Some would say it was a miracle that she ever owned that book at all.

Mein Kampf.

It was the third book of great importance to reach Liesel Meminger; only this time, she did not steal it. The book showed up at 33 Himmel Street perhaps an hour after Liesel had drifted back to sleep from her obligatory nightmare.

The book penned by the Fuhrer himself.

When it had cooled sufficiently, they both watched it a moment, waiting for the words.

They were nearly halfway back to Himmel Street when Liesel could no longer take it. She bent over and removed the smoking book, allowing it to hop sheepishly from hand to hand.

He reached over and grabbed hold of The Shoulder Shrug. No explanation was required. It was obvious that the girl had stolen it from the fire. The book was hot and wet, blue and red -- embarrassed -- and Hans Hubermann opened it up. Pages thirty-eight and thirty-nine. "Another one?"

Its journey began on the way home, the night of the fire.

Liesel rubbed her ribs.

Papa: "What the hell do you call that?"

Liesel, by comparison, did not speak. Perhaps it was her first realization that criminality spoke best for itself. Irrefutable.

"Of course."

Yes.

Like most humans in the grip of revelation, Hans Hubermann stood with a certain numbness. The next words would either be shouted or would not make it past his teeth. Also, they would most likely be a repetition of the last thing he'd said, only moments earlier.

Another one.

The man was seeing something. He was watching it quickly, end to end, like a race, but it was too high and too far away for Liesel to see. She begged him. "Come on, Papa, what is it?" She fretted that he would tell Mama about the book. As humans do, this was all about her. "Are you going to tell?"

Papa studied the title, probably wondering exactly what kind of threat this book posed to the hearts and minds of the German people. He handed it back. Something happened.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph." Each word fell away at its edges. It broke off and formed the next.

"Looks like," Papa suggested, "I don't need to trade any more cigarettes, do I? Not when you're stealing these things as fast as I can buy them."

"Of course."

The criminal could no longer resist. "What, Papa? What is it?"

This time, his voice was like a fist, freshly banged on the table.

Before I show you, I think we should first take a look at what he was seeing prior to his decision.

First, he sees the girl's books: The Grave Digger's Handbook, Faust the Dog, The Lighthouse, and now The Shoulder Shrug. Next is a kitchen and a volatile Hans Junior, regarding those books on the table, where the girl often reads. He speaks: "And what trash is this girl reading?" His son repeats the question three times, after which he makes his suggestion for more appropriate reading material.

She raised the book. "This." She brandished it in the air, as if waving a gun.

"So what are you going to do?"

"You know. Are you going to tell Mama?"

What marvelous act was Hans Hubermann about to produce from the thin Munich Street air?

"Sorry?"

She hated questions like that. They forced her to admit an ugly truth, to reveal her own filthy, thieving nature. "Because I stole again."

That was the question.

Hans Hubermann still watched, tall and distant. "About what?"

PAPA'S FAST-PACED VISIONS

Papa was bewildered. "Why would I?"

Papa bent himself to a crouching position, then rose and placed his hand on her head. He stroked her hair with his rough, long fingers and said, "Of course not, Liesel. You are safe."

"I promise."

"Listen, Liesel." Papa placed his arm around her and walked her on. "This is our secret, this book. We'll read it at night or in the basement, just like the others -- but you have to promise me something."

The night was smooth and still. Everything listened. "If I ever ask you to keep a secret for me, you will do it."

"Anything, Papa."

"Good. Now come on. If we're any later, Mama will kill us, and we don't want that, do we? No more book stealing then, huh?"

What she didn't know until later was that within the next few days, her foster father managed to trade some cigarettes for another book, although this one was not for her. He knocked on the door of the Nazi Party office in Molching and took the opportunity to ask about his membership application. Once this was discussed, he proceeded to give them his last scraps of money and a dozen cigarettes. In return, he received a used copy of Mein Kampf.

"Thank you." Hans nodded.

"Happy reading," said one of the party members.

Liesel grinned.

From the street, he could still hear the men inside. One of the voices was particularly clear. "He will never be approved," it said, "even if he buys a hundred copies of Mein Kampf." The statement was unanimously agreed upon.

"Thank you," he repeated, to which a passerby inquired as to what he'd said.

Hans held the book in his right hand, thinking about postage money, a cigaretteless existence, and the foster daughter who had given him this brilliant idea.

With typical affability, Hans replied, "Nothing, my good man, nothing at all. Heil Hitler," and he walked down Munich Street, holding the pages of the Fuhrer.

There must have been a good share of mixed feelings at that moment, for Hans Hubermann's idea had not only sprung from Liesel, but from his son. Did he already fear he'd never see him again? On the other hand, he was also enjoying the ecstasy of an idea, not daring just yet to envision its complications, dangers, and vicious absurdities. For now, the idea was enough. It was indestructible. Transforming it into reality, well, that was something else altogether. For now, though, let's let him enjoy it.

We'll give him seven months.

Then we come for him.

And oh, how we come.