.” Hans was clearly worried that he was on the
‎verge of frightening her too much, but he calculated the risk, preferring to err on the side of too much fear rather
‎than not enough. The girl’s compliance had to be an absolute, immutable fact.
‎Toward the end, Hans Hubermann looked at Liesel Meminger and made certain she was focused.
‎He gave her a list of consequences.
‎“If you tell anyone about that man . . .”
‎Her teacher.
‎Rudy.
‎It didn’t matter whom.
‎What mattered was that all were punishable.“For starters,” he said, “I will take each and every one of your books— and I will burn them.” It was callous.
‎“I’ll throw them in the stove or the fireplace.” He was certainly acting like a tyrant, but it was necessary.
‎“Understand?”
‎The shock made a hole in her, very neat, very precise.
‎Tears welled.
‎“Yes, Papa.”
‎“Next.” He had to remain hard, and he needed to strain for it. “They’ll take you away from me. Do you want
‎that?”
‎She was crying now, in earnest. “Nein.”
‎“Good.” His grip on her hand tightened. “They’ll drag that man up there away, and maybe Mama and me, too—
‎and we will never, ever come back.”
‎And that did it.
‎The girl began to sob so uncontrollably that Papa was dying to pull her into him and hug her tight. He didn’t.
‎Instead, he squatted down and watched her directly in the eyes. He unleashed his quietest words so far.
‎“Verstehst du mich?” Do you understand me?”
‎The girl nodded. She cried, and now, defeated, broken, her papa held her in the painted air and the kerosene
‎light.
‎“I understand, Papa, I do.”
‎Her voice was muffled against his body, and they stayed like that for a few minutes, Liesel with squashed
‎breath and Papa rubbing her back.
‎Upstairs, when they returned, they found Mama sitting in the kitchen, alone and pensive. When she saw them,
‎she stood and beckoned Liesel to come over, noticing the dried-up tears that streaked her. She brought the girl
‎into her and heaped a typically rugged embrace around her body. “Alles gut, Saumensch?”
‎She didn’t need an answer.
‎Everything was good.
‎But it was awful, too.Max Vandenburg slept for three days.
‎In certain excerpts of that sleep, Liesel watched him. You might say that by the third day it became an
‎obsession, to check on him, to see if he was still breathing. She could now interpret his signs of life, from the
‎movement of his lips, his gathering beard, and the twigs of hair that moved ever so slightly when his head
‎twitched in the dream state.
‎Often, when she stood over him, there was the mortifying thought that he had just woken up, his eyes splitting
‎open to view her—to watch her watching. The idea of being caught out plagued and enthused her at the same
‎time. She dreaded it. She invited it. Only when Mama called out to her could she drag herself away,
‎simultaneously soothed and disappointed that she might not be there when he woke.
‎Sometimes, close to the end of the marathon of sleep, he spoke.
‎There was a recital of murmured names. A checklist.
‎Isaac. Aunt Ruth. Sarah. Mama. Walter. Hitler.
‎Family, friend, enemy.
‎They were all under the covers with him, and at one point, he appeared to be struggling with himself. “Nein,”
‎he whispered. It was repeated seven times. “No.”
‎Liesel, in the act of watching, was already noticing the similarities between this stranger and herself. They both
‎arrived in a state of agitation on Himmel Street. They both nightmared.
‎When the time came, he awoke with the nasty thrill of disorientation. His mouth opened a moment after his
‎eyes and he sat up, right-angled.
‎“Ay!”
‎A patch of voice escaped his mouth.
‎When he saw the upside-down face of a girl above him, there was the fretful moment of unfamiliarity and the
‎grasp for recollection— to decode exactly where and when he was currently sitting. After a few seconds, he
‎managed to scratch his head (the rustle of kindling) and he looked at her. His movements were fragmented, and
‎now that they were open, his eyes were swampy and brown. Thick and heavy.
‎As a reflex action, Liesel backed away.
‎She was too slow.
‎The stranger reached out, his bed-warmed hand taking her by the forearm.
‎“Please.”His voice also held on, as if possessing fingernails. He pressed it into her flesh.
‎“Papa!” Loud.
‎“Please!” Soft.
‎It was late afternoon, gray and gleaming, but it was only dirty-colored light that was permitted entrance into the
‎room. It was all the fabric of the curtains allowed. If you’re optimistic, think of it as bronze.
‎When Papa came in, he first stood in the doorway and witnessed Max Vandenburg’s gripping fingers and his
‎desperate face. Both held on to Liesel’s arm. “I see you two have met,” he said.
‎Max’s fingers started cooling.