In November 1940, when Max Vandenburg arrived in the kitchen of 33 Himmel Street, he was twenty-four years old. His clothes seemed to weigh him down, and his tiredness was such that an itch could break him in two. He stood shaking and shaken in the doorway.

Max Vandenburg, the Jew, closed his eyes and drooped a little further into safety. The very idea of it was ludicrous, but he accepted it nonetheless.

Hans checked that the curtains were properly closed. Not a crack could be showing. As he did so, Max could no longer bear it. He crouched down and clasped his hands.

Liesel's papa walked to the front door and opened it. Cautiously, he looked outside, each way, and returned. The verdict was "nothing."

Of course, the question was really, "Will you still help me?"

The darkness stroked him.

"Do you still play the accordion?"

His fingers smelled of suitcase, metal, Mein Kampf, and survival.

It was only when he lifted his head that the dim light from the hallway reached his eyes. He noticed the pajamaed girl, standing there, in full view.

She lingered a moment before her feet dragged from behind. When she stopped and stole one last look at the foreigner in the kitchen, she could decipher the outline of a book on the table.

"Everything's fine, Liesel," Papa said. "Go back to bed."

For the next hour, the good girl lay wide awake in bed, listening to the quiet fumbling of sentences in the kitchen.

"Papa?"

One wild card was yet to be played.

Max stood up, like a struck match. The darkness swelled now, around him.

"Don't be afraid," she heard Papa whisper. "She's a good girl."