Page 115 - The Book Thief

As the girl shook and sagged on the steps, he sat next to her and held his face in

his hands. It would be easy to say that he was just a tall man sitting poor-
postured and shattered on some church steps, but he wasnt. At the time, Liesel
had no idea that her foster father, Hans Hubermann, was contemplating one of
the most dangerous dilemmas a German citizen could face. Not only that, hed
been facing it for close to a year.

Papa?

The surprise in her voice rushed her, but it also rendered her useless. She wanted
to run, but she couldnt. She could take a Watschen from nuns and Rosas, but it
hurt so much more from Papa. The hands were gone from Papas face now and he
found the resolve to speak again.

You can say that in our house, he said, looking gravely at Liesels cheek. But you
never say it on the street, at school, at the BDM, never! He stood in front of her
and lifted her by the triceps. He shook her. Do you hear me?

With her eyes trapped wide open, Liesel nodded her compliance.

It was, in fact, a rehearsal for a future lecture, when all of Hans Hubermanns
worst fears arrived on Himmel Street later that year, in the early hours of a
November morning.

Good. He placed her back down. Now, let us try . . . At the bottom of the steps,
Papa stood erect and cocked his arm. Forty-five degrees. Heil Hitler.

Liesel stood up and also raised her arm. With absolute misery, she repeated it.
Heil Hitler. It was quite a sightan eleven-year-old girl, trying not to cry on the
church steps, saluting the Fhrer as the voices over Papas shoulder chopped and

beat at the dark shape in the background.

Are we still friends?

Perhaps a quarter of an hour later, Papa held a cigarette olive branch in his
palmthe paper and tobacco hed just received. Without a word, Liesel reached
gloomily across and proceeded to roll it.

For quite a while, they sat there together.