Viktor Chemmel’s Cruelty and Max’s Secret Book

When it came to stealing, Liesel and Rudy first stuck with the idea that there was safety in numbers. Andy
‎Schmeikl invited them to the river for a meeting. Among other things, a game plan for fruit stealing would be
‎on the agenda.
‎“So are you the leader now?” Rudy had asked, but Andy shook his head, heavy with disappointment. He clearly
‎wished that he had what it took.
‎“No.” His cool voice was unusually warm. Half-baked. “There’s someone else.”
‎THE NEW ARTHUR BERG
‎He had windy hair and cloudy eyes,
‎and he was the kind of delinquent
‎who had no other reason to
‎steal except that he enjoyed it.
‎His name was Viktor Chemmel.
‎Unlike most people engaged in the various arts of thievery, Viktor Chemmel had it all. He lived in the best part
‎of Molching, high up in a villa that had been fumigated when the Jews were driven out. He had money. He had
‎cigarettes. What he wanted, however, was more.
‎“No crime in wanting a little more,” he claimed, lying back in the grass with a collection of boys assembled
‎around him. “Wanting more is our fundamental right as Germans. What does our Führer say?” He answered his
‎own rhetoric. “We must take what is rightfully ours!”
‎At face value, Viktor Chemmel was clearly your typical teenage bullshit artist. Unfortunately, when he felt like
‎revealing it, he also possessed a certain charisma, a kind of follow me.
‎When Liesel and Rudy approached the group by the river, she heard him ask another question. “So where are
‎these two deviants you’ve been bragging about? It’s ten past four already.”
‎“Not by my watch,” said Rudy.
‎Viktor Chemmel propped himself up on an elbow. “You’re not wearing a watch.”
‎“Would I be here if I was rich enough to own a watch?”
‎The new leader sat up fully and smiled, with straight white teeth. He then turned his casual focus onto the girl.
‎“Who’s the little whore?” Liesel, well accustomed to verbal abuse, simply watched the fog-ridden texture of his
‎eyes.
‎“Last year,” she listed, “I stole at least three hundred apples and dozens of potatoes. I have little trouble with
‎barbed wire fences and I can keep up with anyone here.”
‎“Is that right?” “Yes.” She did not shrink or step away. “All I ask is a small part of anything we take. A dozen apples here or
‎there. A few leftovers for me and my friend.”
‎“Well, I suppose that can be arranged.” Viktor lit a cigarette and raised it to his mouth. He made a concerted
‎effort to blow his next mouthful in Liesel’s face.
‎Liesel did not cough.
‎It was the same group as the previous year, the only exception being the leader. Liesel wondered why none of
‎the other boys had assumed the helm, but looking from face to face, she realized that none of them had it. They
‎had no qualms about stealing, but they needed to be told. They liked to be told, and Viktor Chemmel liked to be
‎the teller. It was a nice microcosm.
‎For a moment, Liesel longed for the reappearance of Arthur Berg. Or would he, too, have fallen under the
‎leadership of Chemmel? It didn’t matter. Liesel only knew that Arthur Berg did not have a tyrannical bone in
‎his body, whereas the new leader had hundreds of them. Last year, she knew that if she was stuck in a tree,
‎Arthur would come back for her, despite claiming otherwise. This year, by comparison, she was instantly aware
‎that Viktor Chemmel wouldn’t even bother to look back.
‎He stood, regarding the lanky boy and the malnourished-looking girl. “So you want to steal with me?”
‎What did they have to lose? They nodded.
‎He stepped closer and grabbed Rudy’s hair. “I want to hear it.”
‎“Definitely,” Rudy said, before being shoved back, fringe first.
‎“And you?”
‎“Of course.” Liesel was quick enough to avoid the same treatment.
‎Viktor smiled. He squashed his cigarette, breathed deeply in, and scratched his chest. “My gentlemen, my
‎whore, it looks like it’s time to go shopping.”
‎As the group walked off, Liesel and Rudy were at the back, as they’d always been in the past.
‎“Do you like him?” Rudy whispered.
‎“Do you?”
‎Rudy paused a moment. “I think he’s a complete bastard.”
‎“Me too.”
‎The group was getting away from them.
‎“Come on,” Rudy said, “we’ve fallen behind.”
‎After a few miles, they reached the first farm. What greeted them was a shock. The trees they’d imagined to be
‎swollen with fruit were frail and injured-looking, with only a small array of apples hanging miserly from each
‎branch. The next farm was the same. Maybe it was a bad season, or their timing wasn’t quite right.By the end of the afternoon, when the spoils were handed out, Liesel and Rudy were given one diminutive apple
‎between them. In fairness, the takings were incredibly poor, but Viktor Chemmel also ran a tighter ship.
‎“What do you call this?” Rudy asked, the apple resting in his palm.
‎Viktor didn’t even turn around. “What does it look like?” The words were dropped over his shoulder.
‎“One lousy apple?”
‎“Here.” A half-eaten one was also tossed their way, landing chewed-side-down in the dirt. “You can have that
‎one, too.”
‎Rudy was incensed. “To hell with this. We didn’t walk ten miles for one and a half scrawny apples, did we,
‎Liesel?”
‎Liesel did not answer.
‎She did not have time, for Viktor Chemmel was on top of Rudy before she could utter a word. His knees had
‎pinned Rudy’s arms and his hands were around his throat. The apples were scooped up by none other than Andy
‎Schmeikl, at Viktor’s request.
‎“You’re hurting him,” Liesel said.
‎“Am I?” Viktor was smiling again. She hated that smile.
‎“He’s not hurting me.” Rudy’s words were rushed together and his face was red with strain. His nose began to
‎bleed.
‎After an extended moment or two of increased pressure, Viktor let Rudy go and climbed off him, taking a few
‎careless steps. He said, “Get up, boy,” and Rudy, choosing wisely, did as he was told.
‎Viktor came casually closer again and faced him. He gave him a gentle rub on the arm. A whisper. “Unless you
‎want me to turn that blood into a fountain, I suggest you go away, little boy.” He looked at Liesel. “And take the
‎little slut with you.”
‎No one moved.
‎“Well, what are you waiting for?”
‎Liesel took Rudy’s hand and they left, but not before Rudy turned one last time and spat some blood and saliva
‎at Viktor Chemmel’s feet. It evoked one final remark.
‎A SMALL THREAT FROM
‎VIKTOR CHEMMEL TO RUDY STEINER
‎“You’ll pay for that at a later date, my friend.”
‎Say what you will about Viktor Chemmel, but he certainly had patience and a good memory. It took him
‎approximately five months to turn his statement into a true one.If the summer of 1941 was walling up around the likes of Rudy and Liesel, it was writing and painting itself
‎into the life of Max Vandenburg. In his loneliest moments in the basement, the words started piling up around
‎him. The visions began to pour and fall and occasionally limp from out of his hands.
‎He had what he called just a small ration of tools:
‎A painted book.
‎A handful of pencils.
‎A mindful of thoughts.
‎Like a simple puzzle, he put them together.
‎Originally, Max had intended to write his own story.
‎The idea was to write about everything that had happened to him—all that had led him to a Himmel Street
‎basement—but it was not what came out. Max’s exile produced something else entirely. It was a collection of
‎random thoughts and he chose to embrace them. They felt true. They were more real than the letters he wrote to
‎his family and to his friend Walter Kugler, knowing very well that he could never send them. The desecrated
‎pages of Mein Kampf were becoming a series of sketches, page after page, which to him summed up the events
‎that had swapped his former life for another. Some took minutes. Others hours. He resolved that when the book
‎was finished, he’d give it to Liesel, when she was old enough, and hopefully, when all this nonsense was over.
‎From the moment he tested the pencils on the first painted page, he kept the book close at all times. Often, it
‎was next to him or still in his fingers as he slept.
‎One afternoon, after his push-ups and sit-ups, he fell asleep against the basement wall. When Liesel came down,
‎she found the book sitting next to him, slanted against his thigh, and curiosity got the better of her. She leaned
‎over and picked it up, waiting for him to stir. He didn’t. Max was sitting with his head and shoulder blades
‎against the wall. She could barely make out the sound of his breath, coasting in and out of him, as she opened
‎the book and glimpsed a few random pages. . . .
‎A voice startled her.
‎“Danke schön,” it said, and when she looked across, following the trail of sound to its owner, a small sign of
‎satisfaction was present on his Jewish lips.
‎“Holy Christ,” Liesel gasped. “You scared me, Max.”
‎He returned to his sleep, and behind her, the girl dragged the same thought up the steps.
‎You scared me, Max.