Confessions. Ilsa Hermanns little black book

CONFESSIONS

 
 When the Jews were gone, Rudy and Liesel untangled and the book thief did not speak. There were no answers to Rudys questions.
 
 Liesel did not go home, either. She walked forlornly to the train station and waited for her papa for hours. Rudy stood with her for the first twenty minutes, but since it was a good half day till Hans was due home, he fetched Rosa. On the way back, he told her what had happened, and when Rosa arrived, she asked nothing of the girl. She had already assembled the puzzle and merely stood beside her and eventually convinced her to sit down. They waited together.
 
 When Papa found out, he dropped his bag, he kicked the Bahnhof air.
 
 None of them ate that night. Papas fingers desecrated the accordion, murdering song after song, no matter how hard he tried. Everything no longer worked.
 
 For three days, the book thief stayed in bed.
 
 Every morning and afternoon, Rudy Steiner knocked on the door and asked if she was still sick. The girl was not sick.
 
 On the fourth day, Liesel walked to her neighbors front door and asked if he might go back to the trees with her, where theyd distributed the bread the previous year.
 
 I should have told you earlier, she said.
 
 As promised, they walked far down the road toward Dachau. They stood in the trees. There were long shapes of light and shade. Pinecones were scattered like cookies.
 
 Thank you, Rudy.
 
 For everything. For helping me off the road, for stopping me. . .
 
 She said none of it.
 
 Her hand leaned on a flaking branch at her side. Rudy, if I tell you something, will you promise not to say a word to anyone?
 
 Of course. He could sense the seriousness in the girls face, and the heaviness in her voice. He leaned on the tree next to hers. What is it?
 
 Promise.
 
 I did already.
 
 Do it again. You cant tell your mother, your brother, or Tommy Mller. Nobody.
 
 I promise.
 
 Leaning.
 
 Looking at the ground.
 
 She attempted several times to find the right place to start, reading sentences at her feet, joining words to the pinecones and the scraps of broken branches.
 
 Remember when I was injured playing soccer, she said, out on the street?
 
 It took approximately three-quarters of an hour to explain two wars, an accordion, a Jewish fist fighter, and a basement. Not forgetting what had happened four days earlier on Munich Street.
 
 Thats why you went for a closer look, Rudy said, with the bread that day. To see if he was there.
 
 Yes.
 
 Crucified Christ.
 
 Yes.
 
 The trees were tall and triangular. They were quiet.
 
 Liesel pulled The Word Shaker from her bag and showed Rudy one of the pages. On it was a boy with three medals hanging around his throat.
 
 Hair the color of lemons, Rudy read. His fingers touched the words. You told him about me?
 
 At first, Liesel could not talk. Perhaps it was the sudden bumpiness of love she felt for him. Or had she always loved him? Its likely. Restricted as she was from speaking, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to drag her hand across and pull her over. It didnt matter where. Her mouth, her neck, her cheek. Her skin was empty for it, waiting.
 
 Years ago, when theyd raced on a muddy field, Rudy was a hastily assembled set of bones, with a jagged, rocky smile. In the trees this afternoon, he was a giver of bread and teddy bears. He was a triple Hitler Youth athletics champion. He was her best friend. And he was a month from his death.
 
 Of course I told him about you, Liesel said.
 
 She was saying goodbye and she didnt even know it.
 
 
 
  

ILSA HERMANNS LITTLE BLACK BOOK

 
 In mid-August, she thought she was going to 8 Grande Strasse for the same old remedy.
 
 To cheer herself up.
 
 That was what she thought.
 
 The day had been hot, but showers were predicted for the evening. In The Last Human Stranger, there was a quote near the end. Liesel was reminded of it as she walked past Frau Dillers.
 

THE LAST HUMAN STRANGER,
 PAGE 211
 The sun stirs the earth. Around and
 around, it stirs us, like stew.
 

 
 At the time, Liesel only thought of it because the day was so warm.
 
 On Munich Street, she remembered the events of the previous week there. She saw the Jews coming down the road, their streams and numbers and pain. She decided there was a word missing from her quote.
 
 The world is an ugly stew, she thought.
 
 Its so ugly I cant stand it.
 
 Liesel crossed the bridge over the Amper River. The water was glorious and emerald and rich. She could see the stones at the bottom and hear the familiar song of water. The world did not deserve such a river.
 
 She scaled the hill up to Grande Strasse. The houses were lovely and loathsome. She enjoyed the small ache in her legs and lungs. Walk harder, she thought, and she started rising, like a monster out of the sand. She smelled the neighborhood grass. It was fresh and sweet, green and yellow-tipped. She crossed the yard without a single turn of the head or the slightest pause of paranoia.
 
 The window.
 
 Hands on the frame, scissor of the legs.
 
 Landing feet.
 
 Books and pages and a happy place.
 
 She slid a book from the shelf and sat with it on the floor.
 
 Is she home? she wondered, but she did not care if Ilsa Hermann was slicing potatoes in the kitchen or lining up in the post office. Or standing ghost-like over the top of her, examining what the girl was reading.
 
 The girl simply didnt care anymore.
 
 For a long time, she sat and saw.
 
 She had seen her brother die with one eye open, one still in a dream. She had said goodbye to her mother and imagined her lonely wait for a train back home to oblivion. A woman of wire had laid herself down, her scream traveling the street, till it fell sideways like a rolling coin starved of momentum. A young man was hung by a rope made of Stalingrad snow. She had watched a bomber pilot die in a metal case. She had seen a Jewish man who had twice given her the most beautiful pages of her life marched to a concentration camp. And at the center of all of it, she saw the Fhrer shouting his words and passing them around.
 
 Those images were the world, and it stewed in her as she sat with the lovely books and their manicured titles. It brewed in her as she eyed the pages full to the brims of their bellies with paragraphs and words.
 
 You bastards, she thought.
 
 You lovely bastards.
 
 Dont make me happy. Please, dont fill me up and let me think that something good can come of any of this. Look at my bruises. Look at this graze. Do you see the graze inside me? Do you see it growing before your very eyes, eroding me? I dont want to hope for anything anymore. I dont want to pray that Max is alive and safe. Or Alex Steiner.
 
 Because the world does not deserve them.
 
 She tore a page from the book and ripped it in half.
 
 Then a chapter.
 
 Soon, there was nothing but scraps of words littered between her legs and all around her. The words. Why did they have to exist? Without them, there wouldnt be any of this. Without words, the Fhrer was nothing. There would be no limping prisoners, no need for consolation or wordly tricks to make us feel better.
 
 What good were the words?
 
 She said it audibly now, to the orange-lit room. What good are the words?
 
 The book thief stood and walked carefully to the library door. Its protest was small and halfhearted. The airy hallway was steeped in wooden emptiness.
 
 Frau Hermann?
 
 The question came back at her and tried for another surge to the front door. It made it only halfway, landing weakly on a couple of fat floorboards.
 
 Frau Hermann?
 
 The calls were greeted with nothing but silence, and she was tempted to seek out the kitchen, for Rudy. She refrained. It wouldnt have felt right to steal food from a woman who had left her a dictionary against a windowpane. That, and she had also just destroyed one of her books, page by page, chapter by chapter. Shed done enough damage as it was.
 
 Liesel returned to the library and opened one of the desk drawers. She sat down.
 

THE LAST LETTER

 
 Dear Mrs. Hermann,
 
 As you can see, I have been in your library again and I have ruined one of your books. I was just so angry and afraid and I wanted to kill the words. I have stolen from you and now Ive wrecked your property. Im sorry. To punish myself, I think I will stop coming here. Or is it punishment at all? I love this place and hate it, because it is full of words.
 
 You have been a friend to me even though I hurt you, even though I have been insu ferable (a word I looked up in your dictionary), and I think I will leave you alone now. Im sorry for everything.
 
 Thank you again.
 
 Liesel Meminger
 
 She left the note on the desk and gave the room a last goodbye, doing three laps and running her hands over the titles. As much as she hated them, she couldnt resist. Flakes of torn-up paper were strewn around a book called The Rules of Tommy Ho fmann. In the breeze from the window, a few of its shreds rose and fell.
 
 The light was still orange, but it was not as lustrous as earlier. Her hands felt their final grip of the wooden window frame, and there was the last rush of a plunging stomach, and the pang of pain in her feet when she landed.
 
 By the time she made it down the hill and across the bridge, the orange light had vanished. Clouds were mopping up.
 
 When she walked down Himmel Street, she could already feel the first drops of rain. I will never see Ilsa Hermann again, she thought, but the book thief was better at reading and ruining books than making assumptions.
 

THREE DAYS LATER
 The woman has knocked at number
 thirty-three and waits for a reply.
 

 
 It was strange for Liesel to see her without the bathrobe. The summer dress was yellow with red trim. There was a pocket with a small flower on it. No swastikas. Black shoes. Never before had she noticed Ilsa Hermanns shins. She had porcelain legs.
 
 Frau Hermann, Im sorryfor what I did the last time in the library.
 
 The woman quieted her. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small black book. Inside was not a story, but lined paper. I thought if youre not going to read any more of my books, you might like to write one instead. Your letter, it was. . . She handed the book to Liesel with both hands. You can certainly write. You write well. The book was heavy, the cover matted like The Shoulder Shrug. And please, Ilsa Hermann advised her, dont punish yourself, like you said you would. Dont be like me, Liesel.
 
 The girl opened the book and touched the paper. Danke schn, Frau Hermann. I can make you some coffee, if you like. Would you come in? Im home alone. My mamas next door, with Frau Holtzapfel.
 
 Shall we use the door or the window?
 
 Liesel suspected it was the broadest smile Ilsa Hermann had allowed herself in years. I think well use the door. Its easier.
 
 They sat in the kitchen.
 
 Coffee mugs and bread with jam. They struggled to speak and Liesel could hear Ilsa Hermann swallow, but somehow, it was not uncomfortable. It was even nice to see the woman gently blow across the coffee to cool it.
 
 If I ever write something and finish it, Liesel said, Ill show you.
 
 That would be nice.
 
 When the mayors wife left, Liesel watched her walk up Himmel Street. She watched her yellow dress and her black shoes and her porcelain legs.
 
 At the mailbox, Rudy asked, Was that who I think it was?
 
 Yes.
 
 Youre joking.
 
 She gave me a present.
 
 As it turned out, Ilsa Hermann not only gave Liesel Meminger a book that day. She also gave her a reason to spend time in the basementher favorite place, first with Papa, then Max. She gave her a reason to write her own words, to see that words had also brought her to life.
 
 Dont punish yourself, she heard her say again, but there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too. That was writing.
 
 In the night, when Mama and Papa were asleep, Liesel crept down to the basement and turned on the kerosene lamp. For the first hour, she only watched the pencil and paper. She made herself remember, and as was her habit, she did not look away.
 
 Schreibe, she instructed herself. Write.
 
 After more than two hours, Liesel Meminger started writing, not knowing how she was ever going to get this right. How could she ever know that someone would pick her story up and carry it with him everywhere?
 
 No one expects these things.
 
 They dont plan them.
 
 She used a small paint can for a seat, a large one as a table, and Liesel stuck the pencil onto the first page. In the middle, she wrote the following.
 

THE BOOK THIEF
 a small story
 by
 Liesel Meminger