The Book Thief(22)

The second book was called The Lighthouse and was written by a woman, Ingrid Rippinstein. That particular book was a little longer, so Liesel was able to get through it only nine times, her pace increasing ever so slightly by the end of such prolific readings.



It was a few days after Christmas that she asked a question regarding the books. They were eating in the kitchen. Looking at the spoonfuls of pea soup entering Mamas mouth, she decided to shift her focus to Papa. Theres something I need to ask.



At first, there was nothing.



And?



It was Mama, her mouth still half full.



I just wanted to know how you found the money to buy my books.



A short grin was smiled into Papas spoon. You really want to know?



Of course.



From his pocket, Papa took what was left of his tobacco ration and began rolling a cigarette, at which Liesel became impatient.



Are you going to tell me or not?



Papa laughed. But I am telling you, child. He completed the production of one cigarette, flipped it on the table, and began on another. Just like this.



That was when Mama finished her soup with a clank, suppressed a cardboard burp, and answered for him. That Saukerl, she said. You know what he did? He rolled up all of his filthy cigarettes, went to the market when it was in town, and traded them with some gypsy.



Eight cigarettes per book. Papa shoved one to his mouth, in triumph. He lit up and took in the smoke. Praise the Lord for cigarettes, huh, Mama?



Mama only handed him one of her trademark looks of disgust, followed by the most common ration of her vocabulary. Saukerl.



Liesel swapped a customary wink with her papa and finished eating her soup. As always, one of her books was next to her. She could not deny that the answer to her question had been more than satisfactory. There were not many people who could say that their education had been paid for with cigarettes.



Mama, on the other hand, said that if Hans Hubermann was any good at all, he would trade some tobacco for the new dress she was in desperate need of or some better shoes. But no . . . She emptied the words out into the sink. When it comes to me, youd rather smoke a whole ration, wouldnt you? Plus some of next doors.



A few nights later, however, Hans Hubermann came home with a box of eggs. Sorry, Mama. He placed them on the table. They were all out of shoes.



Mama didnt complain.



She even sang to herself while she cooked those eggs to the brink of burndom. It appeared that there was great joy in cigarettes, and it was a happy time in the Hubermann household.



It ended a few weeks later.





THE TOWN WALKER





The rot started with the washing and it rapidly increased.



When Liesel accompanied Rosa Hubermann on her deliveries across Molching, one of her customers, Ernst Vogel, informed them that he could no longer afford to have his washing and ironing done. The times, he excused himself, what can I say? Theyre getting harder. The wars making things tight. He looked at the girl. Im sure you get an allowance for keeping the little one, dont you?



To Liesels dismay, Mama was speechless.



An empty bag was at her side.



Come on, Liesel.



It was not said. It was pulled along, rough-handed.



Vogel called out from his front step. He was perhaps five foot nine and his greasy scraps of hair swung lifelessly across his forehead. Im sorry, Frau Hubermann!



Liesel waved at him.



He waved back.



Mama castigated.



Dont wave to that Arschloch, she said. Now hurry up.



That night, when Liesel had a bath, Mama scrubbed her especially hard, muttering the whole time about that Vogel Saukerl and imitating him at two-minute intervals. You must get an allowance for the girl. . . . She berated Liesels naked chest as she scrubbed away. Youre not worth that much, Saumensch. Youre not making me rich, you know.



Liesel sat there and took it.



Not more than a week after that particular incident, Rosa hauled her into the kitchen. Right, Liesel. She sat her down at the table. Since you spend half your time on the street playing soccer, you can make yourself useful out there. For a change.



Liesel watched only her own hands. What is it, Mama?



From now on youre going to pick up and deliver the washing for me. Those rich people are less likely to fire us if youre the one standing in front of them. If they ask you where I am, tell them Im sick. And look sad when you tell them. Youre skinny and pale enough to get their pity.



Herr Vogel didnt pity me.



Well . . . Her agitation was obvious. The others might. So dont argue.



Yes, Mama.



For a moment, it appeared that her foster mother would comfort her or pat her on the shoulder.



Good girl, Liesel. Good girl. Pat, pat, pat.



She did no such thing.



Instead, Rosa Hubermann stood up, selected a wooden spoon, and held it under Liesels nose. It was a necessity as far as she was concerned. When youre out on that street, you take the bag to each place and you bring it straight home, with the money, even though its next to nothing. No going to Papa if hes actually working for once. No mucking around with that little Saukerl, Rudy Steiner. Straight. Home.