Page 421 - The Book Thief
P. 421
Hansi!
Gustel! Gustel Stoboi!
As the density subsided, the roll call of names limped through the ruptured
streets, sometimes ending with an ash-filled embrace or a knelt-down howl of
grief. They accumulated, hour by hour, like sweet and sour dreams, waiting to
happen.
The dangers merged into one. Powder and smoke and the gusty flames. The
damaged people. Like the rest of the men in the unit, Hans would need to perfect
the art of forgetting.
How are you, Hubermann? the sergeant asked at one point. Fire was at his
shoulder.
Hans nodded, uneasily, at the pair of them.
Midway through the shift, there was an old man who staggered defenselessly
through the streets. As Hans finished stabilizing a building, he turned to find him
at his back, waiting calmly for his turn. A blood-stain was signed across his face.
It trailed off down his throat and neck. He was wearing a white shirt with a dark
red collar and he held his leg as if it was next to him. Could you prop me up
now, young man?
Hans picked him up and carried him out of the haze.
A SMALL, SAD NOTE
I visited that small city
street with the man still in
Hans Hubermanns arms.
The sky was white-horse gray.
It wasnt until he placed him down on a patch of concrete-coated grass that Hans
noticed.
