you were my backbone when
my body ached with weariness;
you were my hometown when
my heart was filled with loneliness;
.
.
.
.
The baby in her arms is blond-haired and red-faced, and it fleetingly reminds her of Rudy. Maybe it's the colour palette – it brings back memories of a flustered twelve-year-old after a thievery gone wrong, or a particularly thorough beating from the nun. But his eyes were different – sparkling with anger or defiance or impudence, while the baby's eyes are a glossy blue, swollen with tears.
"There," Liesel says calmly, marking another small victory at managing to quiet the child before it wakes all the others. "We wouldn't want to piss off your friends, would we?"
Her English is still lousy at its best, but thankfully, proper grammar is not a vital requirement when it comes to coddling toddlers.
(The truth is, if someone told Liesel ten years ago that she would move to Australia and work as a collective babysitter, she would have called him a name that would have made Rosa Hubermann proud.)
She rewards the baby with a milk bottle, and it starts to suckle at it greedily. She looks to the small label in the corner of the crib –James – of course it would be James. So far every baby James she's made acquaintance with has had quite a pair of lungs.
"Liesel." There is a soft voice calling to her from the doorway; it belongs to Mary, the kindergarten mistress. She is a little over forty, with dirty blond hair and kind eyes. Liesel owes her a lot, she supposes – for employing her without a second glance at her worn clothing or the terrible English, for one – or for actually growing to like her.
"Could you close up? It's my daughter's birthday and I have yet to collect the cake before they close the bakery." She smiles sheepishly at her, angel-like goodness emanating from her features. "It's Friday, so they should pick them all up by the end of the hour anyway. Will you be alright?"
Liesel nods, her lips curving into a thin smile. She'll be late for dinner, she realises with a pang.
The sky is dark grey when the last parent comes for their child. They all look the same – the parents, (it's a given with the babies) – in suits or work clothes, tiredness gathered around their eyes like dust. This is what life after the war is, she thinks, even here, at the very edge of the world.
She closes the door behind her, and steps into the early evening chill. Her wristwatch reads eight o'clock and she stifles a sigh.
She doesn't make it very far, when a female voice calls for her – she still has to remind herself that yes, it's actually her the woman means, that that's her name – and grudgingly turns around, cigarette halfway to her mouth.
"I just wanted to say thank you, I guess," the woman says, balancing a sleeping kid at her hip. At a closer look Liesel recognizes it to be the blond-haired baby James. That screaming little bugger. "You manage to calm him down somehow; I never have such luck." She smiles tightly, with shame. It must be hard, Liesel muses, to wring yourself out day by day to earn enough it takes to keep a roof over your head, and then come back home, where your child thinks you a stranger.
"He likes the stars," she offers, raising her cigarette-less hand up to illustrate what her words can't. (She hates it, hates not being able to communicate, hates the way the right words run away from her as if she were their enemy.) "The little paper stars that hang from the ceiling. He likes to play with them. It calms him." She even manages a small smile. "You should probably try it, to get some peace."
The woman's lips pull into an awfully blinding grin. It's a dangerous business, Liesel thinks, making people happy. "Thank you! Thank you so much. You're a blessing, Mrs Vandenburg."
Ah, there it is again.
She tosses her keys on the table by the door, and peels her coat off her shoulders. It's warm in their little flat, always so warm no matter the time of year. She smells broccoli and some kind of meat, that reminds her at once how terribly hungry she is.
"You're late," Max says, from the kitchen doorway. She makes her way to his side and plants a generous kiss on his cheek.
"You're early," she points out with a half-smile. (It's a lie, of course. The bank is very strict about work hours, so Max always leaves the office at the same time – always half past six. It's a boring job, not rewarding in the slightest, but he knows better than to complain. It could have always been far, far worse.)
Max busies himself in the kitchen, lighting up the stove and pulling out bowls of vegetables from the fridge. Liesel is infinitely grateful for his cooking skills – her own could rival those of Rosa, if not straight up beat them; she truly can't cook a thing.
She pulls her hair from the bun and lights up a cigarette. It feels good,
home.
He's so put together, Max, with his ironed suits, polished shoes and well-combed hair. Sometimes she feels inadequate, walking down the street with her fingers laced through his, wearing an old-fashioned red dress, messy blond curls tucked behind her ears. He loves that about her, he told her once, that everything about her gives him a sense of realness, and he cherishes it in his heart. She didn't know what to say to that – it happens a lot these days, words failing her, running away – but it didn't matter, because he knew. He always knows.
(They both know, with no words needed.)
She's stacking up books, for later. Every fourth of her salary she spends in bookstores, buying everything – from english classics to romance novels, to cook books for Max. It's a trick of hers, to try and reign the words, to blackmail them into being understandable. She's going to read them over and over until they start making sense. It's tiresome, but tiresome is good.
Routine is good, too. The pattern of working, eating, reading, sleeping helps keep track of time, anchors them to reality. Every next day brings them farther away from the war, and Liesel hopes that one day they'll be able to let it go.
They sleep tangled together on the small bed in his room, a mass of limbs and Liesel's hair like a halo against the stark white of the sheets. It's either her back pressed into his chest, his arm thrown across her hip, fingers intertwined, or her head resting right above his heart, hand twisted into the fabric of his shirt, his steady breath lulling her to sleep.
She barely ever lets go of him; she can't afford to. He is her dreamcatcher, keeping the nightmares away.
It's a pity it doesn't work the other way around.
It's true though, that his nightmares have become rarer, but as much as she prays for it, they never really go away. He endures them quietly, no sound escaping his chapped lips, and it's probably his silent pain that's always frightened Liesel the most. His breath quickens, heart beating rapidly beneath her cheek, fingers curling into the sheets. It breaks her every time, to wake up to the sight of him, locked in a mute battle all by himself. What does he dream of? Does he dream of his family? Or the camp? Does he dream of Himmel Street?
She presses feather-like kisses to his eyelids, cheeks, his jawline, whispering his name into his skin. She begs him to come back to her, to safety, combing her fingers through his damp hair. The longer she waits, the stronger panic grips at her throat, because how can she help him? How can she save him from himself?
It's only when his eyes open – the feverish dark green locks to her brown – she lets out a breath she's never realised she's been holding, (most of the time it sounds like a sob). She wraps her arms tightly around his still shaking frame, listening to his slowing heartbeat.
Sometimes he cries, head tucked into the crook of her neck. (She hates the feel of his tears trailing underneath her shirt. The reminder of his pain seeping into her skin.)
Sometimes, she cries too.
Weekends are lazy. There are no obligations to do anything at all, so they make artificial ones; for Max it's usually taking his work home – sorting through pages of numbers and graphs, making calculations – while Liesel stubbornly attempts to improve her English by reading textbooks and dictionaries. Max is far better at it than her, which again makes her thankful; in the afternoons, when they sit on the couch in the living room, Liesel curled like a cat into his side, piles of books around them, she asks him about words that seem to be stuck on the tip of her tongue; (it's like the crosswords all over again, but they pretend it's not, of course).
Here's another thing about them: the constant hunger for each other's presence, the physical need to touch, to make sure the other is still there. Liesel thinks it's a natural consequence of the many times she's lost him – there is a notion planted in her heart to never, ever let him go again.
So they hold hands. Max's fingers comb through her hair. His hand traces patterns on her hip. Her legs tangle with his.
On the eve of Liesel's twenty-first birthday, Mary and her sister Amy take her out for drinks.
"It's a shame you've lived here for almost two years and never been to a proper Australian bar," Amy says, the many rings in her ears jiggling indignantly. She's wild and loud, quick to laugh on every occasion. (But she has a big heart, like Mary, often coming to the kindergarten to help out, singing lullabies in her sweetest voice.)
Liesel's glad for her, truly.
The bar is foggy from the cigarette smoke; it's hot inside, and loud, drunken men's rowdy laughter ringing in her ears. The women order a bottle of whiskey, and Amy makes sure they make quick work of it.
"So," she says, two glasses in, "I hate to say it, but I don't really know anything about you."
Mary shoots her sister a glare that very obviously says stop right there, but Liesel simply shrugs her shoulders. Her expression is vacant, senses dulled, and she actually likes the feeling. It's as if she's been taken out of her body and placed right next to it. With nothing nagging at her brain, no memories trying to find their way back into her mind.
But they are waiting for her to say something, aren't they?
Liesel waves her right hand above her glass. The golden band on her ring finger catches the light. "Well, you know that I'm married."
Amy snorts, a smile spreading across her face. "We've never seen him. He's got to be like, either very very handsome, or very very ugly."
"Don't listen to her, dear, it's none of our business –," Mary blurts out apologetically.
Liesel laughs.
She laughs because it's so damn ridiculous, to sit here, talking about Max as if he were a regular man, as if she were a regular woman, gossiping about her husband with her girl friends. It's ridiculous, because they don't know what either of them has been through, they don't have the slightest idea of how Himmel Street looked like after the bombing, of how Papa –
But isn't it – isn't it for the best?
Isn't itthe point of starting a new life?
So Liesel bites her lip thoughtfully, splotches of pink blooming on her cheeks from the alcohol. She tries to consider Max from these women's perspective; thinks of his soft hair dusted with silver, and warm, dark green eyes, of the way he smiles at her, only at her, of the way his body feels pressed to hers.
"From the way your face resembles a bloody tomato, I think I know the answer to that," Amy laughs. She also winks at her, and Liesel feels a sudden urge for a cigarette.
Or two.
If there is one thing you need to know about Liesel, it's that she learns from her mistakes.
It's only logical that after years of denying her kisses to a certain lemon-haired boy, after surrendering her pride only when it was too late, Liesel knows better than to repeat that mistake.
When it comes to her husband – the man she loves, and who loves her just as fiercely in return – she offers him her kisses like gifts, at every occasion. Good-morning kisses, and goodbye kisses, thank-you kisses, and sugar-sweet kisses on the cheek. Wake-up-from-your-nightmare feather light kisses, tender kisses on his tired knuckles, soft brushes of her lips against his at times when inspiration strikes her.
But this time, when she stumbles into their flat on unsteady legs, head swimming from the whiskey and far too many cigarettes, this is different.
When Max emerges from the bedroom, with his hair mussed and eyes so wide and sleepy, when he rushes to her side to keep her from falling, something shifts between them.
She can't quite put a finger on it.
But it's that moment in which inspiration strikes her, and she rises on her tip-toes to press her lips to his. (Except it's not, it's different, because there's an unknown fire raging in her belly, and his hands which are resting firmly on her hips are surely burning through the fabric of her dress. She wraps her arms around his neck to regain balance and press herself closer, hungrily opening her mouth and capturing his bottom lip with her teeth.)
But Max pushes her back, Liesel's hands slipping from his neck to rest on his shoulders. He shakes his head, a troubled expression on his now swollen lips. "You're drunk."
She nods her head cheekily. She's not sure what exactly is happening, but she doesn't like it one bit.
"Come on," he says, with great gentleness scooping her into his arms, "let's get you to sleep."
He has a tattoo on his forearm, a reminder of Dachau.
(He doesn't want to talk about it – about the camp, about the war, about what happened after – and it makes her feel sickeningly useless. Those memories are like thorns biting into his heart, and she doesn't know what to do to make it better. Every time she tries to breach the subject, he hides behind his wall of ignorance, behind his 'it doesn't matter's and 'I don't remember's.
There is a selfish part of her that is glad not to know. She has enough demons as it is.)
He wears long sleeves most of the time, so the numbers are hidden from her view. But there are moments when she catches a glimpse of them – when he's getting dressed, or washing the dishes, sleeves rolled up. She can see that his left forearm is constantly painted an angry red, raw and scratched as if he's been trying to wash it off, scrape it from his skin.
She averts her eyes, lips trembling.
It's blindingly hot and the cheap fan in the corner of the room is utterly miserable at its job.
Liesel's hair is pulled into a messy bun on top of her head, and she lies sprawled on the couch, Max's old shirt her outfit of choice.
There is a knock on the door.
Max answers it.
"Um, Hallo. Sind Sie Herr Vandenburg?"
Liesel's blood freezes in her veins.
"Yes, I am," she hears Max's polite reply, in crisp English. He doesn't invite the man in, though. Anxiety rises in her throat like bile. "Who are you?"
"I'm Erik Schlangbaum. You see, I've been looking for you for a long time now, a friend of mine who works in Berlin sent me a few names of other people from Dachau who were said to be living in Sydney now – ," He sounds ridiculously excited, almost like a child at Christmas; she imagines him bouncing on the balls of his feet, struggling to communicate everything all at once.
"I'm not sure I understand, sir." There is an edge to Max's voice now.
The man doesn't sound intimidated. "I'm writing a book, you see, a collection of sorts, or – a memorial, yes, of the camp survivors. I'd love to hear your part of the story. As a co-author you could –"
"I don't think so."
"Why not?" the man exclaims, and Liesel's hands ball into fists. "It's important for people to know what happened, what we've suffered, they need to remember –"
"I don't remember anything," Max says, his voice weak and tired and almost pleading. "It's time for you to leave."
When the man starts to protest, Liesel jumps from the couch, and walks into the hallway, her eyes ablaze with anger. The shirt she's wearing barely reaches mid-thigh, her bun is a complete mess, and barefoot she has to tilt her head back to be able to look the man in the eye.
But she looks positively frightening.
"Are you deaf?" she hisses. "Get the fuck out. You're not welcome here."
The man's eyes widen in bewilderment and he unconsciously takes a step back. Liesel moves forward, pushing him away from the doorstep. He opens his mouth to say something, but she doesn't give him a chance, shutting the door in his face.
When she turns around, her cheeks are burning with fury.
Max crumbles to the floor.
(She pulls him to her chest, hands in his hair and lips to his ear, Shh, it's okay, it's okay – )
Liesel sits with Amy on the kindergarten steps during their lunch break. The children's cries are ringing in her ears like a pounding of a hammer. Constant. Painful. (It hasn't always been like that.)
She takes a drag from her cigarette, breathing the smoke into her lungs.
"You know," Amy says pushing their joint coffee cup in Liesel's direction. "There's probably another war coming up. What with the Korea thing and all those fucking pacts –." She catches herself quickly though, an apologetic look on her face. "Sorry, I didn't mean to –,"
"I don't care," Liesel says bluntly. She breathes out a puff of smoke.
This is what twenty-one-year-old Liesel is: a selfish creature. She can't afford generosity anymore. She has too little to risk losing it, has done enough losing for a lifetime. If they want to fight, let them. As long as they stay away from her family, she doesn't give a damn.
They sit in silence, sipping their cold coffee.
"Wanna go out for drinks tonight?" Amy asks. Hesitant. (Hopeful.)
There's an impulse to agree – Liesel remembers the blissful feeling of standing outside her body, of leaving her worries behind. But there's a voice in her head – one that sounds awfully like Rosa – that warns her from giving in. It would be so easy to drown herself in another addiction, to become numb and absent. She would welcome it, if she were alone.
But she isn't.
She shakes her head, putting out the cigarette on the pavement. "Max is waiting for me."
(She makes up her mind.)
She buys a record player.
It's vintage – at least that's what the vendor says – but it works alright, if a little rough at certain notes, (but that's the machine's charm, isn't it?). She picks up a few records; some modern, some classics, and Bing Crosby's Swinging on a Star, just because she feels like it at the moment.
She spins around their tiny green living room; eyes half-closed, remembering. She thinks of the happiest Christmas of her life, of the Jesse Owens incident, of the taste of her first stolen apple. It all turns into a flurry of colours and shapes beneath her eyelids.
Would you like to swing on a star, carry moonbeams home in a jar?
An arm curls around her waist, pulling her close. Her eyes snap open, smile ready at her lips.
"I didn't hear you walk in," she says, curling her fingers into the lapels of his jacket. His hand drops to the base of her spine.
Max turns them around, so that they're facing the record player. "Is that ours?"
"Do you like it?"
His lips curl up. He extends his hand and spins her round and round and round. "Very much."
Sometimes it stops her breath, how much she loves him.
They get to slower songs in time, bickering about which record to put on first. She wins on the Francis Craig one – settling comfortably in his arms, head tucked into the crook of his neck. It's almost perfect, this way.
Liesel rises her eyes to his, wonders if he feels the rapid beat of her heart against his chest.
She thinks: here is the man who is my whole world.
That's why she leans that much closer, deafened by the thudding in her ears, and kisses him like she's wanted to for so long.
She kisses him hard, with her mouth warm and open. There is the most excruciating of pauses when he stills completely, frozen in surprise, with only his sigh touching her lips. She nearly crumbles then, petrified by the possibility of it ending like the last time she's tried it, of him pushing her away, laughing in her face – until he's suddenly kissing her back.
He gets his hands caught in her hair, tilting her head back to get a better angle; his tongue is hot against hers, and she's making those strangled, gasping noises from the back of her throat, nails biting into the tweed of his jacket, pulling him closer, and closer until even that isn't enough.
The jacket falls to the floor soon enough, and it gives Liesel a moment to come up for air. Her lips slide down his jawline to his neck, fingers grabbing at the buttons of his shirt.
Then: "Liesel, no." It happens.
He pulls back.
His eyes are heavy-lidded and dark, lips swollen and a deep red. She knows what's coming, she's so sure of it she has the counterarguments ready on the tip of her tongue; that's why it's such a surprise to her, hearing something entirely different.
"I'm sorry," he says softly. "I can't."
Her hands are damp, trembling. She struggles to find words, any words at all. "Why?"
"I'm so, so sorry." The sight of his anguished face feels like acid in her throat. She wants to throw up.
(She thinks: this is what books forget to mention.)
He makes a point of sleeping on the other side of the bed, with his back turned to her, from now on.
There is a café near their flat she tends to visit before work.
It's warm and cosy, enveloped in the smell of coffee, cigarettes and freshly baked pie. After not getting a wink of sleep the previous night – and the night before – caffeine is exactly what she needs to get through the day. (She can already feel a headache stirring in the back of her skull, with a high probability of it getting far worse once she finds herself in the company of screaming children.)
As she makes her way to the queue by the counter, a man sitting at one of the tables jumps up and rushes in her direction.
She doesn't recognize him at first.
(She was so blinded by her anger, before, she didn't pay enough attention.)
"I'm so sorry, I swear!" he starts, and for fuck's sake, why is every man in her life apologizing to her? But there is something familiar about him, about his nice grey suit and his horn-rimmed glasses. Surely it can't be – "Erik Schlangbaum. I visited you a while ago."
Rage rises in her chest like a tide. She turns around abruptly, away from his face, from those stupid dark eyes, and grabs for her coffee. The exit is only a few steps away.
His hand catches her wrist.
"I'm sorry, truly. I was so stupid. Please let me explain – just, give me a minute – please," he finishes pitifully, drops of her coffee landing on his sleeve. Liesel grits her teeth. (There's Rosa's voice again, in the corner of her mind, urging her to slap him and tell him to go to hell. But there's another one this time, awfully familiar and comforting, that says 'everyone deserves a second chance'.)
She takes a deep calming breath, and pulls back a chair. She sinks down on it, suddenly drained of any will to fight. "Then speak."
"I swear, I didn't mean to upset your –"
"Husband," she supplies coldly.
He hides his surprise well, nodding fervently. "Yes, of course. You see, I know it's hard. I myself spent two years under medical supervision, after the war had ended." He looks at her sheepishly, expecting a reaction. Liesel keeps her face carefully blank.
"The thing is," Schlangbaum continues, "it's been five years, and I – I got better. Actually, I'm really well. And I thought that, apart from telling the world about the war, about what really happened, about sharing this knowledge and raising awareness, I thought I could help someone. Because speaking about it – it helps. Really. I would know."
There are things Liesel is suddenly desperate to say out loud, to free herself from the burden. Of how scared she is for Max, of how closed up and indifferent he's becoming, and how she can't do anything about it. There's something gnawing at the back of her throat.
"Forgive me if it's too forward but, has your husband ever consulted a doctor about these things? Because it doesn't – "
Liesel shakes her head. Schlangbaum's eyes momentarily widen in surprise.
"Look," he says, leaning closer across the table, "there are really two ways of dealing with this. You either completely forget about the horrors you've been through, or you embrace them. The thing is, the former is pretty damn rare. It's hard to let it go. Even if you force yourself into denial, block it away – it comes back. Like – "
"Like nightmares," she says softly. Her teeth bite the inside of her mouth.
"Yes." The man regards her carefully. "And then, there's the other solution. Talking about it. Learning to think about it differently. I'm no doctor, Mrs Vandenburg, but I believe I can help. I want to help your husband. He doesn't have to write that damn book immediately – God knows I don't care about it right now – just, I want to talk to him. I could take him to a good doctor, or simply tell him what I've learned myself."
He reaches into his pocket and retrieves his wallet. He pulls out a business card and pushes it across the table in Liesel's direction.
"Tell him to contact me – whenever he's ready."
There is a coppery taste of blood in her mouth.
(She blames it on the weather, the sweltering heat that feels like hellfire. But it's only partially to blame for the headaches and dizziness that plague her. Mainly, it's the lack of sleep.
It's Mary who sees it first – the bags under Liesel's eyes, the vacant expression on her face. She puts a reassuring hand on the younger woman's shoulder and looks at her worriedly.
"Have you had any sleep, child?"
Liesel shrugs, busying herself with folding diapers. "I'm fine, Mary."
"No, you're not. Take the day off. Amy's coming in an hour anyway."
Liesel tries to say something. She fails.)
They're torturous, the nights. She lies awake, consumed by the burning heat of the season and the gnawing emptiness she feels without Max's arms around her. He keeps coming home later and later, folders of papers in his arms. I may get a promotion, he says at dinner, a too-wide smile on his lips. He falls fast asleep, after, as if he doesn't need her at all.
She can't bear it – being so close to him, yet so far away. She has ruined it, she really has, with her childishness and stupidity, she has ruined it for good. He tolerates her, just barely, only as much as absolutely necessary for them to live together under the same roof.
She tosses and turns among the sheets. She feels drops of sweat trailing down her spine, and there's another feeling, deep in her belly, that feels almost like a hunger for a cigarette. She hears Max's even breath on the other side of the bed. Her eyes sting.
Liesel loses track of time, the night endless in their darkened bedroom. But there are tears falling from her eyes now, and soft, traitorous sobs escape her mouth. She presses her fist to it, desperate not to wake Max.
"Liesel."
She closes her eyes.
"Liesel? What is it? What's wrong?" She feels the barest of kisses on her cheek, and another, closer to her ear; it's like an electric shock, setting her senses on fire.
She pushes him away, tear tracks drying on her skin. "Stop it," she says, wailing, pleading. "You're only making it worse."
He watches her with an unreadable expression on his face. The whites of his eyes seem to glow in the moonlight.
Liesel groans, throwing her arm over her eyes. Why can't he just go back to sleep and leave her be?
As if on cue, she feels him move.
The springs moan.
She feels his warm hands on her thighs and it steals her breath away. Then his mouth, pressing warm kisses against the inside of her thigh. She doesn't dare make a sound, focusing instead on calming her thrashing heart. It's useless – tragic, really – because when he presses his mouth against her, she lets out a strangled gasp and her whole body convulses, nails digging into the mattress like claws. She can feel his breath on her, his lips, tongue moving and wet against her, inside her, firm and sure.
It's a blur – her teeth biting down on her bottom lip, hard, eyes almost rolling back under the circles of his tongue. When she comes, explosions flare beneath her eyelids, and he kisses her legs again, tender and loving.
She lies back – breathless, boneless, her hand blindly reaching for his. His fingers are damp and warm, and when he smiles it's infuriating and all teeth.
He lets go of her hand far too quickly. He rolls back to his side of the bed, back turned to her once again. But she has no strength to question it anymore.
She dozes off.
The beginning of the end:
"Max!" she calls from the hallway, hands rummaging through her pockets, through her bag, with no luck. She can't find her keys.
(She's supposed to be at work in twenty minutes to cover for Mary whose daughter is sick. She needs to leave right about now.)
She can hear Max hurriedly preparing breakfast neither of them has time to eat.
"Can you check my green jacket for the keys? It's probably hanging off one of the chairs by the table."
There is a loud crash and a German curse, then: "Just a second!". Liesel turns to the mirror, in a vain attempt to coax her hair into something remotely presentable.
But his second turns into something far longer.
He stands still, in deafening silence, staring at a small object held in his hand.
Something thin and white, rectangular.
(A business card.)
"What is this?" His voice cuts through the air like a blade.
Liesel forgets how to breathe.
Max repeats his question, this time louder and harder. It sounds alien on his lips.
"I met him a while ago," she says, "but it doesn't matter."
"No? Then why keep his card?"
It feels like a betrayal. It feels like a betrayal, just saying it.
She bites the inside of her mouth, nails digging into the back of her palm. "He wanted to help."
"Help?" he screams, incredulity contorting his face. He terrifies her – this man she doesn't recognize, mere steps away from her.
"I don't know what to do, okay?" she cries, and there are tears – more and more and more – falling down her cheeks like rain. "You're hurting so much, and I can't help you! You're closing up, and leaving me, and I feel like I don't know you anymore – like you don't want me here with you anymore –" She takes in a shuddering breath, harsh and gritty in her throat, "so I thought, for just a second, that if there's nothing I can do, then maybe – maybe he will be able to. He wanted to help you so much, he asked me to give you this card but – I really don't know what I was thinking – "
She wipes madly at her cheeks, leaving them flushed an angry red. "I'm sorry. I'm gonna be late," she chokes out.
She turns on her heel, and runs.
(If she turned back, she would see that he was crying, too.)
She barely ever sees him anymore.
(But it's alright. She supposes it's only fair this way.)
She hears him come back every night, when the sky becomes dark as coal. Even though the weather is still warm, she feels unbearably cold in their empty bed and wraps the blanket tightly around herself like a second skin. (He never joins her.)
It's killing her, the thought of Max curled up on the tiny sofa, battling his nightmares so utterly alone. He never makes a sound – that doesn't change – but she feels it, somewhere deep in her bones – the despair, the hurt.
But she wants to – she will give him the space he needs, (even if it breaks her heart).
(Liesel wanders to the living room in the middle of the night, barefoot and soundless, and sees his eyelids flutter, fingers white from clutching the comforter, lips open – just barely – in a mute scream. Her whole being is begging her to reach out, to curl herself around him, to wake him up and make it all better, but she only bites her lips and wipes her eyes and retreats to her cold, empty bed.)
It's three in the morning when she hears him come in.
The floorboards creak under his feet.
The minute that takes him to crawl into bed feels like ages to Liesel, who lies stock still, afraid to make even the smallest of sounds in fear of scaring him off. The mattress shifts and soon she feels his breath on her neck. It's so wonderfully familiar – the way his body feels pressed to her back, the way he wraps his arm around her waist. His hair is damp and his skin almost burns at the touch, heartbeat thudding erratically in his chest.
Still, she doesn't turn around. The only gesture she allows herself is to curl her fingers through his. He lets her, pressing his face into her neck, breathing her in.
She squeezes his hand tightly, I'm here, always,
and he lets her.
Soon enough, Liesel's English is good enough for her to take over story time at kindergarten. She sits in the middle of the room, the little ones huddled around her. She starts speaking.
And somehow, magically, the words come back.
Her language is simple, but so bright and vibrant, her stories unravel like paintings in the children's minds.
And what is more, her stories are true.
The lemon-haired boy. The fist fighter. The book thief.
It fills her up, being able to tell them once more, and she laughs along with the children, their voices chiming like bells.
(She tries to write them down, her stories, more precious than jewels; when she lies alone, curled up on the couch in the evenings. She scribbles tirelessly in the little black notebooks, words coming to her like old friends.)
"My English is better," she says at dinner, her fingers absent-mindedly playing with her fork.
Max rises his head with an almost-smile tugging at his lips. "I know that."
"I think I'm going to start writing again." She makes a pause. "Actually, I've already written some."
His jaw flexes, as if he's struggling to say something. Liesel hurriedly backpedals. "How's the bank?"
Max drags his hand through his hair, messing it up. Liesel feels an overwhelming urge to smooth it back in place. "To be honest, I'm not quite sure anymore. It's not really – it doesn't really make me happy."
Liesel's eyes widen. There is a gasp of surprise stuck in her throat.
"That's amazing! I mean – " she grins sheepishly, "It's not amazing that you don't like it, of course, just – you shouldn't be doing something that doesn't make you happy."
They eat in silence, but it's the kind of silence that feels surprisingly comforting, devoid of tension or buried regret. Liesel's heart swells in her chest.
When he stands up to wash the dishes, she reaches out and takes his hand in hers.
"Would you like to write with me, sometime?" There is no hesitation in her voice anymore, only hope.
And then, it comes – that rare smile he used to give only to her, lighting up his face like a sunbeam. His hands shake, just barely. "I think I would like that very much."
She wouldn't dare call herself pretty, but acceptable would certainly do.
She's curled her hair, so it looks elegant and polished for once, instead of the usual mass of wild locks. Her lips are painted a deep red and she loves it, as impractical as it may be. The dress she's wearing is green, with an extremely fitted waistline and a gorgeous flared skirt. Liesel bought it for this very occasion – Amy's birthday party, held in a lovely little restaurant in the centre of Sidney. She turns before the mirror, admiring her work.
She finds Max in the living room, bent over a book, his fingers impatiently tapping on the armrest. When he finally rises his head to look at her, the book falls from his hands. It lands on the floor with a soft rustle of paper.
Liesel allows herself a small smile. "I'll be leaving now," she says, absent-mindedly pushing one of the curls behind her ear. Max stands up, still staring, which makes Liesel's face grow so much warmer.
He opens his mouth, and closes it. Then tries again. "You look – beautiful," he finally manages. The way he looks at her makes her knees go weak; he looks at her like she is the most incredible thing, like she's something wondrous, unearthly.
She blushes fiercely, averting her eyes from his. "Are you sure you don't want to come?" She doesn't dare hope that he changes his mind, but then again – it's been so much better between them, these past few days, so maybe –
Max shakes his head, "I'm sorry, I can't. I have a meeting."
It feels strange – a meeting so late, on a Friday. Liesel's brows furrow in concern, but she says nothing on the matter, determined to give him space.
Yet she can't just leave like that, with her heart in her throat and cheeks aflame, without making sure he knows. She takes a step forward, and before her brain registers what her body is doing, Liesel has her arms wrapped around Max. His own arms curl around her waist out of habit, warm and firm through the fabric of her dress. She leans her forehead against his shoulder and lets out a deep, contented breath.
"Please, don't hurt yourself," she says.
"On the contrary," he whispers into Liesel's hair, arms tightening around her waist.
One day when she comes back from work, there is a typewriter standing magnificent and proud on the dinner table.
She throws back her head and laughs with joy.
"Do you like it?" She hears Max, who's leaning against the door frame. His swampy eyes are laughing, too.
She slides her hand along the shiny surface of the machine. She then turns to him, sun catching in her golden hair. "You bought it? You're really going to write!"
"Actually, it's for you."
Liesel shakes her head, tugging at his sleeve out of habit. "Don't be ridiculous, why would I even – Surely you'll need it more!"
Something shifts in his eyes, but she doesn't manage to catch it before he takes a resolute step forward and crashes his lips to hers.
It's beautiful – Liesel would marvel if her brain still functioned properly – to be kissed, instead of being the one who is kissing; to curl your fingers into his feather-like hair and be whole again.
He feels feverish against her skin, hot, insistent mouth and his arms wrapped tightly around her body. Her lips are vibrantly pink when they separate and he moves one of his hands up to cup her cheek.
"You're impossible, Liesel, do you know that?" His voice is low, breathless. His fingers are caressing her face. "Marrying a shell of a man, going out of your way to help such a worthless – "
Oh no, she is not having any of it. "Don't you dare start talking now," and she tugs at his tie, hard, pulling his face back down to hers.
"Liesel – "
She kisses him again, stealing his words.
[Later, when they're lying in bed, not really sure when one ends and the other begins, Liesel asks The Question.
"What changed?"
Max's hand is curling in her hair, golden locks slipping between his fingers. "I took that card. Met up with Erik.'
"It was hard at the beginning, and I didn't want you to see me like that. I've already hurt you enough as it is."
Liesel takes his hand in hers and brings it to her lips. She places a kiss, the sweetest of them all, on his fist fighter knuckles. It says it all.
She thinks: here is the man who is my whole world.
(They never let go.) ]