Page 175 - The Book Thief

was infection blue.

Yes, sir. Hans nodded, and that was the end of it. His writing ability was dubious
to say the least, but he considered himself lucky. He wrote the letters as best he
could while the rest of the men went into battle.

None of them came back.

That was the first time Hans Hubermann escaped me. The Great War.

A second escape was still to come, in 1943, in Essen.

Two wars for two escapes.

Once young, once middle-aged.

Not many men are lucky enough to cheat me twice.

He carried the accordion with him during the entirety of the war.

When he tracked down the family of Erik Vandenburg in Stuttgart upon his
return, Vandenburgs wife informed him that he could keep it. Her apartment was
littered with them, and it upset her too much to look at that one in particular. The
others were reminder enough, as was her once-shared profession of teaching it.

He taught me to play, Hans informed her, as though it might help.

Perhaps it did, for the devastated woman asked if he could play it for her, and
she silently wept as he pressed the buttons and keys of a clumsy Blue Danube
Waltz. It was her husbands favorite.

You know, Hans explained to her, he saved my life. The light in the room was
small, and the air restrained. Heif theres anything you ever need. He slid a piece
of paper with his name and address on it across the table. Im a painter by trade.
Ill paint your apartment for free, whenever you like. He knew it was useless
compensation, but he offered anyway.

The woman took the paper, and not long after, a small child wandered in and sat
on her lap.