In the fifty-seventh through fifty-ninth chapters of The Book Thief, Liesel is given an interesting job in town, and Hans does something to irrevocably change 33 Himmel Street. Intrigued? Then it’s time for Mark to read The Book Thief.
I’m sitting in a coffee shop by my house. The past month or so, I’ve found that I am too distracted in my own apartment to write consistently. I want to play video games. I want to play guitar and write songs. I want to tease my cats. I want to search my cupboards for unhealthy snacks that I know are not there. I want to sit on Tumblr for twenty minutes straight. There are too many things to distract me.
I’ve started sitting in coffee shops all across the Bay. Philz Coffee in the Castro is my favorite so far, even though it closes earlier than I like. There’s always a spot where I can enjoy a nicely brewed cup of coffee or tea and just focus on a book or an episode and write. I end up writing most, if not all, of my longer reviews away from home.
I’m in Oakland now. It’s sunny outside, that Bay Area warm where people here wear a sweater of their clothes and remark about how rare this is during this time of year, and this weather means I can wear a band t-shirt and shorts without funny looks from the locals. I’ve placed myself near a window and I keep trying to enjoy the view of Lake Merritt that I have but my eyes are blurred my tears and I can’t shake the feeling that it would probably be best for me to stop reading here if I’d like to keep my heart intact.
There’s a lot at work here in Markus Zusak’s The Book Thief, from the love of reading, to the horrors of the Holocaust, to loyalty and bravery and terror. Of everything, I’m struck most by how this is a story about friendship, between Rudy and Liesel, Liesel and Max, Liesel and her foster parents. It’s a story about how a friendship can run so deep and so true that the people involved aren’t reluctant to do what is right and loving without thinking about how these things will actually affect their own lives. All of this is perfectly summed up in the relationship Max has with all three people at 33 Himmel Street.
So what do you do when this type of friendship ends up destroying everything?
Let’s start off first with Frau Holtzapfel, who comes to Rosa, her sworn enemy, with an interesting proposition. Despite that the damage to Molching doesn’t bring any death or injury, the peace that everyone enjoys is interrupted for Liesel in two ways. Frau Holtzapfel is the first to disrupt this:
Her wrinkles were like slander. Her voice was akin to a beating with a stick.
Ah, the woman Rosa seems sworn to hate, versus the woman who always spits on the Hubermann door. Frau Holtzapfel shows up at the door, sans spitting this time, and she surprises everyone when she reveals that she has something interesting she needs from 33 Himmel Street:
Frau Holtzapfel looked once more at the street and back. “I have an offer for you.â€
Mama shifted her weight. “Is that right?â€
“No, not you.†She dismissed Rosa with a shrug of the voice and focused now on Liesel. “You.â€
Whoa, what? What the hell? What on earth could Liesel possibly provide this woman?
“I liked that book you read in the shelter.â€
No. You’re not getting it. Liesel was convinced of that. “Yes?â€
LOVE YOU FOREVER, LIESEL.
“I was hoping to hear the rest of it in the shelter, but it looks like we’re safe for now.†She rolled her shoulders and straightened the wire in her back. “So I want you to come to my place and read it to me.â€
WHAT! Oh, Liesel, the effect you have on people…
“You’ve got some nerve, Holtzapfel.†Rosa was deciding whether to be furious or not. “If you think—“
“I’ll stop spitting on your door,†she interrupted. “And I’ll give you my coffee ration.â€
WELL, THAT WILL DO IT, NO? It is a bit strange that Rosa decides this for Liesel without even asking her, but at the same time, this is a small victory for the family in a way. No spitting AND an extra ration of coffee? In these times, Rosa takes what she can get.
Heading immediately over to Frau Holtzapfel’s house, where she learns just how unpleasant reading can be sometimes, she makes an important remark:
Good God, Liesel thought. This is my punishment for all that stealing. It’s finally caught up with me.
But it’s not exactly all bad. The woman is completely silent throughout the reading, proving to be a good audience for Liesel, calmly thanking her after she’s done and then continuing on as if she was just a brief interruption to her day.
Liesel calculated that there were four more reading sessions like that with Frau Holtzapfel before the Jews were marched through Molching.
They were going to Dachau, to concentrate.
That makes two weeks, she would later write in the basement. Two weeks to change the world, and fourteen days to ruin it.
I didn’t understand what this meant, this seemingly contradicting dichotomy that she wrote, but that’s because I hadn’t read chapter fifty-eight.
CH. 58: THE LONG WALK TO DACHAU
What’s there to say about this chapter and what happens that hasn’t already been said?
I’m not Jewish, so I don’t have any personal family history that relates to the Holocaust, and I certainly haven’t gone through anything even remotely similar to this. So I’m left feeling like an outsider, reading about the procession of misery that’s paraded down Himmel Street, and I can’t even say I’m like the Germans who watch them. I’m not. Need I remind you again that I’m sitting in a coffee shop and typing onto a fucking iPad? Yeah, no, I have nothing in common with this situation.
Death is affectionately detached throughout the narration here, able to convey sadness and disappointment at this specific parade of Jewish souls, yet completely uninvolved at the same time.
I climbed through the windshield of the truck, found the diseased man, and jumped out the back. His soul was skinny. His beard was a ball and chain. My feet landed loudly in the gravel, though not a sound was heard by a soldier or prisoner. But they could all smell me.
Recollection tells me that there were many wishes in the back of that truck. Inner voices called out to me.
Why him and not me?
Thank God it isn’t me.
One of the many, many unsettling details in this chapter is the method in which Zusak describes the sound of the approaching Jewish prisoners who are on their way to Dachau:
Everyone turned toward the sound of shuffling feet and regimented voices as they made their way closer.
“Is that a herd of cows?†Rudy asked. “It can’t be. It never sounds quite like that, does it?â€
I know Rudy has no idea of what the subtext of this could mean, but it’s still horrifying. The Jews are cattle to the soldiers leading them to Dachau.
On Munich Street, they watched.
Others moved in around and in front of them.
They watched the Jews come down the road like a catalog of colors. That wasn’t how the book thief described them, but I can tell you that that’s exactly what they were, for many of them would die. They would each greet me like their last true friend, with bones like smoke and their souls trailing behind.
The horrifying display here on Munich Street is incredibly hard to read, and Zusak doesn’t avoid spending a few pages describing the agonizing details:
When they arrived in full, the noise of their feet throbbed on top of the road. Their eyes were enormous in their starving skulls. And the dirt. The dirt was molded to them. Their legs staggered as they were pushed by soldiers’ hands—a few wayward steps of forced running before the slow return to a malnourished walk.
What Zusak also describes here is less a physical description and more of an emotional one. As the Jews march down the street, he tells us how quite a few of them look to those watching them and, as he says:
…pleading not so much for help—they were beyond that—but for an explanation. Just something to subdue the confusion.
Liesel watches them, too, noticing how each person reacts differently to being watched as well:
Hunger ate them as they continued forward, some of them watching the ground to avoid the people on the side of the road. Some looked appealingly at those who had come to observe their humiliation, this prelude to their deaths. Others pleaded for someone, anyone, to step forward and catch them in their arms.
No one did.
Whether they watched this parade with pride, temerity, or shame, nobody came forward to interrupt it. Not yet.
And who would? Who would risk the attention by the entire neighborhood? Unless it was for a negative reason, I thought, no one would be foolish enough to interrupt. So that’s what idea got planted into my head: Someone would abuse or insult one of the parade Jews and interrupt it all.
I have one of you in my basement! She wanted to say. We built a snowman together! I gave him thirteen presents when he was sick!
Liesel said nothing at all.
What good would it be?
She understood that she was utterly worthless to these people. They could not be saved, and in a few minutes, she would see what would happen to those who might try to help them.
Ok, not only is this heartbreaking, as Liesel realizes what a miniscule part in the world she holds, but now I know that we’re not going to see someone do something negative to interrupt the parade. I instantly became set on edge at the idea. What was going to happen?
One specific man triggers it. This man keeps falling, the “side of his face…flattened against the road,†and every single time, a soldier tells him to stand up. He does so, shuffle forward as best as he can, and then falls again. It becomes clear to everyone that this man is in his final moments of life:
He was dead
The man was dead.
Just give him five more mnutes and he would surely fall into the German gutter and die. They would all let him, and they would all watch.
Then, one human.
Hans Hubermann.
I am proud of Hans, and of course, it makes sense that if anyone would do something so fearless and beautiful, it would be him, but upon reading his name here, I just stopped. I had to. For a second, I thought it would just be better if I didn’t read what he did. But I pressed on:
Papa reached into his paint cart and pulled something out. He made his way though the people, onto the road.
The Jew stood before him, expecting another handful of derision, but he watched with everyone else as Hans Hubermann held his hand out and presented a piece of bread, like magic.
I just stared at the page, a mixture of horror and joy swimming through me, knowing that this simple act was both a death sentence and a blessing. Bless you, Hans Hubermann, but WHAT ARE YOU DOING????
Other Jews walked past, all of them watching this small, futile miracle. They streamed by, like human water. That day, a few would reach the ocean. They would be handed a white cap.
Wading through, a soldier was soon at the scene of the crime. He studied the kneeling man and Papa, and he looked at the crowd. After another moment’s thought, he took the whip from his belt and began.
Oh god, I can’t. This is probably the only scene so far in the whole book that I cannot read a second time. I don’t even want to type out Hans’s whipping. It hurts to read it and I can’t even comprehend that an act so altruistic and gorgeous can make me feel such dread. The worst part?
Silver eyes were pelted then.
A cart was turned over and paint flowed onto the street.
They called him a Jew lover.
Others were silent, helping him back to safety.
I don’t know what this means anymore. I don’t know what to think or expect, and I certainly could never have guessed that this is what would be the undoing of all of their lives. And it has to be, right?
Hans Hubermann leaned forward, arms outstretched against a house wall. He was suddenly overwhelmed by what had just happened.
There was an image, fast and hot.
33 Himmel Street—its basement.
NO. NO NO NO NO NO. I HAD FORGOTTEN ABOUT THIS ENTIRELY. Oh my god, everything has to unravel now, doesn’t it?
“What was I thinking?†His eyes closed tighter and opened again. His overalls creased. There was paint and blood on his hands. And bread crumbs. How different from the bread of summer. “Oh my god, Liesel, what have I done?â€
Yes.
I must agree.
What had Papa done?
Oh, christ. Oh my god, this is seriously horrifying. FUCK.
CH. 59: PEACE
At just after 11 p.m. that same night, Max Vandenburg walked up Himmel Street with a suitcase full of food and warm clothes. German air was in his lungs. The yellow stars were on fire. When he made it to Frau Diller’s, he looked back one last time to number thirty-three. He could not see the figure in the kitchen window, but she could see him. She waved and he did not wave back.
Max left. Max left 33 Himmel Street. It’s probably the best for the Hubermann’s, but I can’t deal with this. Holy shit.
That’s when the silence begins to creep into the house, the silence of guilt and shame and terror and of the uncertainty remaining after Hans gave a Jew a piece of bread.
Somewhere near Munich, a German Jew was making his way through the darkness. An arrangement had been made to meet Hans Hubermann in four days (that is, if he wasn’t taken away). It was at a place far down the Amper, where a broken bridge leaned among the river and trees.
He would make it there, but he would not stay longer than a few minutes.
I’m strugging to think of anything to say about this instead of simply being shocked into speechlessness. Max left. Max is not following the plan.
The only thing to be found there when Papa arrived four days later was a note under a rock, at the base of a tree. It was addressed to nobody and contained ony one sentence.
* * * THE LAST WORDS OF * * *
MAX VANDENBURG
You’ve done enough.
It was at this point that my morning in a coffee shop was overwhelmed by tears brimming my eyes, knowing in my heart that Death probably wasn’t misleading us, that this would be the last the family at 33 Himmel Street would ever hear of Max, that Max would drift on and try to survive, but he would fail.
Now more than ever, 33 Himmel Street was a place of silence, and it did not go unnoticed that the Duden Dictionary was completely and utterly mistaken, especially with its related words.
Silence was not quiet or calm, and it was not peace.
Well, I was definitely unprepared for all of this.
I think it's amazing the way Zusak gets us to simultaneously love a character for doing an incredibly altruistic thing, and simultaneously make us hate him for being so stupid and ruining everything, all with one action.
WHY HANS WHY???!!!
It must be said that this chapter–this amazing, terrifying, horrifying chapter–is lifted straight from real life.
Markus Zusak, when asked about his inspiration for The Book Thief:
That last line helps explain what Death meant by "I'm not sure that's such a good thing" in reference to the old man feeling like a human when he dies.
Thanks for posting this!
that is an amazing story. Thanks for sharing that!
"Silence was not quiet or calm, and it was not peace." I knew that Max would be leaving soon, but I forgot how abruptly he left. The silence of Liesel's own basement is so much worse than the silence in the bomb shelter. A nice bit of foreshadowing on Zusak's part.
The line "they would each greet me like their last true friend, with bones like smoke and their souls trailing behind" is terrific and sad.
There are no words. Oh Hans. I love you, but oh god. Oh god, Max. Max. Oh god. It's just so futile and awful and miserable.
There's something akin to the snowman here, only a thousand times worse. I want Hans to say "Why did I have to give that man some bread?" and Max, to his enduring credit, to be adamant. "Hans, you had to."
I do wish we'd seen how this was reported to Max, and what his response was. I can't even imagine how conflicted he would feel about everything. And oh god, Hans is going to get taken away isn't he? I can't even.
Also, I refuse to accept that this is the last we hear of Max Vandenburg. I will boycott life if it is.
I haven't been commenting on the last few reviews because of the Passover holiday as well as a difficult time I'm going through right now. As I mentioned in a comment several reviews ago, my paternal grandparents survived the holocaust. Upon liberation from the concentration camps they made their way first to Holland and then to the U.S. I mentioned in that comment that my grandfather died many years ago but that my grandmother is still alive, though she's never talked much–to me, anyway–about what she went through.
My grandmother is about to die. She had a massive stroke a few days ago and will not–barring any miracles–regain consciousness. The only real question now is whether it'll be in minutes, hours, or days from now.
I feel sad confessing to this, but I never had much of a personal relationship with this grandmother. Obviously I'm sad about what's going on and I'm having a hard time with how it's affecting various family members. But a big part of why the thought of her dying has always saddened me is because she carries with her such an important and horrific part of history that so many people out there don't understand or, worse, deny. There are so few survivors left, and soon there won't be any.
The Book Thief is a tiny bit of a comfort to me on two levels.The first is that although Zusak writes relatively little about the Jews and the concentration camps and prisons, the little he does write carries more emotion that most holocaust books out there do. There's nothing like having experienced these things yourself or personally knowing people who did, but I think this book is doing something very, very important and I'm glad to know it will continue to do so, as more people discover it and love it and pass it on to their friends and family. Yesterday's and today's chapters are among those that I'm so grateful for.
The second tiny bit of comfort is absolutely ridiculous, but the fact is that any time I re-read this book, I feel a little better about death. After I read it for the first time, I raved to my friends, "I love Death!" I'm an anxious person, and I'm constantly worried about my own death and the deaths of my loved ones, but whenever I read The Book Thief, for a short time after I feel like death is kind and peaceful. The way Death gently carries people's souls and even refers to it, at one point, as "saving" them, is comforting to me.
I really am incredibly grateful to Zusak for having given me this book.
P.S. Um, sorry for the personal nature of this comment.
Please don't apologise for getting personal. It's wonderful that you have done, and your comment was very moving. All best wishes to your family.
… and I got lost in my comment, I forgot – I want to echo Ellalalalala and say don't apologise for getting personal, at all.
No apologies needed, this is a moving comment. I'm sorry you and your family are going though this. I'm glad that The Book Thief has been a comfort to you.
Oh, please don't apologize. I think many of us, myself included, have found an opportunity to express troubling or difficult personal matters in a safe and very accepting environment through this site.
I'm sorry for this sad time for your family. I'll be wishing peace for your grandmother, your family, and you.
As others have said, this is sort of THE place to get personal. I MEAN COME ON LIKE HALF THE INTERNET KNOWS MOST OF THE DETAILS OF MY LIFE 'ROUND THESE PARTS.
Thank you for sharing. 🙂
I'm not Jewish at all (no Jewish antecedents as far as I am aware) so I feel a bit, um…. well almost patronising saying to you that I agree about how Zusak portrays the Holocaust, but nevertheless, I do. I read The Boy In Striped Pyjamas around the same time that I read TBT for the first time, and although it's much more closely focused on the Jews I actually felt less emotion reading that than I did the snippets in TBT. Maybe it's just me but this just feels much more real and much more affecting to me, and so for me, it carries greater weight, whereas TBISP feels almost manufactured to produce emotion (like some Hollywood films). I never respond well to that, if something feels fake I find it very offputting. Zusak I found incredibly affecting…
Um. If this makes any sense at all…
Yes, I agree. TBT is "Just a Small Story" , but small allows an intimaticy that big indepth works do not. You can hear and feel the three trucks fulls of Jews marching on your street. The concept of trainloads is overwhelming, and incomprehensable. I too hate manufactured stories. Point by point to the target audience. Some are acutally very good but I cannot stomach force fed stories.
Completely agree. Yes.
Frankly, I think we all want to thank you for sharing this with us. Every time people like you tell us about how this book affects them, it adds another layer of depth to it. It moves us. And please don't apologise for telling us about how it relates to you personally, because it's comments like these that will stick with us.
I'll be praying for your grandmother. (I hope you don't mind and that it's not offensive or anything.)
Thanks–not at all offensive.__And, by the way, yesterday afternoon while I was thinking about her impending death, my iPod, which I had on shuffle, played "Into The West," from Return of the King. The lyrics, which are about death as much as about the Grey Havens, were eerily appropriate. Based on your username, I thought you might appreciate that 🙂
Well, I was definitely unprepared for all of this.
Well. Weren't we all 🙁 🙁 🙁
They were going to Dachau, to concentrate.
This line is beautiful and horrible. I had to stop and read it a few times before I could move on.
Hans just broke my heart in this chapter. I was cheering him on and going no, no, no at the same time. Why would he do something so stupid? But how could he not? This whole chapter was just ugh
It's so horrible that when Hans does what everyone assume they would do if they were in the same situation – what, in fact, is the instinctive way to handle a thing like that for any human being who has a heart – all we can feel is horror. Because we know he should not have done that. We know it can't lead to anything good.
And it's horrible, also, that we know we probably wouldn't do what he did, and we would justify our inaction with that very reason: it won't do any good. It will only make it worse. For me. For anyone I love. And that's probably what the Nazis and their likes did the most effective; by taking human love and use it as a weapon. To prevent them from helping a stranger, threaten their family and friends. They knew, of course, that if enough people gathered together against them, they wouldn't last. And no one did.
Everyone was alone. Because no one could know if anyone would help them if they didn't fall in line. The human mind sometimes is a dark and scary place – and easy to control.
Beautiful and terrible points. Thanks for saying it so well.
THIS TIMES A MILLION.
It is so utterly agonising that it didn't do 'any good'. The old man was beaten and won't have lived long afterwards. Max had to take his chances and leave. Hans is surely about to be dragged off by the Gestapo. Anyone who sympathised with Hans has to have double his strength to imitate him in the future.
But what is 'any good' in this situation? It was still an incredibly good and important act. Maybe he had to do it.
I hope against hope that I would do what he did… but I don't think I would have done, unless all my loved ones were already dead. But I also hope against hope that I wouldn't do what he did if I was hiding a Jewish man in my basement. And I hope I would be hiding a Jewish man in my basement.
I'm crying at my desk at work after reading Max's note. I really need to re-read this book; you're reminding me of every reason I thought you'd love it.
These chapters were so hard to read. I love Hans even more, if possible, for doing something so right to help someone in need. But I'm so scared that he's signed the warrant for himself and Max and his whole family. Of course this means Max had to go. But where can he go!? I'm just terrified for pretty much every character at this point. It's horrible, but brilliantly done.
Firstly, you're going to be the next JK Rowling. she wrote in cafes too! 😀
Even good actions can have bad consequences. 🙁
Good bye, Max. 🙁
I finished this book last night (had to) and Zusak really has a way with words. I think this is the most interesting book I've read, just in terms of how he uses language. Glad you finally got me to read it! I have been wanting to read it for a while and just wasn't picking it up.
Again, I recommend Mark Reads Chaos Walking after this. The author of those books doesn't use his words quite as well, but he has a really interesting (and different) first person narrative in his books. You seem to be doing a lot of first person POVs (though, that's not your fault. Most YA seems to be written in it lately!), and the Chaos Walking series will provide you with another interesting take on the POV again. 🙂
Thank you (I think…) for making me re-read this book. You are so not prepared, still. All the sads.
A penguin being tickled, because there needs to be something to balance out all the tears here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4K3MXY5ITxQ
Made my day!!
God, this book just has so much heart. It's like a living thing to me sometimes, how powerful it is.
Mark, would you consider reviewing a childrens' book trilogy, Once, Then and Now by Morris Gleitzman? It's about a Jewish orphaned boy, and German girl who survive the Holocaust. I believe the books are written from childrens' perspective for children.
I really hope this isn't the last we see of Max. It seemed like this all happened so fast. I feel so bad of Hans but also proud of him for standing up for what he believes in. He obviously just acted in the moment without thinking about the consequences and how he just painted a big target on his back. I'm wondering if this is going to cause a change in his relationship with Liesel since she was so close to Max and he was the one who caused Max to leave, even though it wasn't intentional.
SO. I have finally caught up, work and university made it impossible for me to read. I had like four weeks of chapters and reviews to read, and I crammed them in two days. AND DAMMIT I FUCKING LOVE THIS BOOK. Seriously, I tried to explain what the book was about to my family and I had no words. All I could say were random incoherent sentences like "BOOKS!", "WW2", "Death is the narrator!". My family now thinks I'm unhealthily obsessed with this book.
AND I'M GOING TO ADD MAX TO THE LIST OF CHARACTERS THAT LIVE IN MY WONDERFUL ALTERNATE REALITY WHERE EVERYONE IS ALIVE AND HEALTHY AND THERE ARE RAINBOWS AND BUNNIES AND NOTHING HURTS.
THAT IS ALL.
This book… Bloody hell…