The Book Thief

He (Hans) came in every night and sat with her. The first couple of times, he simply stayed—a stranger to kill the aloneness. A few nights after that, he whispered, “Shhh, I’m here, it’s all right.” After three weeks, he held her. Trust was accumulated quickly, due primarily to the brute strength of the man’s gentleness, his thereness. The girl knew from the outset that Hans Huberman would always appear midscream, and he would not leave…. Each morning, he was a few feet away from her, crumpled, almost halved, in the chair.

Many times, on the way home, women with nothing but kids and poverty would come running out and plead with him to paint their blinds. “Frau Hallah, I’m sorry, I have no black paint left,” he would say, but a little farther down the road, he would always break…. “Tomorrow,” he’d promise, “first thing,” and when the next morning dawned, there he was, painting those blinds for nothing or for a cookie or a warm cup of tea. The previous evening, he’d have found another way to turn blue or green or beige to black.