On the ration cards of Nazi Germany, there was no listing for punishment, but everyone had to take their turn. For some it was death in a foreign country during the war. For others it was poverty and guilt when the war was over, when six million discoveries were made throughout Europe. Many people must have seen their punishments coming, but only a small percentage welcomed it. One such person was Hans Hubermann.

Your basement should not be hiding one.

You do not help Jews on the street.

We are delighted to inform you that your application to join the NSDAP has been approved…

PAPER IN THE KITCHEN

At first, his punishment was conscience. His oblivious unearthing of Max Vandenburg plagued him. Liesel could see it sitting next to his plate as he ignored his dinner, or standing with him at the bridge over the Amper. He no longer played the accordion. His silver-eyed optimism was wounded and motionless. That was bad enough, but it was only the beginning.

One Wednesday in early November, his true punishment arrived in the mailbox. On the surface, it appeared to be good news.

There was.

"The Nazi Party?" Rosa asked. "I thought they didn't want you."

"Mama, the soup's burning."

Liesel had just returned from reading with Frau Holtzapfel. The kitchen was heavy with soup steam and the vacant faces of Hans and Rosa Hubermann. Papa was seated. Mama stood above him as the soup started to burn.

On Friday, a statement arrived to say that Hans Hubermann was to be drafted into the German army. A member of the party would be happy to play a role in the war effort, it concluded. If he wasn't, there would certainly be consequences.

"There has to be more."

"They didn't."

He was not being put on trial for treason or for helping Jews or anything of the sort. Hans Hubermann was being rewarded, at least as far as some people were concerned. How could this be possible?

"God, please don't send me to Russia," Papa said.

"What?"

Papa sat down and read the letter again.

Liesel hurried across and took it from the stove. "The soup." When she'd successfully rescued it, she turned and viewed her foster parents. Faces like ghost towns. "Papa, what's wrong?"

In truth, Liesel only saw the typewriter later, when she wrote. She wondered how many letters like that were sent out as punishment to Germany's Hans Hubermanns and Alex Steiners -- to those who helped the helpless, and those who refused to let go of their children.

THE CONTENTS OF LIESEL MEMINGER'S IMAGINATION

He handed her the letter and her hands began to shake as she made her way through it. The words had been punched forcefully into the paper.

In the shell-shocked kitchen, somewhere near the stove, there's an image of a lonely, overworked typewriter. It sits in a distant, near-empty room. Its keys are faded and a blank sheet waits patiently upright in the assumed position. It wavers slightly in the breeze from the window. Coffee break is nearly over. A pile of paper the height of a human stands casually by the door. It could easily be smoking.

Their cities were being bombed.

More people were needed, as were ways of attaining them, and in most cases, the worst possible jobs would be given to the worst possible people.

It was a sign of the German army's growing desperation.

They were losing in Russia.

Rosa had a small rip beneath her right eye, and within the minute, her cardboard face was broken. Not down the center, but to the right. It gnarled down her cheek in an arc, finishing at her chin.

As her eyes scanned the paper, Liesel could see through the punched letter holes to the wooden table. Words like compulsory and duty were beaten into the page. Saliva was triggered. It was the urge to vomit. "What is this?"

Liesel looked now to Mama.

Five days later, when she continued her habit of looking at the weather, she did not get a chance to see the sky.

She looks up. She speaks in a whisper. "The sky is soft today, Max. The clouds are so soft and sad, and…" She looks away and crosses her arms. She thinks of her papa going to war and grabs her jacket at each side of her body. "And it's cold, Max. It's so cold…"

TWENTY MINUTES LATER: A GIRL ON HIMMEL STREET

Papa's answer was quiet. "I thought I taught you to read, my girl." He did not speak with anger or sarcasm. It was a voice of vacancy, to match his face.

"Come on, Liesel. Rudy will be out soon."

Next door, Barbara Steiner was sitting on the front step with her neatly combed hair. She was smoking a cigarette and shivering. On her way over, Liesel was interrupted by the sight of Kurt. He came out and sat with his mother. When he saw the girl stop, he called out.

After a short pause, she continued walking toward the step.

Barbara smoked. A wrinkle of ash was teetering at the end of the cigarette. Kurt took it, ashed it, inhaled, then gave it back.

A group of kids was kicking a ball, up near Frau Diller's.

Quietness then.

"Our papa's going, too," Kurt said.

When the cigarette was done, Rudy's mother looked up. She ran a hand through her tidy lines of hair.

"When they come and ask you for one of your children," Barbara Steiner explained, to no one in particular, "you're supposed to say yes."