The Book Thief(125)

Yes.



Crucified Christ.



Yes.



The trees were tall and triangular. They were quiet.



Liesel pulled The Word Shaker from her bag and showed Rudy one of the pages. On it was a boy with three medals hanging around his throat.



Hair the color of lemons, Rudy read. His fingers touched the words. You told him about me?



At first, Liesel could not talk. Perhaps it was the sudden bumpiness of love she felt for him. Or had she always loved him? Its likely. Restricted as she was from speaking, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to drag her hand across and pull her over. It didnt matter where. Her mouth, her neck, her cheek. Her skin was empty for it, waiting.



Years ago, when theyd raced on a muddy field, Rudy was a hastily assembled set of bones, with a jagged, rocky smile. In the trees this afternoon, he was a giver of bread and teddy bears. He was a triple Hitler Youth athletics champion. He was her best friend. And he was a month from his death.



Of course I told him about you, Liesel said.



She was saying goodbye and she didnt even know it.





ILSA HERMANNS LITTLE BLACK BOOK





In mid-August, she thought she was going to 8 Grande Strasse for the same old remedy.



To cheer herself up.



That was what she thought.



The day had been hot, but showers were predicted for the evening. In The Last Human Stranger, there was a quote near the end. Liesel was reminded of it as she walked past Frau Dillers.





THE LAST HUMAN STRANGER,

PAGE 211

The sun stirs the earth. Around and

around, it stirs us, like stew.





At the time, Liesel only thought of it because the day was so warm.



On Munich Street, she remembered the events of the previous week there. She saw the Jews coming down the road, their streams and numbers and pain. She decided there was a word missing from her quote.



The world is an ugly stew, she thought.



Its so ugly I cant stand it.



Liesel crossed the bridge over the Amper River. The water was glorious and emerald and rich. She could see the stones at the bottom and hear the familiar song of water. The world did not deserve such a river.



She scaled the hill up to Grande Strasse. The houses were lovely and loathsome. She enjoyed the small ache in her legs and lungs. Walk harder, she thought, and she started rising, like a monster out of the sand. She smelled the neighborhood grass. It was fresh and sweet, green and yellow-tipped. She crossed the yard without a single turn of the head or the slightest pause of paranoia.



The window.



Hands on the frame, scissor of the legs.



Landing feet.



Books and pages and a happy place.



She slid a book from the shelf and sat with it on the floor.



Is she home? she wondered, but she did not care if Ilsa Hermann was slicing potatoes in the kitchen or lining up in the post office. Or standing ghost-like over the top of her, examining what the girl was reading.



The girl simply didnt care anymore.



For a long time, she sat and saw.



She had seen her brother die with one eye open, one still in a dream. She had said goodbye to her mother and imagined her lonely wait for a train back home to oblivion. A woman of wire had laid herself down, her scream traveling the street, till it fell sideways like a rolling coin starved of momentum. A young man was hung by a rope made of Stalingrad snow. She had watched a bomber pilot die in a metal case. She had seen a Jewish man who had twice given her the most beautiful pages of her life marched to a concentration camp. And at the center of all of it, she saw the Fhrer shouting his words and passing them around.



Those images were the world, and it stewed in her as she sat with the lovely books and their manicured titles. It brewed in her as she eyed the pages full to the brims of their bellies with paragraphs and words.



You bastards, she thought.



You lovely bastards.



Dont make me happy. Please, dont fill me up and let me think that something good can come of any of this. Look at my bruises. Look at this graze. Do you see the graze inside me? Do you see it growing before your very eyes, eroding me? I dont want to hope for anything anymore. I dont want to pray that Max is alive and safe. Or Alex Steiner.



Because the world does not deserve them.



She tore a page from the book and ripped it in half.



Then a chapter.



Soon, there was nothing but scraps of words littered between her legs and all around her. The words. Why did they have to exist? Without them, there wouldnt be any of this. Without words, the Fhrer was nothing. There would be no limping prisoners, no need for consolation or wordly tricks to make us feel better.



What good were the words?



She said it audibly now, to the orange-lit room. What good are the words?



The book thief stood and walked carefully to the library door. Its protest was small and halfhearted. The airy hallway was steeped in wooden emptiness.