THE SNOWMAN
For Liesel Meminger, the early stages of 1942 could be summed up like this:
She became thirteen years of age. Her chest was still flat. She had not yet bled. The young man from her basement was now in her bed.
Q&A
How did Max
Vandenburg end up
in Liesel’s bed?
He fell.
Opinions varied, but Rosa Hubermann claimed that the seeds were sown at Christmas the previous year.
December 24 had been hungry and cold, but there was a major bonus—no lengthy visitations. Hans Junior was simultaneously shooting at Russians and maintaining his strike on family interaction. Trudy could only stop by on the weekend before Christmas, for a few hours. She was going away with her family of employment. A holiday for a very different class of Germany.
On Christmas Eve, Liesel brought down a double handful of snow as a present for Max. “Close your eyes,” she’d said. “Hold out your hands.” As soon as the snow was transferred, Max shivered and laughed, but he still didn’t open his eyes. He only gave the snow a quick taste, allowing it to sink into his lips.
“Is this today’s weather report?”
Liesel stood next to him.
Gently, she touched his arm.
He raised it again to his mouth. “Thanks, Liesel.”
It was the beginning of the greatest Christmas ever. Little food. No presents. But there was a snowman in their basement.
After delivering the first handfuls of snow, Liesel checked that no one else was outside, then proceeded to take as many buckets and pots out as she could. She filled them with the mounds of snow and ice that blanketed the small strip of world that was Himmel Street. Once they were full, she brought them in and carried them down to the basement.
All things being fair, she first threw a snowball at Max and collected a reply in the stomach. Max even threw one at Hans Hubermann as he made his way down the basement steps.
“Arschloch!” Papa yelped. “Liesel, give me some of that snow. A whole bucket!” For a few minutes, they all forgot. There was no more yelling or calling out, but they could not contain the small snatches of laughter. They were only humans, playing in the snow, in a house.
Papa looked at the snow-filled pots. “What do we do with the rest of it?”
“A snowman,” Liesel replied. “We have to make a snowman.”
Papa called out to Rosa.
The usual distant voice was hurled back. “What is it now, Saukerl?”
“Come down here, will you!”
When his wife appeared, Hans Hubermann risked his life by throw
ing a most excellent snowball at her. Just missing, it disintegrated when it hit the wall, and Mama had an excuse to swear for a long time without taking a breath. Once she recovered, she came down and helped them. She even brought the buttons for the eyes and nose and some string for a snowman smile. Even a scarf and hat were provided for what was really only a two-foot man of snow.
“A midget,” Max had said.
“What do we do when it melts?” Liesel asked.
Rosa had the answer. “You mop it up, Saumensch, in a hurry.”
Papa disagreed. “It won’t melt.” He rubbed his hands and blew into them. “It’s freezing down here.”