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.

For Liesel Meminger, the early stages of 1942 could be summed up like this:

He fell.

How did Max Vandenburg end up in Liesel's bed?

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.

Q&A

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.

He raised it again to his mouth. "Thanks, Liesel."

"Is this today's weather report?"

Liesel stood next to him.

"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.

Gently, she touched his arm.

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.

It was the beginning of the greatest Christmas ever. Little food. No presents. But there was a snowman in their basement.

Papa called out to Rosa.

"A midget," Max had said.

Melt it did, though, but somewhere in each of them, that snowman was still upright. It must have been the last thing they saw that Christmas Eve when they finally fell asleep. There was an accordion in their ears, a snowman in their eyes, and for Liesel, there was the thought of Max's last words before she left him by the fire.

Rosa had the answer. "You mop it up, Saumensch, in a hurry."

The usual distant voice was hurled back. "What is it now, Saukerl?"

When his wife appeared, Hans Hubermann risked his life by throwing 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.

"Come down here, will you!"

"A snowman," Liesel replied. "We have to make a snowman."

"What do we do when it melts?" Liesel asked.

Papa disagreed. "It won't melt." He rubbed his hands and blew into them. "It's freezing down here."

Papa looked at the snow-filled pots. "What do we do with the rest of it?"

All through January, he managed to hold himself together, but by early February, Max was in worrisome shape. He would struggle to wake up next to the fire, sleeping well into the morning instead, his mouth distorted and his cheekbones starting to swell. When asked, he said he was fine.

CHRISTMAS GREETINGS FROM MAX VANDENBURG

"Often I wish this would all be over, Liesel, but then somehow you do something like walk down the basement steps with a snowman in your hands."

Unfortunately, that night signaled a severe downslide in Max's health. The early signs were innocent enough, and typical. Constant coldness. Swimming hands. Increased visions of boxing with the Fuhrer. It was only when he couldn't warm up after his push-ups and sit-ups that it truly began to worry him. As close to the fire as he sat, he could not raise himself to any degree of approximate health. Day by day, his weight began to stumble off him. His exercise regimen faltered and fell apart, with his cheek against the surly basement floor.

In mid-February, a few days before Liesel was thirteen, he came to the fireplace on the verge of collapse. He nearly fell into the fire.

"Hans," he whispered, and his face seemed to cramp. His legs gave way and his head hit the accordion case.

Mama marched in behind them, in her waddlesome way.

Blankets in hand, Liesel watched.

Limp feet and hanging hair in the hallway. One shoe had fallen off him.

Papa's face was stretched with concern. His gray eyes clanged and he picked him up on his own. Max was light as a child. "Can't we put him here, in our bed?"

Rosa had already considered that. "No. We have to keep these curtains open in the day or else it looks suspicious."

At once, a wooden spoon fell into some soup and Rosa Hubermann was at his side. She held Max's head and barked across the room at Liesel, "Don't just stand there, get the extra blankets. Take them to your bed. And you!" Papa was next. "Help me pick him up and carry him to Liesel's room. Schnell!"

"Good point." Hans carried him out.

Once Max was in the bed, blankets were heaped on top and fastened around his body.

"Mama?"

"Move."

Liesel couldn't bring herself to say anything else.

She stepped closer, afraid of the answer. "Is he alive?"

Later on, she heard Hans and Rosa speaking in the night. Rosa made her sleep in their room, and she lay next to their bed, on the floor, on the mattress they'd dragged up from the basement. (There was concern as to whether it was infected, but they came to the conclusion that such thoughts were unfounded. This was no virus Max was suffering from, so they carried it up and replaced the sheet.)

"Now go."

In the hall, Papa hugged her.

"That damn snowman," she whispered. "I bet it started with the snowman -- fooling around with ice and snow in the cold down there."

Imagining the girl to be asleep, Mama voiced her opinion.

The bun nodded.

She desperately needed it.

"What?" The bun of Rosa Hubermann's hair was wound tight enough to frighten from behind. It seemed to tighten further when she repeated the question. "What, Liesel?"

Liesel nodded.

Rosa turned then and said something with great assurance. "Now listen to me, Liesel. I didn't take this man into my house to watch him die. Understand?"

For hours, she sat with him as he shivered and slept.

The colder he became, the more he melted.

He was the second snowman to be melting away before her eyes, only this one was different. It was a paradox.

Rosa Hubermann: 2

"Don't die," she whispered. "Please, Max, just don't die."

In the morning, Liesel brought him his sketchbook from the basement and placed it on the bedside table. She felt awful for having looked at it the previous year, and this time, she kept it firmly closed, out of respect.

In the course of the night, Max was visited seven times.

When Papa came in, she did not turn to face him but talked across Max Vandenburg, at the wall. "Why did I have to bring all that snow down?" she asked. "It started all of this, didn't it, Papa?" She clenched her hands, as if to pray. "Why did I have to build that snowman?"

MAX VANDENBURG'S VISITOR SCORE SHEET

Papa, to his enduring credit, was adamant. "Liesel," he said, "you had to."

Liesel Meminger: 3

Hans Hubermann: 2

Papa was more philosophical. "Rosa, it started with Adolf." He lifted himself. "We should check on him."