The Book Thief(35)

He sat on his suitcase, waiting. How many days had it been now?



He had eaten only the foul taste of his own hungry breath for what felt like weeks, and still, nothing. Occasionally voices wandered past and sometimes he longed for them to knuckle the door, to open it, to drag him out, into the unbearable light. For now, he could only sit on his suitcase couch, hands under his chin, his elbows burning his thighs.



There was sleep, starving sleep, and the irritation of half awakeness, and the punishment of the floor.



Ignore the itchy feet.



Dont scratch the soles.



And dont move too much.



Just leave everything as it is, at all cost. It might be time to go soon. Light like a gun. Explosive to the eyes. It might be time to go. It might be time, so wake up. Wake up now, Goddamn it! Wake up.



The door was opened and shut, and a figure was crouched over him. The hand splashed at the cold waves of his clothes and the grimy currents beneath. A voice came down, behind it.



Max, it whispered. Max, wake up.



His eyes did not do anything that shock normally describes. No snapping, no slapping, no jolt. Those things happen when you wake from a bad dream, not when you wake into one. No, his eyes dragged themselves open, from darkness to dim. It was his body that reacted, shrugging upward and throwing out an arm to grip the air.



The voice calmed him now. Sorry its taken so long. I think people have been watching me. And the man with the identity card took longer than I thought, but There was a pause. Its yours now. Not great quality, but hopefully good enough to get you there if it comes to that. He crouched down and waved a hand at the suitcase. In his other hand, he held something heavy and flat. Come onoff. Max obeyed, standing and scratching. He could feel the tightening of his bones. The card is in this. It was a book. You should put the map in here, too, and the directions. And theres a keytaped to the inside cover. He clicked open the case as quietly as he could and planted the book like a bomb. Ill be back in a few days.



He left a small bag filled with bread, fat, and three small carrots. Next to it was a bottle of water. There was no apology. Its the best I could do.



Door open, door shut.



Alone again.



What came to him immediately then was the sound.



Everything was so desperately noisy in the dark when he was alone. Each time he moved, there was the sound of a crease. He felt like a man in a paper suit.



The food.



Max divided the bread into three parts and set two aside. The one in his hand he immersed himself in, chewing and gulping, forcing it down the dry corridor of his throat. The fat was cold and hard, scaling its way down, occasionally holding on. Big swallows tore them away and sent them below.



Then the carrots.



Again, he set two aside and devoured the third. The noise was astounding. Surely, the Fhrer himself could hear the sound of the orange crush in his mouth. It broke his teeth with every bite. When he drank, he was quite positive that he was swallowing them. Next time, he advised himself, drink first.



Later, to his relief, when the echoes left him and he found the courage to check with his fingers, each tooth was still there, intact. He tried for a smile, but it didnt come. He could only imagine a meek attempt and a mouthful of broken teeth. For hours, he felt at them.



He opened the suitcase and picked up the book.



He could not read the title in the dark, and the gamble of striking a match seemed too great right now.



When he spoke, it was the taste of a whisper.



Please, he said. Please.



He was speaking to a man he had never met. As well as a few other important details, he knew the mans name. Hans Hubermann. Again, he spoke to him, to the distant stranger. He pleaded.



Please.





THE ATTRIBUTES OF SUMMER





So there you have it.



Youre well aware of exactly what was coming to Himmel Street by the end of 1940.



I know.



You know.



Liesel Meminger, however, cannot be put into that category.



For the book thief, the summer of that year was simple. It consisted of four main elements, or attributes. At times, she would wonder which was the most powerful.





AND THE NOMINEES ARE . . .





Advancing through The Shoulder Shrug every night.



Reading on the floor of the mayors library.



Playing soccer on Himmel Street.



The seizure of a different stealing opportunity.



The Shoulder Shrug, she decided, was excellent. Each night, when she calmed herself from her nightmare, she was soon pleased that she was awake and able to read. A few pages? Papa asked her, and Liesel would nod. Sometimes they would complete a chapter the next afternoon, down in the basement.



The authorities problem with the book was obvious. The protagonist was a Jew, and he was presented in a positive light. Unforgivable. He was a rich man who was tired of letting life pass him bywhat he referred to as the shrugging of the shoulders to the problems and pleasures of a persons time on earth.