Why We Love to Hate (and Love) Rosa Hubermann

The rot started with the washing and it rapidly increased.‎When Liesel accompanied Rosa Hubermann on her deliveries across Molching, one of her customers, Ernst‎Vogel, informed them that he could no longer afford to have his washing and ironing done. “The times,” he‎excused himself, “what can I say? They’re getting harder. The war’s making things tight.” He looked at the girl.‎“I’m sure you get an allowance for keeping the little one, don’t you?”‎To Liesel’s dismay, Mama was speechless.‎An empty bag was at her side.‎Come on, Liesel.‎It was not said. It was pulled along, rough-handed.‎Vogel called out from his front step. He was perhaps five foot nine and his greasy scraps of hair swung‎lifelessly across his forehead. “I’m sorry, Frau Hubermann!”‎Liesel waved at him.‎He waved back.‎Mama castigated.‎“Don’t wave to that Arschloch,” she said. “Now hurry up.”‎That night, when Liesel had a bath, Mama scrubbed her especially hard, muttering the whole time about that‎Vogel Saukerl and imitating him at two-minute intervals. “ ‘You must get an allowance for the girl. . . .’ ” She‎berated Liesel’s naked chest as she scrubbed away. “You’re not worth that much, Saumensch. You’re not‎making me rich, you know.”‎Liesel sat there and took it.‎Not more than a week after that particular incident, Rosa hauled her into the kitchen. “Right, Liesel.” She sat‎her down at the table. “Since you spend half your time on the street playing soccer, you can make yourself‎useful out there. For a change.”‎Liesel watched only her own hands. “What is it, Mama?”‎“From now on you’re going to pick up and deliver the washing for me. Those rich people are less likely to fire‎us if you’re the one standing in front of them. If they ask you where I am, tell them I’m sick. And look sad‎when you tell them. You’re skinny and pale enough to get their pity.”‎“Herr Vogel didn’t pity me.”‎“Well . . .” Her agitation was obvious. “The others might. So don’t argue.”“Yes, Mama.”‎For a moment, it appeared that her foster mother would comfort her or pat her on the shoulder.‎Good girl, Liesel. Good girl. Pat, pat, pat.‎She did no such thing.‎Instead, Rosa Hubermann stood up, selected a wooden spoon, and held it under Liesel’s nose. It was a necessity‎as far as she was concerned. “When you’re out on that street, you take the bag to each place and you bring it‎straight home, with the money, even though it’s next to nothing. No going to Papa if he’s actually working for‎once. No mucking around with that little Saukerl, Rudy Steiner. Straight. Home.”‎“Yes, Mama.”‎“And when you hold that bag, you hold it properly. You don’t swing it, drop it, crease it, or throw it over your‎shoulder.”‎“Yes, Mama.”‎“Yes, Mama.” Rosa Hubermann was a great imitator, and a fervent one. “You’d better not, Saumensch. I’ll find‎out if you do; you know that, don’t you?”‎“Yes, Mama.”‎Saying those two words was often the best way to survive, as was doing what she was told, and from there,‎Liesel walked the streets of Molching, from the poor end to the rich, picking up and delivering the washing. At‎first, it was a solitary job, which she never complained about. After all, the very first time she took the sack‎through town, she turned the corner onto Munich Street, looked both ways, and gave it one enormous swing—a‎whole revolution—and then checked the contents inside. Thankfully, there were no creases. No wrinkles. Just a‎smile, and a promise never to swing it again.‎Overall, Liesel enjoyed it. There was no share of the pay, but she was out of the house, and walking the streets‎without Mama was heaven in itself. No finger-pointing or cursing. No people staring at them as she was sworn‎at for holding the bag wrong. Nothing but serenity.‎She came to like the people, too: ‎• The Pfaffelhürvers, inspecting the clothes and saying, “Ja, ja, sehr gut, sehr gut.” Liesel imagined that they‎did everything twice. ‎• Gentle Helena Schmidt, handing the money over with an arthritic curl of the hand. ‎• The Weingartners, whose bent-whiskered cat always answered the door with them. Little Goebbels, that’s‎what they called him, after Hitler’s right-hand man. ‎• And Frau Hermann, the mayor’s wife, standing fluffy-haired and shivery in her enormous, cold-aired‎doorway. Always silent. Always alone. No words, not once. ‎Sometimes Rudy came along.‎“How much money do you have there?” he asked one afternoon. It was nearly dark and they were walking onto‎Himmel Street, past the shop. “You’ve heard about Frau Diller, haven’t you? They say she’s got candy hidden‎somewhere, and for the right price . . .” “Don’t even think about it.” Liesel, as always, was gripping the money hard. “It’s not so bad for you—you‎don’t have to face my mama.”‎Rudy shrugged. “It was worth a try.”‎In the middle of January, schoolwork turned its attention to letter writing. After learning the basics, each student‎was to write two letters, one to a friend and one to somebody in another class.‎Liesel’s letter from Rudy went like this:‎Dear Saumensch,‎Are you still as useless at soccer as you were the last time we‎played? I hope so. That means I can run past you again just like‎Jesse Owens at the Olympics. . . . ‎When Sister Maria found it, she asked him a question, very amiably.‎SISTER MARIA’S OFFER‎“Do you feel like visiting the corridor, Mr. Steiner?”‎Needless to say, Rudy answered in the negative, and the paper was torn up and he started again. The second‎attempt was written to someone named Liesel and inquired as to what her hobbies might be.‎At home, while completing a letter for homework, Liesel decided that writing to Rudy or some other Saukerl‎was actually ridiculous. It meant nothing. As she wrote in the basement, she spoke over to Papa, who was‎repainting the wall again.‎Both he and the paint fumes turned around. “Was wuistz?” Now this was the roughest form of German a person‎could speak, but it was spoken with an air of absolute pleasantness. “Yeah, what?”‎“Would I be able to write a letter to Mama?”‎A pause.‎“What do you want to write a letter to her for? You have to put up with her every day.” Papa was schmunzeling‎—a sly smile. “Isn’t that bad enough?”‎“Not that mama.” She swallowed.‎“Oh.” Papa returned to the wall and continued painting. “Well, I guess so. You could send it to what’s-her-name‎—the one who brought you here and visited those few times—from the foster people.”‎“Frau Heinrich.”‎“That’s right. Send it to her. Maybe she can send it on to your mother.” Even at the time, he sounded‎unconvincing, as if he wasn’t telling Liesel something. Word of her mother had also been tight-lipped on Frau‎Heinrich’s brief visits.‎Instead of asking him what was wrong, Liesel began writing immediately, choosing to ignore the sense of‎foreboding that was quick to accumulate inside her. It took three hours and six drafts to perfect the letter, telling‎her mother all about Molching, her papa and his accordion, the strange but true ways of Rudy Steiner, and the exploits of Rosa Hubermann. She also explained how proud she was that she could now read and write a little.‎The next day, she posted it at Frau Diller’s with a stamp from the kitchen drawer. And she began to wait.‎The night she wrote the letter, she overheard a conversation between Hans and Rosa.‎“What’s she doing writing to her mother?” Mama was saying. Her voice was surprisingly calm and caring. As‎you can imagine, this worried the girl a great deal. She’d have preferred to hear them arguing. Whispering‎adults hardly inspired confidence.‎“She asked me,” Papa answered, “and I couldn’t say no. How could I?”‎“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Again with the whisper. “She should just forget her. Who knows where she is? Who‎knows what they’ve done to her?”‎In bed, Liesel hugged herself tight. She balled herself up.‎She thought of her mother and repeated Rosa Hubermann’s questions.‎Where was she?‎What had they done to her?‎And once and for all, who, in actual fact, were they? Flash forward to the basement, September 1943.‎A fourteen-year-old girl is writing in a small dark-covered book. She is bony but strong and has seen many‎things. Papa sits with the accordion at his feet.‎He says, “You know, Liesel? I nearly wrote you a reply and signed your mother’s name.” He scratches his leg,‎where the plaster used to be. “But I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself.”‎Several times, through the remainder of January and the entirety of February 1940, when Liesel searched the‎mailbox for a reply to her letter, it clearly broke her foster father’s heart. “I’m sorry,” he would tell her. “Not‎today, huh?” In hindsight, she saw that the whole exercise had been pointless. Had her mother been in a position‎to do so, she would have already made contact with the foster care people, or directly with the girl, or the‎Hubermanns. But there had been nothing.‎To lend insult to injury, in mid-February, Liesel was given a letter from another ironing customer, the‎Pfaffelhürvers, from Heide Strasse. The pair of them stood with great tallness in the doorway, giving her a‎melancholic regard. “For your mama,” the man said, handing her the envelope. “Tell her we’re sorry. Tell her‎we’re sorry.”‎That was not a good night in the Hubermann residence.‎Even when Liesel retreated to the basement to write her fifth letter to her mother (all but the first one yet to be‎sent), she could hear Rosa swearing and carrying on about those Pfaffelhürver Arschlöcher and that lousy Ernst‎Vogel.‎“Feuer soll’n’s brunzen für einen Monat!” she heard her call out. Translation: “They should all piss fire for a‎month!”‎Liesel wrote.‎When her birthday came around, there was no gift. There was no gift because there was no money, and at the‎time, Papa was out of tobacco.‎“I told you.” Mama pointed a finger at him. “I told you not to give her both books at Christmas. But no. Did you‎listen? Of course not!”‎“I know!” He turned quietly to the girl. “I’m sorry, Liesel. We just can’t afford it.”‎Liesel didn’t mind. She didn’t whine or moan or stamp her feet. She simply swallowed the disappointment and‎decided on one calculated risk—a present from herself. She would gather all of the accrued letters to her‎mother, stuff them into one envelope, and use just a tiny portion of the washing and ironing money to mail it.‎Then, of course, she would take the Watschen, most likely in the kitchen, and she would not make a sound.‎Three days later, the plan came to fruition.