She could barely make out the sound of his breath, coasting in and out of him, as she opened the book and glimpsed a few random pages …. Max was sitting with his head and shoulder blades against the wall. She leaned over and picked it up, waiting for him to stir. When Liesel came down, she found the book sitting next to him, slanted against his thigh, and curiosity got the better of her. One afternoon, after his push-ups and sit-ups, he fell asleep against the basement wall. Often, it was next to him or still in his fingers as he slept. He resolved that when the book was finished, he’d give it to Liesel, when she was old enough, and hopefully, when all this nonsense was over.įrom the moment he tested the pencils on the first painted page, he kept the book close at all times.
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The desecrated pages of Mein Kampf were becoming a series of sketches, page after page, which to him summed up the events that had swapped his former life for another. They were more real than the letters he wrote to his family and to his friend Walter Kugler, knowing very well that he could never send them. It was a collection of random thoughts and he chose to embrace them. Max’s exile produced something else entirely. The idea was to write about everything that had happened to him-all that had led him to a Himmel Street basement-but it was not what came out. Originally, Max had intended to write his own story. Like a simple puzzle, he put them together. He had what he called just a small ration of tools: The visions began to pour and fall and occasionally limp from out of his hands. In his loneliest moments in the basement, the words started piling up around him. If the summer of 1941 was walling up around the likes of Rudy and Liesel, it was writing and painting itself into the life of Max Vandenburg. It took him approximately five months to turn his statement into a true one. Say what you will about Viktor Chemmel, but he certainly had patience and a good memory. “You’ll pay for that at a later date, my friend.”
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