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Unformatted text preview: f hair, sitting casually against the wall.
With a clean-shaven face and lopsided yet neatly combed hair, he had walked out of that building a new man. In
fact, he walked out German. Hang on a second, he was German. Or more to the point, he had been.
In his stomach was the electric combination of nourishment and nausea.
He walked to the station.
He showed his ticket and identity card, and now he sat in a small box compartment of the train, directly in
That was what he dreaded to hear.
It was bad enough when he was stopped on the platform. He knew he could not withstand it twice.
The shivering hands.
The smell—no, the stench—of guilt.
He simply couldn’t bear it again.
Fortunately, they came through early and only asked for the ticket, and now all that was left was a window of
small towns, the congregations of lights, and the woman snoring on the other side of the compartment.
For most of the journey, he made his way through the book, trying never to look up.
The words lolled about in his mouth as he read them.
Strangely, as he turned the pages and progressed through the chapters, it was only two words he ever tasted.
Mein Kampf. My struggle—
The title, over and over again, as the train prattled on, from one German town to the next.
Mein Kampf. Of all the things to save him. TRICKSTERS
You could argue that Liesel Meminger had it easy. She did have it easy compared to Max Vandenburg.
Certainly, her brother practically died in her arms. Her mother abandoned her.
But anything was better than being a Jew.
In the time leading up to Max’s arrival, another washing customer was lost, this time the Weingartners. The
obligatory Schimpferei occurred in the kitchen, and Liesel composed herself with the fact that there were still
two left, and even better, one of them was the mayor, the wife, the books.
As for Liesel’s other activities, she was still causing havoc with Rudy Steiner. I would even suggest that they
were polishing their wicked ways.
They made a few more...
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- Winter '13