The Book Thief(23)

Yes, Mama.



And when you hold that bag, you hold it properly. You dont swing it, drop it, crease it, or throw it over your shoulder.



Yes, Mama.



Yes, Mama. Rosa Hubermann was a great imitator, and a fervent one. Youd better not, Saumensch. Ill find out if you do; you know that, dont you?



Yes, Mama.



Saying those two words was often the best way to survive, as was doing what she was told, and from there, Liesel walked the streets of Molching, from the poor end to the rich, picking up and delivering the washing. At first, it was a solitary job, which she never complained about. After all, the very first time she took the sack through town, she turned the corner onto Munich Street, looked both ways, and gave it one enormous swinga whole revolutionand then checked the contents inside. Thankfully, there were no creases. No wrinkles. Just a smile, and a promise never to swing it again.



Overall, Liesel enjoyed it. There was no share of the pay, but she was out of the house, and walking the streets without Mama was heaven in itself. No finger-pointing or cursing. No people staring at them as she was sworn at for holding the bag wrong. Nothing but serenity.



She came to like the people, too:



The Pfaffelhrvers, inspecting the clothes and saying, Ja, ja, sehr gut, sehr gut. Liesel imagined that they did everything twice.



Gentle Helena Schmidt, handing the money over with an arthritic curl of the hand.



The Weingartners, whose bent-whiskered cat always answered the door with them. Little Goebbels, thats what they called him, after Hitlers right-hand man.



And Frau Hermann, the mayors wife, standing fluffy-haired and shivery in her enormous, cold-aired doorway. Always silent. Always alone. No words, not once.



Sometimes Rudy came along.



How much money do you have there? he asked one afternoon. It was nearly dark and they were walking onto Himmel Street, past the shop. Youve heard about Frau Diller, havent you? They say shes got candy hidden somewhere, and for the right price . . .



Dont even think about it. Liesel, as always, was gripping the money hard. Its not so bad for youyou dont have to face my mama.



Rudy shrugged. It was worth a try.



In the middle of January, schoolwork turned its attention to letter writing. After learning the basics, each student was to write two letters, one to a friend and one to somebody in another class.



Liesels letter from Rudy went like this:



Dear Saumensch,

Are you still as useless at soccer as you were the last time we

played? I hope so. That means I can run past you again just like

Jesse Owens at the Olympics. . . .





When Sister Maria found it, she asked him a question, very amiably.





SISTER MARIAS OFFER

Do you feel like visiting the corridor, Mr. Steiner?





Needless to say, Rudy answered in the negative, and the paper was torn up and he started again. The second attempt was written to someone named Liesel and inquired as to what her hobbies might be.



At home, while completing a letter for homework, Liesel decided that writing to Rudy or some other Saukerl was actually ridiculous. It meant nothing. As she wrote in the basement, she spoke over to Papa, who was repainting the wall again.



Both he and the paint fumes turned around. Was wuistz? Now this was the roughest form of German a person could speak, but it was spoken with an air of absolute pleasantness. Yeah, what?



Would I be able to write a letter to Mama?



A pause.



What do you want to write a letter to her for? You have to put up with her every day. Papa was schmunzelinga sly smile. Isnt that bad enough?



Not that mama. She swallowed.



Oh. Papa returned to the wall and continued painting. Well, I guess so. You could send it to whats-her-namethe one who brought you here and visited those few timesfrom the foster people.



Frau Heinrich.



Thats right. Send it to her. Maybe she can send it on to your mother. Even at the time, he sounded unconvincing, as if he wasnt telling Liesel something. Word of her mother had also been tight-lipped on Frau Heinrichs brief visits.



Instead of asking him what was wrong, Liesel began writing immediately, choosing to ignore the sense of foreboding that was quick to accumulate inside her. It took three hours and six drafts to perfect the letter, telling her mother all about Molching, her papa and his accordion, the strange but true ways of Rudy Steiner, and the exploits of Rosa Hubermann. She also explained how proud she was that she could now read and write a little. The next day, she posted it at Frau Dillers with a stamp from the kitchen drawer. And she began to wait.



The night she wrote the letter, she overheard a conversation between Hans and Rosa.



Whats she doing writing to her mother? Mama was saying. Her voice was surprisingly calm and caring. As you can imagine, this worried the girl a great deal. Shed have preferred to hear them arguing. Whispering adults hardly inspired confidence.



She asked me, Papa answered, and I couldnt say no. How could I?