Chapter Text
In my line of work I have seen many things, I have heard many things, some clever, some laced with idiocy, and some filled to the brim with a killing and corrosive “To forget oneself is the greatest crime of all, for when we forget… we are no longer human… We are monsters masquerading as men.” a wise man once said as I lifted his soul from his lifeless body, but this is not his story… no, this is a very different story. This is a story of three people who have led very different lives but were drawn together by one thing… destruction.
This is a story of a man that hides in the dark, rationing what he can… and eating what he cannot. He has not seen the light of day for months, his skin was pale and his bones were visible. Though his thin, worn clothing hid this fact, draped off of him like curtains on a window. However, most importantly, he was good… much better than most that you find. He had lived a life, he had lived a half life… one of shadows, fear, and mistrust of those around him. The constant paranoia that consumed his very existence, and it would likely never go away. He was a man with hair like twigs, and then hair like feathers. The grace of a bird… and the resolve of a bullet, he would not give up so easily, he would fight. Out of thirteen… he had won three, despite the seemingly impossible odds he had carried on fighting. Whether it was honour, dignity, stubbornness, or something completely different, he refused to give up. This was a man who had fought the fuhrer. When his soul came to me he was wracked with guilt and regret, for leaving his family, for leaving Himmel street on that fateful night, for not being with Rosa and Hans as they crawled off of this mortal coil to the world that lies beyond. He was a man who was determined to hit me in the face when I came for him… but he came peacefully when I took him, that does not mean he did not hit me in the face when I tried to come for him each and every time before the night when I finally succeeded. For a man to cheat death is unusual but multiple times is impossible… well impossible for everyone except the Jewish fistfighter… Max Vandenburg.
This is also the story of a girl that basks in the sun, drinking in its glory, and healing in its golden rays. She was by no stretch of the imagination wealthy, but she had never had to ration, never had to devour what meagre food supply she could find. Her clothes were not new, but they were not worn or ill fitting. However, most importantly, she was good… much better than most that you find. She had not yet lived, in her short life she had led it full of naivety and privilege, but it had also been full of respect for those around her. She had spent her years believing that there would be goodness… and maybe she wouldn’t be completely wrong. She was perfectly German, with her blonde hair, but at the same time she was perfectly hated. Communist… that is the word that echoed in the empty spaces that she visited. Was she a communist… no, no she was not. However, that did not stop the cruel, acidic word from being thrown about. When her soul came to me, peacefully in sleep, she was content in her end. She had spread her message of peace through her articles… through her books. She taught people to love each other. As with all people she had regrets, perhaps more than most, and they weighed on her. However, she had come to accept it as a part of her life, as a sign that she was still alive, that she was still fighting. For the book thief, when the gates of thievery had opened to let her in… the gates to healing had done the same thing… Finally, Lisel Meminger was healing and she was determined to keep doing just that until I came to fetch her… and she had done just that.
Finally, this is the story of a father that moves between both, he lives in the sun, but has known grief and loss in his long life. He has had to ration, but not anymore. He has had ill fitting and well fitting clothing. He has been wealthy… he has been impoverished… he had hidden… and he had been proud. Furthermore, he was good… much better than most that you find. However, most importantly, he had lived a full life. A life of mistakes, mistakes and triumphs… and music… he lived a life so full of music. The man was tall as a tree, and as wise as one too, his silver metal eyes were full of life and love for everything around him. He smelt of paint and tobacco, and that was simply what people considered him, the music that swelled throughout his bones was as much a part of him as the greying curls piled atop his head. When I came for the man of music, his final thoughts were not of his children or his wife, nor the Jew that he had hidden and cared for so much. No, his final thoughts were of his accordion, itching for one final tune, one final play. Instead of guilt, regret or contempt, he was full of gratitude… to all of the people who had helped him survive for so long, for all the men and women who had helped him avoid me, and for all of his friends who had been running, not at an enemy… but straight into my dark embrace. He had so much more to give to this world before he was taken by the accidental bombing of the street called heaven. Hans Hubbermann was a man filled with life, who tried to understand everything… who tried to help everyone… who saw the best in everyone. There are very few people I wish that I could have spared, and he is one. But even I can’t control everything.
This is the story of them, many others, and them.
This is a story of love, loss, and redemption