The Book Thief(64)

The mayors wifes arms.



They hung.



Her face slipped.



Liesel, however, did not buckle. She sprayed her words directly into the womans eyes.



You and your husband. Sitting up here. Now she became spiteful. More spiteful and evil than she thought herself capable.



The injury of words.



Yes, the brutality of words.



She summoned them from someplace she only now recognized and hurled them at Ilsa Hermann. Its about time, she informed her, that you do your own stinking washing anyway. Its about time you faced the fact that your son is dead. He got killed! He got strangled and cut up more than twenty years ago! Or did he freeze to death? Either way, hes dead! Hes dead and its pathetic that you sit here shivering in your own house to suffer for it. You think youre the only one?



Immediately.



Her brother was next to her.



He whispered for her to stop, but he, too, was dead, and not worth listening to.



He died in a train.



They buried him in the snow.



Liesel glanced at him, but she could not make herself stop. Not yet.



This book, she went on. She shoved the boy down the steps, making him fall. I dont want it. The words were quieter now, but still just as hot. She threw The Whistler at the womans slippered feet, hearing the clack of it as it landed on the cement. I dont want your miserable book. . . .



Now she managed it. She fell silent.



Her throat was barren now. No words for miles.



Her brother, holding his knee, disappeared.



After a miscarriaged pause, the mayors wife edged forward and picked up the book. She was battered and beaten up, and not from smiling this time. Liesel could see it on her face. Blood leaked from her nose and licked at her lips. Her eyes had blackened. Cuts had opened up and a series of wounds were rising to the surface of her skin. All from the words. From Liesels words.



Book in hand, and straightening from a crouch to a standing hunch, Ilsa Hermann began the process again of saying sorry, but the sentence did not make it out.



Slap me, Liesel thought. Come on, slap me.



Ilsa Hermann didnt slap her. She merely retreated backward, into the ugly air of her beautiful house, and Liesel, once again, was left alone, clutching at the steps. She was afraid to turn around because she knew that when she did, the glass casing of Molching had now been shattered, and shed be glad of it.



As her last orders of business, she read the letter one more time, and when she was close to the gate, she screwed it up as tightly as she could and threw it at the door, as if it were a rock. I have no idea what the book thief expected, but the ball of paper hit the mighty sheet of wood and twittered back down the steps. It landed at her feet.



Typical, she stated, kicking it onto the grass. Useless.



On the way home this time, she imagined the fate of that paper the next time it rained, when the mended glass house of Molching was turned upside down. She could already see the words dissolving letter by letter, till there was nothing left. Just paper. Just earth.



At home, as luck would have it, when Liesel walked through the door, Rosa was in the kitchen. And? she asked. Wheres the washing?



No washing today, Liesel told her.



Rosa came and sat down at the kitchen table. She knew. Suddenly, she appeared much older. Liesel imagined what shed look like if she untied her bun, to let it fall out onto her shoulders. A gray towel of elastic hair.



What did you do there, you little Saumensch? The sentence was numb. She could not muster her usual venom.



It was my fault, Liesel answered. Completely. I insulted the mayors wife and told her to stop crying over her dead son. I called her pathetic. That was when they fired you. Here. She walked to the wooden spoons, grabbed a handful, and placed them in front of her. Take your pick.



Rosa touched one and picked it up, but she did not wield it. I dont believe you.



Liesel was torn between distress and total mystification. The one time she desperately wanted a Watschen and she couldnt get one! Its my fault.



Its not your fault, Mama said, and she even stood and stroked Liesels waxy, unwashed hair. I know you wouldnt say those things.



I said them!



All right, you said them.



As Liesel left the room, she could hear the wooden spoons clicking back into position in the metal jar that held them. By the time she reached her bedroom, the whole lot of them, the jar included, were thrown to the floor.



Later, she walked down to the basement, where Max was standing in the dark, most likely boxing with the Fhrer.



Max? The light dimmed ona red coin, floating in the corner. Can you teach me how to do the push-ups?



Max showed her and occasionally lifted her torso to help, but despite her bony appearance, Liesel was strong and could hold her body weight nicely. She didnt count how many she could do, but that night, in the glow of the basement, the book thief completed enough push-ups to make her hurt for several days. Even when Max advised her that shed already done too many, she continued.