When Himmel Street was cleared, Liesel Meminger had nowhere to go. She was the girl they referred to as "the one with the accordion," and she was taken to the police, who were in the throes of deciding what to do with her.

She sat on a very hard chair. The accordion looked at her through the hole in the case.

The mayor drove.

It took three hours in the police station for the mayor and a fluffy-haired woman to show their faces. "Everyone says there's a girl," the lady said, "who survived on Himmel Street."

Ilsa sat with her in the back.

A policeman pointed.

Ilsa Hermann offered to carry the case, but Liesel held it firmly in her hand as they walked down the police station steps. A few blocks down Munich Street, there was a clear line separating the bombed from the fortunate.

The girl let her hold her hand on top of the accordion case, which sat between them.

It would have been easy to say nothing, but Liesel had the opposite reaction to her devastation. She sat in the exquisite spare room of the mayor's house and spoke and spoke -- to herself -- well into the night. She ate very little. The only thing she didn't do at all was wash.

On the day of the funerals, she still hadn't bathed, and Ilsa Hermann asked politely if she'd like to. Previously, she'd only shown her the bath and given her a towel.

For four days, she carried around the remains of Himmel Street on the carpets and floorboards of 8 Grande Strasse. She slept a lot and didn't dream, and on most occasions she was sorry to wake up. Everything disappeared when she was asleep.

People who were at the service of Hans and Rosa Hubermann always talked about the girl who stood there wearing a pretty dress and a layer of Himmel Street dirt. There was also a rumor that later in the day, she walked fully clothed into the Amper River and said something very strange.

Something about a kiss.

After that, there were weeks and months, and a lot of war. She remembered her books in the moments of worst sorrow, especially the ones that were made for her and the one that saved her life. One morning, in a renewed state of shock, she even walked back down to Himmel Street to find them, but nothing was left. There was no recovery from what had happened. That would take decades; it would take a long life.

Something about a Saumensch.

How many times did she have to say goodbye?

How was he supposed to know?

There were two ceremonies for the Steiner family. The first was immediately upon their burial. The second was as soon as Alex Steiner made it home, when he was given leave after the bombing.

You kill them.

Since the news had found him, Alex had been whittled away.

"Crucified Christ," he'd said, "if only I'd let Rudy go to that school."

The only thing he truly did know was that he'd have done anything to have been on Himmel Street that night so that Rudy survived rather than himself.

That was something he told Liesel on the steps of 8 Grande Strasse, when he rushed up there after hearing of her survival.

You save someone.

Liesel told him that she had kissed Rudy's lips. It embarrassed her, but she thought he might have liked to know. There were wooden teardrops and an oaky smile. In Liesel's vision, the sky I saw was gray and glossy. A silver afternoon.

That day, on the steps, Alex Steiner was sawn apart.