The Book Thief(127)

She used a small paint can for a seat, a large one as a table, and Liesel stuck the pencil onto the first page. In the middle, she wrote the following.





THE BOOK THIEF

a small story

by

Liesel Meminger





THE RIB-CAGE PLANES





Her hand was sore by page three.



Words are so heavy, she thought, but as the night wore on, she was able to complete eleven pages.





PAGE 1

I try to ignore it, but I know this all

started with the train and the snow and my

coughing brother. I stole my first book that

day. It was a manual for digging graves and

I stole it on my way to Himmel Street. . . .





She fell asleep down there, on a bed of drop sheets, with the paper curling at the edges, up on the taller paint can. In the morning, Mama stood above her, her chlorinated eyes questioning.



Liesel, she said, what on earth are you doing down here?



Im writing, Mama.



Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Rosa stomped back up the steps. Be back up in five minutes or you get the bucket treatment. Verstehst?



I understand.



Every night, Liesel made her way down to the basement. She kept the book with her at all times. For hours, she wrote, attempting each night to complete ten pages of her life. There was so much to consider, so many things in danger of being left out. Just be patient, she told herself, and with the mounting pages, the strength of her writing fist grew.



Sometimes she wrote about what was happening in the basement at the time of writing. She had just finished the moment when Papa had slapped her on the church steps and how theyd heil Hitlered together. Looking across, Hans Hubermann was packing the accordion away. Hed just played for half an hour as Liesel wrote.





PAGE 42

Papa sat with me tonight. He brought the

accordion down and sat close to where Max

used to sit. I often look at his fingers and

face when he plays. The accordion breathes.

There are lines on his cheeks. They look drawn

on, and for some reason, when I see them,

I want to cry. It is not for any sadness or

pride. I just like the way they move and

change. Sometimes I think my papa is an

accordion. When he looks at me and smiles

and breathes, I hear the notes.





After ten nights of writing, Munich was bombed again. Liesel was up to page 102 and was asleep in the basement. She did not hear the cuckoo or the sirens, and she was holding the book in her sleep when Papa came to wake her. Liesel, come. She took The Book Thief and each of her other books, and they fetched Frau Holtzapfel.





PAGE 175

A book floated down the Amper River.

A boy jumped in, caught up to it, and held

it in his right hand. He grinned. He stood

waist-deep in the icy, Decemberish water.

How about a kiss, Saumensch ? he said.





By the next raid, on October 2, she was finished. Only a few dozen pages remained blank and the book thief was already starting to read over what shed written. The book was divided into ten parts, all of which were given the title of books or stories and described how each affected her life.



Often, I wonder what page she was up to when I walked down Himmel Street in the dripping-tap rain, five nights later. I wonder what she was reading when the first bomb dropped from the rib cage of a plane.



Personally, I like to imagine her looking briefly at the wall, at Max Vandenburgs tightrope cloud, his dripping sun, and the figures walking toward it. Then she looks at the agonizing attempts of her paint-written spelling. I see the Fhrer coming down the basement steps with his tied-together boxing gloves hanging casually around his neck. And the book thief reads, rereads, and rereads her last sentence, for many hours.





THE BOOK THIEF LAST LINE

I have hated the words and

I have loved them,

and I hope I have made them right.





Outside, the world whistled. The rain was stained.





THE END OF THE WORLD (Part II)





Almost all the words are fading now. The black book is disintegrating under the weight of my travels. Thats another reason for telling this story. What did we say earlier? Say something enough times and you never forget it. Also, I can tell you what happened after the book thiefs words had stopped, and how I came to know her story in the first place. Like this.



Picture yourself walking down Himmel Street in the dark. Your hair is getting wet and the air pressure is on the verge of drastic change. The first bomb hits Tommy Mllers apartment block. His face twitches innocently in his sleep and I kneel at his bed. Next, his sister. Kristinas feet are sticking out from under the blanket. They match the hopscotch footprints on the street. Her little toes. Their mother sleeps a few feet away. Four cigarettes sit disfigured in her ashtray, and the roofless ceiling is hot plate red. Himmel Street is burning.



The sirens began to howl.



Too late now, I whispered, for that little exercise, because everyone had been fooled, and fooled again. First up, the Allies had feigned a raid on Munich in order to strike at Stuttgart. But next, ten planes had remained. Oh, there were warnings, all right. In Molching, they came with the bombs.