Earlier, there had been a parade.

They were spurred on as they walked to who knows where.

People have defining moments, I suppose, especially when they're children. For some it's a Jesse Owens incident. For others it's a moment of bed-wetting hysteria:

The brown-shirted extremist members of the NSDAP (otherwise known as the Nazi Party) had marched down Munich Street, their banners worn proudly, their faces held high, as if on sticks. Their voices were full of song, culminating in a roaring rendition of "Deutschland uber Alles." "Germany over Everything."

It was late May 1939, and the night had been like most others. Mama shook her iron fist. Papa was out. Liesel cleaned the front door and watched the Himmel Street sky.

People on the street stood and watched, some with straight-armed salutes, others with hands that burned from applause. Some kept faces that were contorted by pride and rally like Frau Diller, and then there were the scatterings of odd men out, like Alex Steiner, who stood like a human-shaped block of wood, clapping slow and dutiful. And beautiful. Submission.

As always, they were clapped.

In 1933, 90 percent of Germans showed unflinching support for Adolf Hitler.

There was a reason for that.

"Papa," she whispered, "Papa," and that was all. He could probably smell it.

Hans Hubermann belonged to the 10 percent.

When she woke up screaming, Liesel knew immediately that on this occasion, something had changed. A smell leaked out from under the sheets, warm and sickly. At first, she tried convincing herself that nothing had happened, but as Papa came closer and held her, she cried and admitted the fact in his ear.

On the footpath, Liesel stood with her papa and Rudy. Hans Hubermann wore a face with the shades pulled down.

In the night, Liesel dreamed like she always did. At first, she saw the brownshirts marching, but soon enough, they led her to a train, and the usual discovery awaited. Her brother was staring again.

SOME CRUNCHED NUMBERS

That leaves 10 percent who didn't.

"We take the sheets off," Papa said, and when he reached under and pulled at the fabric, something loosened and landed with a thud. A black book with silver writing on it came hurtling out and landed on the floor, between the tall man's feet.

He lifted her gently from the bed and carried her into the washroom. The moment came a few minutes later.

He looked at the girl, who timidly shrugged.

Then he read the title, with concentration, aloud: "The Grave Digger's Handbook."

"Yes, Papa."

"Is this yours?"

He looked down at it.

A patch of silence stood among them now. The man, the girl, the book. He picked it up and spoke soft as cotton.

A 2 A. M. CONVERSATION

So that's what it's called, Liesel thought.

"Do you want to read it?"

Again, "Yes, Papa."

"Well, we'd better read it, then."

Four years later, when she came to write in the basement, two thoughts struck Liesel about the trauma of wetting the bed. First, she felt extremely lucky that it was Papa who discovered the book. (Fortunately, when the sheets had been washed previously, Rosa had made Liesel strip the bed and make it up. "And be quick about it, Saumensch! Does it look like we've got all day?") Second, she was clearly proud of Hans Hubermann's part in her education. You wouldn't think it, she wrote, but it was not so much the school who helped me to read. It was Papa. People think he's not so smart, and it's true that he doesn't read too fast, but I would soon learn that words and writing actually saved his life once. Or at least, words and a man who taught him the accordion…

A tired smile. Metallic eyes, melting.

If only it was that easy.

"First things first," Hans Hubermann said that night. He washed the sheets and hung them up. "Now," he said upon his return. "Let's get this midnight class started."

The yellow light was alive with dust.

Liesel sat on cold clean sheets, ashamed, elated. The thought of bed-wetting prodded her, but she was going to read. She was going to read the book.

The excitement stood up in her.

But it didn't matter that he read slowly. If anything, it might have helped that his own reading pace was slower than average. Perhaps it would cause less frustration in coping with the girl's lack of ability.

Still, initially, Hans appeared a little uncomfortable holding the book and looking through it.

Visions of a ten-year-old reading genius were set alight.

"To tell you the truth," Papa explained upfront, "I am not such a good reader myself."

When he came over and sat next to her on the bed, he leaned back, his legs angling over the side. He examined the book again and dropped it on the blanket. "Now why would a nice girl like you want to read such a thing?"

Papa knew what to say, though. He always knew what to say.

She nodded, with great sincerity.

Again, Liesel shrugged. Had the apprentice been reading the complete works of Goethe or any other such luminary, that was what would have sat in front of them. She attempted to explain. "I -- when… It was sitting in the snow, and --" The soft-spoken words fell off the side of the bed, emptying to the floor like powder.

He ran a hand through his sleepy hair and said, "Well, promise me one thing, Liesel. If I die anytime soon, you make sure they bury me right."

"No skipping chapter six or step four in chapter nine." He laughed, as did the bed wetter. "Well, I'm glad that's settled. We can get on with it now."

Amplified by the still of night, the book opened -- a gust of wind.

He adjusted his position and his bones creaked like itchy floorboards. "The fun begins."

Looking back, Liesel could tell exactly what her papa was thinking when he scanned the first page of The Grave Digger's Handbook. As he realized the difficulty of the text, he was clearly aware that such a book was hardly ideal. There were words in there that he'd have trouble with himself. Not to mention the morbidity of the subject. As for the girl, there was a sudden desire to read it that she didn't even attempt to understand. On some level, perhaps she wanted to make sure her brother was buried right. Whatever the reason, her hunger to read that book was as intense as any ten-year-old human could experience.

Chapter one was called "The First Step: Choosing the Right Equipment." In a short introductory passage, it outlined the kind of material to be covered in the following twenty pages. Types of shovels, picks, gloves, and so forth were itemized, as well as the vital need to properly maintain them. This grave digging was serious.

As Papa flicked through it, he could surely feel Liesel's eyes on him. They reached over and gripped him, waiting for something, anything, to slip from his lips.

"Here." He shifted again and handed her the book. "Look at this page and tell me how many words you can read."

She looked at it -- and lied.

This might be harder than I thought.

She caught him thinking it, just for a moment.

"Read some for me." But of course, she couldn't. When he made her point out any words she could read and actually say them, there were only three -- the three main German words for "the." The whole page must have had two hundred words on it.

"About half."

He lifted himself forward, rose to his feet, and walked out.

In the left corner of an upturned piece of sandpaper, he drew a square of perhaps an inch and shoved a capital A inside it. In the other corner, he placed a lowercase one. So far, so good.

As they progressed through the alphabet, Liesel's eyes grew larger. She had done this at school, in the kindergarten class, but this time was better. She was the only one there, and she was not gigantic. It was nice to watch Papa's hand as he wrote the words and slowly constructed the primitive sketches.

This time, when he came back, he said, "Actually, I have a better idea." In his hand, there was a thick painter's pencil and a stack of sandpaper. "Let's start from scratch." Liesel saw no reason to argue.

"A," Liesel said.

She smiled. "Apfel."

He wrote the word in big letters and drew a misshapen apple under it. He was a housepainter, not an artist. When it was complete, he looked over and said, "Now for B."

"A for what?"

"Ah, come on, Liesel," he said when she struggled later on. "Something that starts with S. It's easy. I'm very disappointed in you."

"A few more words?"

"Papa!" she whispered. "I have no eyes!"

He switched off the light, came back, and sat in the chair. In the darkness, Liesel kept her eyes open. She was watching the words.

That was when the word struck her face like a slap. A reflex grin. "SAUMENSCH!" she shouted, and Papa roared with laughter, then quieted.

"Shhh, we have to be quiet." But he roared all the same and wrote the word, completing it with one of his sketches.

He was definite. "Enough. When you wake up, I'll play accordion for you."

"Good night, Papa."

With the alphabet completed and studied a dozen times, Papa leaned over and said, "Enough for tonight?"

He patted the girl's hair. She'd fallen into his trap. "With a smile like that," Hans Hubermann said, "you don't need eyes." He hugged her and then looked again at the picture, with a face of warm silver. "Now for T."

"Thanks, Papa."

"Good night." A quiet, one-syllable laugh. "Good night, Saumensch."

"Come on!" His whisper played with her. "Think of Mama."

She couldn't think.

ATYPICAL HANS HUBERMANN ARTWORK