The Book Thief(126)

Frau Hermann?



The question came back at her and tried for another surge to the front door. It made it only halfway, landing weakly on a couple of fat floorboards.



Frau Hermann?



The calls were greeted with nothing but silence, and she was tempted to seek out the kitchen, for Rudy. She refrained. It wouldnt have felt right to steal food from a woman who had left her a dictionary against a windowpane. That, and she had also just destroyed one of her books, page by page, chapter by chapter. Shed done enough damage as it was.



Liesel returned to the library and opened one of the desk drawers. She sat down.





THE LAST LETTER





Dear Mrs. Hermann,



As you can see, I have been in your library again and I have ruined one of your books. I was just so angry and afraid and I wanted to kill the words. I have stolen from you and now Ive wrecked your property. Im sorry. To punish myself, I think I will stop coming here. Or is it punishment at all? I love this place and hate it, because it is full of words.



You have been a friend to me even though I hurt you, even though I have been insu ferable (a word I looked up in your dictionary), and I think I will leave you alone now. Im sorry for everything.



Thank you again.



Liesel Meminger



She left the note on the desk and gave the room a last goodbye, doing three laps and running her hands over the titles. As much as she hated them, she couldnt resist. Flakes of torn-up paper were strewn around a book called The Rules of Tommy Ho fmann. In the breeze from the window, a few of its shreds rose and fell.



The light was still orange, but it was not as lustrous as earlier. Her hands felt their final grip of the wooden window frame, and there was the last rush of a plunging stomach, and the pang of pain in her feet when she landed.



By the time she made it down the hill and across the bridge, the orange light had vanished. Clouds were mopping up.



When she walked down Himmel Street, she could already feel the first drops of rain. I will never see Ilsa Hermann again, she thought, but the book thief was better at reading and ruining books than making assumptions.





THREE DAYS LATER

The woman has knocked at number

thirty-three and waits for a reply.





It was strange for Liesel to see her without the bathrobe. The summer dress was yellow with red trim. There was a pocket with a small flower on it. No swastikas. Black shoes. Never before had she noticed Ilsa Hermanns shins. She had porcelain legs.



Frau Hermann, Im sorryfor what I did the last time in the library.



The woman quieted her. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small black book. Inside was not a story, but lined paper. I thought if youre not going to read any more of my books, you might like to write one instead. Your letter, it was . . . She handed the book to Liesel with both hands. You can certainly write. You write well. The book was heavy, the cover matted like The Shoulder Shrug. And please, Ilsa Hermann advised her, dont punish yourself, like you said you would. Dont be like me, Liesel.



The girl opened the book and touched the paper. Danke schn, Frau Hermann. I can make you some coffee, if you like. Would you come in? Im home alone. My mamas next door, with Frau Holtzapfel.



Shall we use the door or the window?



Liesel suspected it was the broadest smile Ilsa Hermann had allowed herself in years. I think well use the door. Its easier.



They sat in the kitchen.



Coffee mugs and bread with jam. They struggled to speak and Liesel could hear Ilsa Hermann swallow, but somehow, it was not uncomfortable. It was even nice to see the woman gently blow across the coffee to cool it.



If I ever write something and finish it, Liesel said, Ill show you.



That would be nice.



When the mayors wife left, Liesel watched her walk up Himmel Street. She watched her yellow dress and her black shoes and her porcelain legs.



At the mailbox, Rudy asked, Was that who I think it was?



Yes.



Youre joking.



She gave me a present.



As it turned out, Ilsa Hermann not only gave Liesel Meminger a book that day. She also gave her a reason to spend time in the basementher favorite place, first with Papa, then Max. She gave her a reason to write her own words, to see that words had also brought her to life.



Dont punish yourself, she heard her say again, but there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too. That was writing.



In the night, when Mama and Papa were asleep, Liesel crept down to the basement and turned on the kerosene lamp. For the first hour, she only watched the pencil and paper. She made herself remember, and as was her habit, she did not look away.



Schreibe, she instructed herself. Write.



After more than two hours, Liesel Meminger started writing, not knowing how she was ever going to get this right. How could she ever know that someone would pick her story up and carry it with him everywhere?



No one expects these things.



They dont plan them.