The town walker

 
 The rot started with the washing and it rapidly increased.
 
 When Liesel accompanied Rosa Hubermann on her deliveries across Molching, one of her customers, Ernst Vogel, informed them that he could no longer afford to have his washing and ironing done. The times, he excused himself, what can I say? Theyre getting harder. The wars making things tight. He looked at the girl. Im sure you get an allowance for keeping the little one, dont you?
 
 To Liesels 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 swung lifelessly across his forehead. Im sorry, Frau Hubermann!
 
 Liesel waved at him.
 
 He waved back.
 
 Mama castigated.
 
 Dont 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 that Vogel Saukerl and imitating him at two-minute intervals. You must get an allowance for the girl. . . . She berated Liesels naked chest as she scrubbed away. Youre not worth that much, Saumensch. Youre not making 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 sat her down at the table. Since you spend half your time on the street playing soccer, you can make yourself useful out there. For a change.
 
 Liesel watched only her own hands. What is it, Mama?
 
 From now on youre going to pick up and deliver the washing for me. Those rich people are less likely to fire us if youre the one standing in front of them. If they ask you where I am, tell them Im sick. And look sad when you tell them. Youre skinny and pale enough to get their pity.
 
 Herr Vogel didnt pity me.
 
 Well. . . Her agitation was obvious. The others might. So dont 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 Liesels nose. It was a necessity as far as she was concerned. When youre out on that street, you take the bag to each place and you bring it straight home, with the money, even though its next to nothing. No going to Papa if hes actually working for once. No mucking around with that little Saukerl, Rudy Steiner. Straight. Home.
 
 Yes, Mama.
 
 And when you hold that bag, you hold it properly. You dont swing it, drop it, crease it, or throw it over your shoulder.
 
 Yes, Mama.
 
 Yes, Mama. Rosa Hubermann was a great imitator, and a fervent one. Youd better not, Saumensch. Ill find out if you do; you know that, dont 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. At first, it was a solitary job, which she never complained about. After all, the very first time she took the sack through town, she turned the corner onto Munich Street, looked both ways, and gave it one enormous swinga whole revolutionand then checked the contents inside. Thankfully, there were no creases. No wrinkles. Just a smile, 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 streets without Mama was heaven in itself. No finger-pointing or cursing. No people staring at them as she was sworn at for holding the bag wrong. Nothing but serenity.
 
 She came to like the people, too:
 
 The Pfaffelhrvers, inspecting the clothes and saying, Ja, ja, sehr gut, sehr gut. Liesel imagined that they did 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, thats what they called him, after Hitlers right-hand man.
 
 And Frau Hermann, the mayors wife, standing fluffy-haired and shivery in her enormous, cold-aired doorway. 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 onto Himmel Street, past the shop. Youve heard about Frau Diller, havent you? They say shes got candy hidden somewhere, and for the right price. . .
 
 Dont even think about it. Liesel, as always, was gripping the money hard. Its not so bad for youyou dont 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 student was to write two letters, one to a friend and one to somebody in another class.
 
 Liesels letter from Rudy went like this:
 
 Dear Saumensch,
 Are you still as useless at soccer as you were the last time we
 played? I hope so. That means I can run past you again just like
 Jesse Owens at the Olympics. . . .
 
 When Sister Maria found it, she asked him a question, very amiably.
 

SISTER MARIAS 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 second attempt 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 Saukerl was actually ridiculous. It meant nothing. As she wrote in the basement, she spoke over to Papa, who was repainting the wall again.
 
 Both he and the paint fumes turned around. Was wuistz? Now this was the roughest form of German a person could 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 schmunzelinga sly smile. Isnt 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 whats-her-namethe one who brought you here and visited those few timesfrom the foster people.
 
 Frau Heinrich.
 
 Thats right. Send it to her. Maybe she can send it on to your mother. Even at the time, he sounded unconvincing, as if he wasnt telling Liesel something. Word of her mother had also been tight-lipped on Frau Heinrichs brief visits.
 
 Instead of asking him what was wrong, Liesel began writing immediately, choosing to ignore the sense of foreboding that was quick to accumulate inside her. It took three hours and six drafts to perfect the letter, telling her 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 Dillers 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.
 
 Whats she doing writing to her mother? Mama was saying. Her voice was surprisingly calm and caring. As you can imagine, this worried the girl a great deal. Shed have preferred to hear them arguing. Whispering adults hardly inspired confidence.
 
 She asked me, Papa answered, and I couldnt say no. How could I?
 
 Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Again with the whisper. She should just forget her. Who knows where she is? Who knows what theyve done to her?
 
 In bed, Liesel hugged herself tight. She balled herself up.
 
 She thought of her mother and repeated Rosa Hubermanns questions.
 
 Where was she?
 
 What had they done to her?
 
 And once and for all, who, in actual fact, were they?