The Walk

March 12, 1942

Dear Journal,

I was in the middle of a soccer game when everything suddenly stilled. There was a strange sound that rang throughout the field so loudly that even Tommy Muller could hear it. I had no idea what that noise was. Rudy, on the other hand, was convinced it was a herd of angry cows. Everyone knew that he was definitely wrong, so we went to investigate. We decided that the sound originated near Frau Diller's shop. The whole situation was confusing; everyone was curious as to what was happening. We rushed down Munich Street only to encounter a scary, old lady who whispered something about the Jews. There was no need for a clearer answer.

Moments later, people began to crowd the streets as a group of Jew and other criminals marched down Munich Street. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed papa hauling his paint cart. I pulled Rudy along with me to see papa. At first, papa tried to convince me leave, but I wanted to see this; I needed to see this. However, once I saw them I began rethink my decision. They were beyond starving, enveloped in dirt and misery. It looked as though, they all could roll die; no one would be surprised and no one would care. To those that participated in this death march, I could only offer them looks of sympathy and hope they would recognize it. I particularly took notice of an old man, so close death that trudged down the street. He fell down multiple times only to be rise up and continue. In an instant, papa let go of my hand and reached in his cart, pulling out a scrap of bread. He slipped it to the Jewish man, in thanks, groveled at his feet. The other Jews could only briefly observe the scene; their eyes were full of appreciation.

This peaceful moment did not last as a soldier made his way through the day. Only punishment awaited them. The old man received 6 lashes. Rudy reached out for my hand as Papa 4 times and collapsed in the middle of the street. Rudy and I helped carry him home as the German crowd turned over the Jew lover's paint cart. I could see the worry etched on his face as he began to panic: "They'll come now. They'll come. Oh, Christ, oh, crucified Christ... 'What was I thinking?' His eyes closed tighter and opened again. His overalls creased. There was paint and blood on his hands. And bread crumbs. How different from the bread of summer. 'Oh my God, Liesel, what have I done'"(Zusak 395). What could I say? I have never seen papa so distraught. Papa will have to leave or perhaps worse. There was I ever do to comfort papa, my trust is all I could offer. I think he made the right decision to save that man, but then who was going save us?