Punishment

 
 On the ration cards of Nazi Germany, there was no listing for punishment, but everyone had to take their turn. For some it was death in a foreign country during the war. For others it was poverty and guilt when the war was over, when six million discoveries were made throughout Europe. Many people must have seen their punishments coming, but only a small percentage welcomed it. One such person was Hans Hubermann.
 
 You do not help Jews on the street.
 
 Your basement should not be hiding one.
 
 At first, his punishment was conscience. His oblivious unearthing of Max Vandenburg plagued him. Liesel could see it sitting next to his plate as he ignored his dinner, or standing with him at the bridge over the Amper. He no longer played the accordion. His silver-eyed optimism was wounded and motionless. That was bad enough, but it was only the beginning.
 
 One Wednesday in early November, his true punishment arrived in the mailbox. On the surface, it appeared to be good news.
 

PAPER IN THE KITCHEN
 We are delighted to inform you that
 your application to join the NSDAP
 has been approved. . . .
 

 
 The Nazi Party? Rosa asked. I thought they didnt want you.
 
 They didnt.
 
 Papa sat down and read the letter again.
 
 He was not being put on trial for treason or for helping Jews or anything of the sort. Hans Hubermann was being rewarded, at least as far as some people were concerned. How could this be possible?
 
 There has to be more.
 
 There was.
 
 On Friday, a statement arrived to say that Hans Hubermann was to be drafted into the German army. A member of the party would be happy to play a role in the war effort, it concluded. If he wasnt, there would certainly be consequences.
 
 Liesel had just returned from reading with Frau Holtzapfel. The kitchen was heavy with soup steam and the vacant faces of Hans and Rosa Hubermann. Papa was seated. Mama stood above him as the soup started to burn.
 
 God, please dont send me to Russia, Papa said.
 
 Mama, the soups burning.
 
 What?
 
 Liesel hurried across and took it from the stove. The soup. When shed successfully rescued it, she turned and viewed her foster parents. Faces like ghost towns. Papa, whats wrong?
 
 He handed her the letter and her hands began to shake as she made her way through it. The words had been punched forcefully into the paper.
 

THE CONTENTS OF
 LIESEL MEMINGERS IMAGINATION
 In the shell-shocked kitchen, somewhere near the
 stove, theres an image of a lonely, overworked
 typewriter. It sits in a distant, near-empty room. Its keys are
 faded and a blank sheet waits patiently upright in the assumed
 position. It wavers slightly in the breeze from the window.
 Coffee break is nearly over. A pile of paper the height of a human
 stands casually by the door. It could easily be smoking.
 

 
 In truth, Liesel only saw the typewriter later, when she wrote. She wondered how many letters like that were sent out as punishment to Germanys Hans Hubermanns and Alex Steinersto those who helped the helpless, and those who refused to let go of their children.
 
 It was a sign of the German armys growing desperation.
 
 They were losing in Russia.
 
 Their cities were being bombed.
 
 More people were needed, as were ways of attaining them, and in most cases, the worst possible jobs would be given to the worst possible people.
 
 As her eyes scanned the paper, Liesel could see through the punched letter holes to the wooden table. Words like compulsory and duty were beaten into the page. Saliva was triggered. It was the urge to vomit. What is this?
 
 Papas answer was quiet. I thought I taught you to read, my girl. He did not speak with anger or sarcasm. It was a voice of vacancy, to match his face.
 
 Liesel looked now to Mama.
 
 Rosa had a small rip beneath her right eye, and within the minute, her cardboard face was broken. Not down the center, but to the right. It gnarled down her cheek in an arc, finishing at her chin.
 

TWENTY MINUTES LATER:
 A GIRL ON HIMMEL STREET
 She looks up. She speaks in a whisper.
 The sky is soft today, Max. The clouds
 are so soft and sad, and. . . She looks
 away and crosses her arms. She thinks
 of her papa going to war and grabs
 her jacket at each side of her body.
 And its cold, Max. Its so cold. . . .
 

 
 Five days later, when she continued her habit of looking at the weather, she did not get a chance to see the sky.
 
 Next door, Barbara Steiner was sitting on the front step with her neatly combed hair. She was smoking a cigarette and shivering. On her way over, Liesel was interrupted by the sight of Kurt. He came out and sat with his mother. When he saw the girl stop, he called out.
 
 Come on, Liesel. Rudy will be out soon.
 
 After a short pause, she continued walking toward the step.
 
 Barbara smoked.
 
 A wrinkle of ash was teetering at the end of the cigarette. Kurt took it, ashed it, inhaled, then gave it back.
 
 When the cigarette was done, Rudys mother looked up. She ran a hand through her tidy lines of hair.
 
 Our papas going, too, Kurt said.
 
 Quietness then.
 
 A group of kids was kicking a ball, up near Frau Dillers.
 
 When they come and ask you for one of your children, Barbara Steiner explained, to no one in particular, youre supposed to say yes.