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THE BREAD EATERS
Strangely, one of Liesel’s favorite distractions was Frau Holtzapfel. The reading sessions included Wednesday now as well, and they’d finished the water-abridged version of The Whistler and were on to The Dream Carrier. The old woman sometimes made tea or gave Liesel some soup that was infinitely better than Mama’s. Less watery.
Between October and December, there had been one more parade of Jews, with one to follow. As on the previous occasion, Liesel had rushed to Munich Street, this time to see if Max Vandenburg was among them. She was torn between the obvious urge to see him — to know that he was still alive — and an absence that could mean any number of things, one of which being freedom.
In mid-December, a small collection of Jews and other miscreants was brought down Munich Street again, to Dachau. Parade number three.
Rudy walked purposefully down Himmel Street and returned from number thirty-five with a small bag and two bikes.
“You game, Saumensch?”
Six stale pieces of bread, broken into quarters.
They pedaled ahead of the parade, toward Dachau, and stopped at an empty piece of road. Rudy passed Liesel the bag. “Take a handful.”
“Pm not sure this is a good idea.”
He slapped some bread onto her palm. “Your papa did.”
How could she argue? It was worth a whipping.
“If we’re fast, we won’t get caught.” He started distributing the bread. “So move it, Saumensch.”