The Hubermanns & The Book

March 28, 1939

Dear Journal,

I have finally arrived to my new home in Munich; my mother left me with a man that works for the orphanage. I was a bit excited since it was the first time I drove in a car, but what awaits me is worrisome. Today, I will meet my new parents without my brother. I am sure not sure how they will react since they were reassured that they would receive a boy, girl, and allowance for taking care of them. The car suddenly pulled up a small townhouse surrounded by dirty snow and dying trees. There they were, my new parents, the Hubermanns standing by the door. The man was a giant and apparently a smoker, while his clearly annoyed wife was early my height. I was frozen, once I left this car my old life would be behind. I gradually stepped out, but all I could do was cling to the gate, my new security blanket. It only took a few minutes for me to give in to walk inside holding hands with Mr. Hubermann.

It has been a while since I have looked in a mirror; pale, scrawny, bruised are three words that define me quite well. My blond hair was nearly the right color, but the dark brown eyes I possess, a gift from my real papa, was certainly a trait dangerous in Germany. I have never seen my papa; all I know is that he is a "komnmunist." It seems that "kommunists" are bad people; since they are always go away like real papa. Before I know it, evening had already arrived; I was being chased around by my new mama, because I refused to undress and bathe. My papa, on the other hand, was much more understanding, so he allowed me to remain unclean. Instead, he showed me how to roll up cigarettes and then he smoked them.

Hours passed this way, and soon it was already bedtime. The instant I rested my eyes a horrific dream of my brother's lifeless body would sneak up on me. But papa suddenly appeared to comfort me. His presence itself quelled my loneliness, guilt, and confusion. I had spent such little time with the Hubermanns, and yet I felt fairly content with my quiet and caring papa and my foul-mouthed, highly critical mama. Still, I could not help but miss my brother. I used my mattress to hide the mysterious book that I discovered by his grave because it was too precious to lose: "Staring at the letters on the cover and touching the print inside, she had no idea what any of it was saying. The point is, it didn't really matter what that book was about. It was what it meant that was more important"(Zusak 38). My love memories of my real mama and brother are sealed up in there. I may not be able to comprehend all of what's written there, but the comfort it gives me is unparalleled. This entry must conclude here; I have to hurry and hide, or else I will have to bathe.