The Book Thief(36)

In the early part of summer in Molching, as Liesel and Papa made their way through the book, this man was traveling to Amsterdam on business, and the snow was shivering outside. The girl loved that the shivering snow. Thats exactly what it does when it comes down, she told Hans Hubermann. They sat together on the bed, Papa half asleep and the girl wide awake.



Sometimes she watched Papa as he slept, knowing both more and less about him than either of them realized. She often heard him and Mama discussing his lack of work or talking despondently about Hans going to see their son, only to discover that the young man had left his lodging and was most likely already on his way to war.



Schlaf gut, Papa, the girl said at those times. Sleep well, and she slipped around him, out of bed, to turn off the light.



The next attribute, as Ive mentioned, was the mayors library.



To exemplify that particular situation, we can look to a cool day in late June. Rudy, to put it mildly, was incensed.



Who did Liesel Meminger think she was, telling him she had to take the washing and ironing alone today? Wasnt he good enough to walk the streets with her?



Stop complaining, Saukerl, she reprimanded him. I just feel bad. Youre missing the game.



He looked over his shoulder. Well, if you put it like that. There was a Schmunzel. You can stick your washing. He ran off and wasted no time joining a team. When Liesel made it to the top of Himmel Street, she looked back just in time to see him standing in front of the nearest makeshift goals. He was waving.



Saukerl, she laughed, and as she held up her hand, she knew completely that he was simultaneously calling her a Saumensch. I think thats as close to love as eleven-year-olds can get.



She started to run, to Grande Strasse and the mayors house.



Certainly, there was sweat, and the wrinkled pants of breath, stretching out in front of her.



But she was reading.



The mayors wife, having let the girl in for the fourth time, was sitting at the desk, simply watching the books. On the second visit, she had given permission for Liesel to pull one out and go through it, which led to another and another, until up to half a dozen books were stuck to her, either clutched beneath her arm or among the pile that was climbing higher in her remaining hand.



On this occasion, as Liesel stood in the cool surrounds of the room, her stomach growled, but no reaction was forthcoming from the mute, damaged woman. She was in her bathrobe again, and although she observed the girl several times, it was never for very long. She usually paid more attention to what was next to her, to something missing. The window was opened wide, a square cool mouth, with occasional gusty surges.



Liesel sat on the floor. The books were scattered around her.



After forty minutes, she left. Every title was returned to its place.



Goodbye, Frau Hermann. The words always came as a shock. Thank you. After which the woman paid her and she left. Every movement was accounted for, and the book thief ran home.



As summer set in, the roomful of books became warmer, and with every pickup or delivery day the floor was not as painful. Liesel would sit with a small pile of books next to her, and shed read a few paragraphs of each, trying to memorize the words she didnt know, to ask Papa when she made it home. Later on, as an adolescent, when Liesel wrote about those books, she no longer remembered the titles. Not one. Perhaps had she stolen them, she would have been better equipped.



What she did remember was that one of the picture books had a name written clumsily on the inside cover:





THE NAME OF A BOY

Johann Hermann





Liesel bit down on her lip, but she could not resist it for long. From the floor, she turned and looked up at the bathrobed woman and made an inquiry. Johann Hermann, she said. Who is that?



The woman looked beside her, somewhere next to the girls knees.



Liesel apologized. Im sorry. I shouldnt be asking such things. . . . She let the sentence die its own death.



The womans face did not alter, yet somehow she managed to speak. He is nothing now in this world, she explained. He was my . . .





THE FILES OF RECOLLECTION

Oh, yes, I definitely remember him.

The sky was murky and deep like quicksand.

There was a young man parceled up in barbed wire,

like a giant crown of thorns. I untangled him and carried him

out. High above the earth, we sank together,

to our knees. It was just another day, 1918.





Apart from everything else, she said, he froze to death. For a moment, she played with her hands, and she said it again. He froze to death, Im sure of it.



The mayors wife was just one of a worldwide brigade. You have seen her before, Im certain. In your stories, your poems, the screens you like to watch. Theyre everywhere, so why not here? Why not on a shapely hill in a small German town? Its as good a place to suffer as any.



The point is, Ilsa Hermann had decided to make suffering her triumph. When it refused to let go of her, she succumbed to it. She embraced it.



She could have shot herself, scratched herself, or indulged in other forms of self-mutilation, but she chose what she probably felt was the weakest optionto at least endure the discomfort of the weather. For all Liesel knew, she prayed for summer days that were cold and wet. For the most part, she lived in the right place.