The Book Thief(33)

With that, she faced the door again, lifted back the brass knuckle, and tapped it three times, slowly. Feet approached from the other side.



At first, she didnt look at the woman but focused on the washing bag in her hand. She examined the drawstring as she passed it over. Money was handed out to her and then, nothing. The mayors wife, who never spoke, simply stood in her bathrobe, her soft fluffy hair tied back into a short tail. A draft made itself known. Something like the imagined breath of a corpse. Still there were no words, and when Liesel found the courage to face her, the woman wore an expression not of reproach, but utter distance. For a moment, she looked over Liesels shoulder at the boy, then nodded and stepped back, closing the door.



For quite a while, Liesel remained, facing the blanket of upright wood.



Hey, Saumensch! No response. Liesel!



Liesel reversed.



Cautiously.



She took the first few steps backward, calculating.



Perhaps the woman hadnt seen her steal the book after all. It had been getting dark. Perhaps it was one of those times when a person appears to be looking directly at you when, in fact, theyre contentedly watching something else or simply daydreaming. Whatever the answer, Liesel didnt attempt any further analysis. Shed gotten away with it and that was enough.



She turned and handled the remainder of the steps normally, taking the last three all at once.



Lets go, Saukerl. She even allowed herself a laugh. Eleven-year-old paranoia was powerful. Eleven-year-old relief was euphoric.





A LITTLE SOMETHING TO

DAMPEN THE EUPHORIA

She had gotten away with nothing.

The mayors wife had seen her, all right.

She was just waiting for the right moment.





A few weeks passed.



Soccer on Himmel Street.



Reading The Shoulder Shrug between two and three oclock each morning, post-nightmare, or during the afternoon, in the basement.



Another benign visit to the mayors house.



All was lovely.



Until.



When Liesel next visited, minus Rudy, the opportunity presented itself. It was a pickup day.



The mayors wife opened the door and she was not holding the bag, like she normally would. Instead, she stepped aside and motioned with her chalky hand and wrist for the girl to enter.



Im just here for the washing. Liesels blood had dried inside of her. It crumbled. She almost broke into pieces on the steps.



The woman said her first word to her then. She reached out, cold-fingered, and said, Wartewait. When she was sure the girl had steadied, she turned and walked hastily back inside.



Thank God, Liesel exhaled. Shes getting it. It being the washing.



What the woman returned with, however, was nothing of the sort.



When she came and stood with an impossibly frail steadfastness, she was holding a tower of books against her stomach, from her navel to the beginnings of her breasts. She looked so vulnerable in the monstrous doorway. Long, light eyelashes and just the slightest twinge of expression. A suggestion.



Come and see, it said.



Shes going to torture me, Liesel decided. Shes going to take me inside, light the fireplace, and throw me in, books and all. Or shell lock me in the basement without any food.



For some reason, thoughmost likely the lure of the booksshe found herself walking in. The squeaking of her shoes on the wooden floorboards made her cringe, and when she hit a sore spot, inducing the wood to groan, she almost stopped. The mayors wife was not deterred. She only looked briefly behind and continued on, to a chestnut-colored door. Now her face asked a question.



Are you ready?



Liesel craned her neck a little, as if she might see over the door that stood in her way. Clearly, that was the cue to open it.



Jesus, Mary . . .



She said it out loud, the words distributed into a room that was full of cold air and books. Books everywhere! Each wall was armed with overcrowded yet immaculate shelving. It was barely possible to see the paintwork. There were all different styles and sizes of lettering on the spines of the black, the red, the gray, the every-colored books. It was one of the most beautiful things Liesel Meminger had ever seen.



With wonder, she smiled.



That such a room existed!



Even when she tried to wipe the smile away with her forearm, she realized instantly that it was a pointless exercise. She could feel the eyes of the woman traveling her body, and when she looked at her, they had rested on her face.



There was more silence than she ever thought possible. It extended like an elastic, dying to break. The girl broke it.



Can I?



The two words stood among acres and acres of vacant, wooden-floored land. The books were miles away.



The woman nodded.



Yes, you can.



Steadily, the room shrank, till the book thief could touch the shelves within a few small steps. She ran the back of her hand along the first shelf, listening to the shuffle of her fingernails gliding across the spinal cord of each book. It sounded like an instrument, or the notes of running feet. She used both hands. She raced them. One shelf against the other. And she laughed. Her voice was sprawled out, high in her throat, and when she eventually stopped and stood in the middle of the room, she spent many minutes looking from the shelves to her fingers and back again.