On other occasions, when she was daydreaming, Papa would dab her lightly with his brush, right between the
eyes. If he misjudged and there was too much on it, a small path of paint would dribble down the side of her
nose. She would laugh and try to return the favor, but Hans Hubermann was a hard man to catch out at work. It
was there that he was most alive.
Whenever they had a break, to eat or drink, he would play the accordion, and it was this that Liesel remembered
best. Each morning, while Papa pushed or dragged the paint cart, Liesel carried the instrument. “Better that we
leave the paint behind,” Hans told her, “than ever forget the music.” When they paused to eat, he would cut up
the bread, smearing it with what little jam remained from the last ration card. Or he’d lay a small slice of meat
on top of it. They would eat together, sitting on their cans of paint, and with the last mouthfuls still in the
chewing stages, Papa would be wiping his fingers, unbuckling the accordion case.
Traces of bread crumbs were in the creases of his overalls. Paint-specked hands made their way across the
buttons and raked over the keys, or held on to a note for a while. His arms worked the bellows, giving the
instrument the air it needed to breathe.
Liesel would sit each day with her hands between her knees, in the long legs of daylight. She wanted none of
those days to end, and it was always with disappointment that she watched the darkness stride forward.
As far as the painting itself was concerned, probably the most interesting aspect for Liesel was the mixing. Like
most people, she assumed her papa simply took his cart to the paint shop or hardware store and asked for the
right color and away he went. She didn’t realize that most of the paint was in lumps, in the shape of a brick. It
was then rolled out with an empty champagne bottle. (Champagne bottles, Hans explained, were ideal for the
job, as their glass was slightly thicker than that of an ordinary bottle of wine.) Once that was completed, there
was the addition of water, whiting, and glue, not to mention the complexities of matching the right color.
The science of Papa’s trade brought him an even greater level of respect. It was well and good to share bread
and music, but it was nice for Liesel to know that he was also more than capable in his occupation. Competence
was attractive.
One afternoon, a few days after Papa’s explanation of the mixing, they were working at one of the wealthier
houses just east of Munich Street. Papa called Liesel inside in the early afternoon. They were just about to move
on to another job when she heard the unusual volume in his voice.
Once inside, she was taken to the kitchen, where two older women and a man sat on delicate, highly civilized
chairs. The women were well dressed. The man had white hair and sideburns like hedges. Tall glasses stood on
the table. They were filled with crackling liquid.
“Well,” said the man, “here we go.”
He took up his glass and urged the others to do the same.
The afternoon had been warm. Liesel was slightly put off by the coolness of her glass. She looked at Papa for
approval. He grinned and said, “Prost, Mädel—cheers, girl.” Their glasses chimed together and the moment
Liesel raised it to her mouth, she was bitten by the fizzy, sickly sweet taste of champagne. Her reflexes forced
her to spit straight onto her papa’s overalls, watching it foam and dribble. A shot of laughter followed from all
of them, and Hans encouraged her to give it another try. On the second attempt she was able to swallow it, and
enjoy the taste of a glorious broken rule. It felt great. The bubbles ate her tongue. They prickled her stomach.
Even as they walked to the next job, she could feel the warmth of pins and needles inside her.
Dragging the cart, Papa told her that those people claimed to have no money.